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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 Young Writer\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1662\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the line “I think someone’s listening/watching.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Adhering closely to the unwritten social norms of Korean BBQ joints, the small group of four young writers were in the process of opening the third bottle of rice alcohol. “It’s incredible how the more I drink this rice alcohol, the more I want to continue eating!” cried Joseph. Thin and tender pieces of pork and meat were continuously pressed against the main table grill. Side orders of sardines, cucumber salads, steamed rice, hot kimchi and lettuce wraps populated the entirety of the table. After swallowing, Luke said “I can now firmly state that the best cuisine in the world comes from Korea! Greece comes close in second place. But Korean BBQ style eating is the most explosive of them all. Your hands are constantly moving, capturing new side orders with your lettuce, like a rich family cat sampling the many dishes his master has brought to it. Not to mention this fucking delicious Soju alcohol. It gives you the exact perfect buzz! What other cuisine gives this paladar orgy?” “The Italian” mumbled Arnold. \"Bullcrap!” Cheap wine and bread doesn't come even close to stimulating your mouth as much as kimchi!” “Mm what about the South American cuisine?\" “The South American cuisine is rather good. I don’t think it is as innovative as Korean cuisine. I mean, if aliens came to earth and wanted to try the best human meal, would you give it a tortilla or a fucking enormous bowl of pho?” Pho is from Vietnam, your drunken puppet \"\"Not pho! But Korean hot pot. Would you give it a big bowl of Korean hot pot to warm its little alien body up? Or a cold dish of tacos?” “I guess in this particular instance, I would give it the hot pot, yes!” Rising up with from his chair, Luke screamed “May God bless Korea and all its people and food!” The small location was empty and the chefs were too busy to pay any attention to drunk students. “Guys, I think I’m heading home” mumbled Christopher. “What’s the matter buddy, can’t handle the sweet taste of rice alcohol?” “I’ve got a paper to turn in tomorrow. It's for Mr. Nicols.” “Don't Nicols teach Novels and Fantasy?” asked Arnold. “Yes, that’s exactly him. The paper is embarking on the theme of suspense but there are certain guideless.” Luke, while grabbing a piece of pork with his hand because he couldn’t use chopsticks, asked “what are the guidelines?” Ignoring what Luke said, Christopher stood up and grabbed his winter coat. He mentally prepared himself for the harsh weather conditions that he was about to endure until reaching the student dorms. He quickly thought of a wonderful idea that would keep him warm on his way back so he grabbed the half full Soju bottle from the table and finally answered Luke. “Write a story containing the line “I think someone is listening.” “Yup, seems like a typical Nicols assignment.” “See you guys tomorrow. Save me some of that if you beasts leave any…”\nOne his cold and windy way back, Christopher was brainstorming all the possible stories he could write. The Soju was keeping him warm and his mind blistering with narratives, ideas and characters. After almost thirsty minutes he finally reached the apartment complex that housed students. Distant parties could be heard but Christopher had his mind set in other more productive things. He opened the door to his simple yet clean apartment, dropped the empty bottle of Soju on his low wooden desk and opened his laptop. A YouTube video of earlier studying was ready to be played again. Christopher liked melodic house music to concentrate. Switching tabs, was an empty word document ready to be populated with Times New Roman letters. He stood still for a few seconds, redrawing the whole thing in his head, trying to memorize each detail before it disappeared in a sea of thoughts and started writing.\n “The Grand Hotel in Monte Carlo was hosting a grand bawl for Swarovski Crystals new product launching. It was an enormous gathering of guests, celebrities and even professional athletes. Multi-million dollar cars constantly passed through the Monte Carlo’s entrance dashing every bystander contemplating their beauty. Thousand-dollar champagne bottles brought by waiters carrying low grade firework sparks.\nAt 3:33pm a black Rolls Royce arrives at the Monte Carlo estate. The valet welcoming the new guest opens the door and out comes a man dressed in a black suit and a black cowboy hat perfectly blending in with the Swarovski Gala fashion. This man however had no intention of making small talk with stupid A-List celebrities or taking pictures for the tabloids. He was late for a meeting. A meeting destined to change the future fine dining in London. “Welcome to the Monte Carlo, is there anything I can help you with?” “Yes. I’m looking for the Biophilia Lounge. “Ah! You must be Madame Carlotta’s guest.” “I certainly am.” “Right this way Mr. Wong.” The Biophilia Lounge was located on the south terrace of the Monte Carlo. A calmer and more silent environment populated the entirety of the terrace. Beautiful and exotic plants were scattered around even more colorful and mesmerizing plants. Orchids, Roses, Philodendron and Agave where the only ones Mr. Wong knew from sight. “Mr. Wong. I thought punctuality was part of Korean culture.” “Well, unfortunately designing proper roads for traffic isn’t in yours.” “You’re late.” “My apologies. Can we get to talking?” “Well, go ahead. Tell me how I am supposed to sell you all my restaurants. A rolling trolley packed with all the necessary materials for a strong drink stool still next to the couches both parties remained. “I need for us to come to an agreement.” “And what agreement is that.” “You take the South Side. I take North and East.” “Again, why would I ever do that?” “You have the biggest restaurant chains in London. All located in the South. You generate twice the revenue the North and East side make. You need me to take over those areas and revitalize them. “With Korean BBQ joints?” “Exactly. One of kind cultural experience.” Madame Carlotta squished some champagne and meditated, “Well, if I do decide to let you take over, it’s going to cost you money.” \"I know it will,” said Mr. Wong. “I was planning on giving you 15% percent.” “Make it 20% for 5 years and consider the East and North all yours.” “Done” said Mr. Wong. Both parties shacked hands. “Now, tell me. What are we going to do about the West side?” asked Mr. Wong. An older couple entered the Biophilia Terrace and nodded politely to the members of the meeting. “I think someone is listening,” said Madame Carlotta. Take your drink and follow me.” Mr. Wong quickly followed orders. Walking directly towards the Swarovski event, Madame Carlotta said “I think we are going to have to send him a message” “What type of message” screamed Mr. Wong as camera flashes snapped and multitudes of people moved like sea waves. “A direct message.” “What if we receive push back?” “If we receive push back we take more aggressive decisions, for now let’s just notify him of our little arrangement and that we are planning on controlling the West 50%-50%.” “Sr. Eduardo will go to war if we tell him such a thing! He controls all the Southside with premium Mediterranean food. He is a public figure back in Greece.” “I understand that but we have to do what we have to do.”\n Finally reaching the exit, Mr. Wong gave the valet his ticket. “Mr. Wong, promise one thing. No matter what happened, we keep this alliance strong.” “Ill make sure of that…”\n Christopher had fell asleep preparing Mr. Nicols paper. The Soju from the night before had completely knocked him out. His alarm was making his brain pound like a bass drum. Without noticing he saved and sent the assignment to Mr. Nicol and attended all his morning classes with ease after he received an email, addressed to his name, by Mr. Nicols. It notified him that his attendance was requested in his office immediately, Christopher was never the one to find himself in trouble so he logically feared the worst. “Mr. Christopher. I received your assignment earlier today. It was truly something. How long did it take you to write this? “Couple of hours.” “This is good stuff. Why didn't you finish it?\" \" The Korean BBQ I had prior to writing this assignment knocked me out cold! Plus, why does it have to have an ending. This could be the beginning of something great.\" \" Beginning of something great? I admire your mentality young man. So, what happens next?” “Excuse me?” asked Christopher. “What happened with the West Side of London?” Christopher paused and said “Probably Sr. Eduardo goes to war with Madame Carlotta and Mr.Wong.” “Why war and not peace?\" \"Well, Mr, Nicols, I took into consideration the current temperature of international affairs and asked myself do humans really want peace? It took me a while but if I had to answer that question, I would say no. War is more entertaining than peace.\" \"Your ideas work cohesively in chaos. Your style and voice are prevalent throughout the paper. I’m recommending you for student Editor in Chief of the school’s newspaper.” Christopher couldn’t have experienced anything less than pure happiness and out of body experience. The position was highly acclaimed within the student body. “There he is! The man of the hour!” said Luke as a big plate of Korean hot pot was settled In Front of him.” “Mr. Chief Editor is in the building!” said Arnold as he prepared 4 Soju shots. “To our friend, Christopher. May the writing Gods bless you with unlimited creativity. “To the Gods!” cried the group of young writers. \"Well,\" said Joseph \" Don't you have anything to say?\" \"Let's eat Greek tomorrow.\" said Christopher as he downed the savory rice alcohol." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Wish I Heard Him\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1869\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone admitting a secret and end it with someone telling a lie." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I Wish I Heard Him\n“I didn’t marry for love.” \nWe were friends. I cared about him. One day, drunk and upset, I had recounted how I needed to be married. He had awkwardly patted my shoulder and sympathized, telling me about his problems. I offered the solution. He accepted. The perfect answer for both of us, dropped straight into our laps. \nIzra chewed an ice cube thoughtfully. “Then why did you?” \nIt had been one of the hardest decisions I’d had to make. My parents had fought through an advancing civil war, an unstable political state, ethnic tensions, and a revolving door of anger and fear in order to get me this world. They’d given me years. Months and weeks and years of hesitating, waiting, hoping, and watching. A few failed dates. Finally, frustration. Theirs and mine. They wanted to see me happy and in a family. I wanted to see them happy, and I didn’t want to be alone. I could be, but I didn’t want to be. \nHow could I let them down? \n“Husband plus wife plus kids plus good career equals safety, security, and satisfaction.” \nIzra looked at me, aghast, her jaw dropped to reveal bits of ice in her mouth. \n“It’s true!” I protested. “I’ve seen it work before, the idea of it makes me smile, and I don’t want anything else.” \n“He’s so handsome, too,” Izra countered, propping her hand on her fist dreamily. \nHe had been one of the most sought-after boys in our year by everyone, debate stars and models alike. But somehow, things never seemed to work out. The curses of being pretty and successful. \n“I guess.” \n“You guess?” \nI took a long sip of my tea. “It’s not the reason I married him.” \nIzra smacked a napkin on the table. “Then why him?”\nA biracial kid from the South with my sense of humor. Sweet and dopey but a painful past. Kind and harmless. \nI shrugged. “He’s my friend, and he had the same goals as I did.” \nAnother jaw drop. “The same goals?” \n“His family was pressuring him, he didn’t believe in love, either –“ \n“What do you mean, either? You don’t believe in love? Real, romantic love?” \nMy parents laughed whenever I brought up the idea of their loving each other. It was the family joke. Marrying for love was seen as a scandal, a weakness – something that never worked out. And how could it? \n“It’s a fake dream made up by Hollywood. Everyone knows that.”\n“What? No! Not everyone thinks that.” \n“Well, he and I do.” \nIzra shook her head and tapped my hand, the one with the golden wedding ring on it. “You should see how he looks at that.” \n“My hand?” I held it up to the light in consternation, watching the ring’s metal wink. \n“No! His ring! He looks at it and smiles, like, every day!” \nThis surprised me, and I fumbled for an explanation. “Probably because it’s heavy and he wants to take it off.” \n“It’s not a golden shackle.” \nI barked out a laugh. \nIzra sighed and tipped our trays of Panera leftovers into the trash. “Whatever, nerd and love-hater. I’ve gotta get back.” She smiled at me. “Love you, though.” \n“Don’t hit on my husband!” I joked, our line for years. \n“Don’t hit on mine!” she replied with a smile. \nShe worked in my husband’s law office. Her husband worked in the same hospital I did. \nIt was all fun and games. \n------ \nHe smiled and leaned on the back of a chair, coffee mug in his hands. “How was work?” \nI smiled back. “Sorry I’m late.” I sighed, dropped my bag to the floor, and face-planted into the couch. “Work was…long. So much. Dr. Figg—”\n“The Fig Newton,” he interrupted knowingly. \n“Correct, the Fig Newton, his legal name. He complained about Ann, Pretty Selfish Dazzling Ann—” \n“PSDA, the greatest acronym—” \n“—and said that she was too slow to do vitals, and she said that if he wanted her to do a half-assed job, then he could take the fall in the courthouse, and Jesus Christ Our Lord And Savior—” \n“Dr. Trevor? The one with the Jesus hair?” \n“Yeah, him. God, he has amazing hair. So he told me that he’d rather referee a wrestling match than deal with those two again—” \n“Maybe they should wrestle. It’d solve their problems, I bet.” \nI laughed. “That’s what I said! But then I asked, for the millionth time, why he doesn’t just switch up the pairings and make sure that she doesn’t work with him, but –” \n“Everyone needs to learn to work together,” my husband and I finished in sing-song. \nI giggled again. “So that’s the highlight of my day. The patients were good –“ \n“How’s the lady with the cast?” \n“Better, now. I think seeing her son helped, she was a lot less cranky after he left.” \nHe gave me a goofy wink. “Maybe that wasn’t her son.” \n“Ew, you nasty.” I settled onto a stool by the kitchen counter and dropped my face into my hands. “Order pizza?” \n“Thank God.” \n“My cooking’s not that bad.” \n“I fed some leftovers to the stray and I think it keeled over.” \nI reached up and smacked him. “Meanie!” \nHe held out the phone. “Pizza-ordering Angel.” \nI sighed and dialed. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” \nHe raised an eyebrow. “Everywhere?” \nI rolled my eyes and shoved him away. “Want wings?” \n“Always.” \n“They’re not supposed to glow in the dark, you know.” \n“But you’ll save me, won’t you?” He gave me his best pout. \nI laughed. “I’m not sure we have a treatment for radioactive chicken wings.” \n“How’s your research?” \n“Team meeting’s tomorrow.” \n“So you’re going to be stressing until then.” \n“You know me so well—Pizza Hut man! An order of your finest ‘za, please.” \nMy husband pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dear God, I want someone besides Izra and Ken to think we’re normal.” \n“Cheese, please!” I said into the phone. He wrapped his slim arms around me from behind and dropped his nose to my head. I ran my fingers through his hair. “A large!” \n“Only a large?” he mocked, breathing into my hair. \nIgnoring his remark, I finished ordering and ended the call before turning to him. “Then how was your day?” \n“Big day’s tomorrow. Today was just the final prep work.” \n“That’s right! Are you nervous?” \nHe shook his head. “I’m only nervous and shy around, like, very specific people.” \n“Like Boss King Man, who thinks he’s Jesus but he’s bald?” \nHe burst out laughing. “I’m gonna call him ‘Jesus but Bald’ behind his back now.” \n“Please do. And tell Izra and Kimmy that I came up with it.”\n“Heard you met up with Izra today?” \n“Yeah, we had a funny conversation.” I twisted the ends of my hair nervously. “Actually, I told her. About…us.” \nHe twisted his ring on his finger, and I felt the air sharpen around us. “You didn’t have to.” \n“Are you…mad?” \n“We’re friends with them. Good friends. So, n-no, not really, I…guess. How’d it come up?” \n“We were talking about if love was real. I, obviously, mocked rom-coms the rest of the meal. Speaking of, we need to unwind…Wanna watch one now?” \nHe hesitated. I turned back to look at him. \n“What is it?” \nHe shook his head, as if waking himself up. “Nothing.” \n“C’mon, you know I know you better than that.” \n“It’s just…why don’t you?” \n“What? Where is this coming from?” \n“I’ve wanted to ask you this for a long time, but why don’t you believe in romance?” \nI gestured to our TV. “No one ever falls in love by dancing with them, doing a cooking competition with them, or locking eyes with them across a room. It’s all about lust, really. Sex. That’s all it really is.” \n“But, when you watch one, do you want to sleep with the actors? Or do you just like the little glimmery feeling it gives you?” \n“The first one, of course.” \n“Okay, fine, be sarcastic. But that feeling you get, that cutesy feeling? That’s real, Angel.” \n“But I thought—” \nHe slammed his hands onto the countertop. “I just—I can’t believe you told Izra I didn’t love you!” \n“What? No! I told her…I told her that I—that we didn’t marry for love. But like, I love you, you know, because you’re my best—” \n“Friend?” He ran his fingers through his hair and paced around the room, before finally settling to a stop in front of me. He took hold of my face, gently but firmly, and kissed the top of my head. “What do you think loveis?” \n“Romantic love is different from friendly love. It’s different! And it doesn’t exist.” \nHe looked directly into my eyes. “Then tell me: Why do you think I married you?” \n“Because—we’ve talked about all this before. Because of your family, your South Asian side, and mine—” \n“I married you because I love you,” he whispered. \n“Wh-what?” \n“I fell in love with you and your spunk and your sense of humor. Like, you say the weirdest shit and I love it. I wanted to spend all my time with you, and just as I thought we were getting close, you told me all that stuff about love, and how it isn’t real, and how you were feeling the pressure of getting married, but you didn’t want to just have an arranged marriage, but you also didn’t believe in romance, and how you were stuck. And then, I told you I loved you.” \n“Wait, no. No, that’s not what I remember. You told me how you had family drama, too, and how you were struggling in the dating world, too, and then I proposed our solution, our current arrangement—” \n“I said, ‘Well, I’m in love with you. Does that make it better?’ and you said—” \n“ ‘Families are super complicated, huh?’” I finished, and my eyes widened. “No.” \n“Yes.” \n“You did tell me, oh my God.” \n“And you couldn’t even hear me. And then, you asked me to marry you – to solve our so-called problems, and I know this was manipulative of me, but I agreed, because I thought that it was the only way for me to have you, at least a small piece. I thought I could make you love me! But I was wrong, wasn’t I?” \nHe walked away from me. “I haven’t got a chance, have I? I’ve been cooking for you and laughing with you and taking care of that stray cat with you and trying to make you feel something this whole time, and it hasn’t even changed your mind one bit, has it?” \n“No, no! It has, it has!” I protested, following him. I tugged at his arm and spun him around, cupping his face in my hands. “I don’t want to lose you.” \n“You’ll never lose me,” he murmured. \n“I can’t. I can’t lose you.” \n“Do you think you can love me? It’s okay if you can’t. I just—I need to know!” \nI hesitated, my breath coming out in harsh gasps. \n“Do you think you can love me, Angel?” \nI closed my eyes. “Yes, I can. And I do. I love you.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Gift\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1147\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin a scene with a non-visual sense. Describe a specific sound, smell, taste, etc to capture your setting, then expand the story out from there." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Gift\nI wish to impart to you, my friend, a gift. Hopefully, you will be able to put it to use now and throughout your lifetime. It should be renewable and sustainable. You may even pass it on to another if you choose. I only ask you use it wisely and cautiously. It can be very powerful.\nI do not intend to be so mysterious. I will tell you what the gift is and what it isn't. It isn't a panacea for all life's woes. But it can be a tool to help cope with whatever struggles and strife life lays at your doorstep and to reach self-improvement goals. It can heighten and enhance all your senses.\nSo to introduce you to this gift please do a little 'hands-on' experiment with me, if you will. I suggest you do not read these instructions while at work or operating any machinery. Make yourself comfortable if you can.\nPlace your palms facing each other but not touching. Close your eyes and imagine an energy that originates from your heart and travels outward down your arms to the center of your palms. Feel that energy radiating out of the center of your palms until it becomes an invisible but palpable ball. Gently bounce your palms in and out until you can feel a slight resistance. Imagine shaping and firming up that warm ball of energy. Then keep moving your hands further apart little by little as that ball grows. Keeping that feeling of slight resistance how big can you allow the ball to increase? Can you make it as big as your head? If so, raise the ball over your head and release the energy as you trace around your head and shoulders allowing the energy to wash over you. Feel the calming effect it has on you.\nThis is your own harvested energy. You can gather it whenever you are feeling overwhelmed or stressed out. Pour it over yourself to renew and refresh yourself. You can also apply it directly to any areas of pain or discomfort to make them feel better.\nAnd now to experience the rest of the gift please make yourself comfortable. Maybe you would like to play some soothing music or peaceful sounds of nature. Nothing harsh or loud so it can help you relax and unwind. You will be effortlessly entering a highly restful and safe state of mind but still be able to respond appropriately should any emergency arise.\nBegin to focus on your breathing. Let any background noise fade into a comforting drone. Take deep cleansing breaths allowing your diaphragm to expand downward so your abdomen gently rises. Inhale to the count of five. Hold for a moment. Exhale to the count of five. Slowly in, slowly out. Deep soothing, cleansing breaths. Bringing life giving oxygen in. Purifying every cell. Expelling all harmful toxins or unearned guilt out.\nRelease all tension as you relax each muscle. Start at the top of your head and imagine each and every muscle group, each individual muscle releasing and relaxing all the way down your body and out the toes. Give special attention to anywhere still holding tight. Give it permission to let go. It is okay to relax and let go. It feels wonderful to finally let all that tension be gone. You are so much happier and feeling free when not encumbered by unproductive tension or worry and can accomplish whatever you set your mind to. You are wise and resourceful and capable.\nYou are wise and intelligent and know that whatever is in the past is in the past. Whatever happened to you or your ancestors can never control you again if it was harmful. Retain what's beneficial, reject what's detrimental. Enjoy that you have control now and in the future. Control of your thoughts, health and happiness.\nIt is reassuring to know that your precious imagination can help you experience life in a new way. With your amazing imagination you enter elegant mansions of the mind. Feast on words that nourish, heal and strengthen. Experience sights, sounds, feelings, smells or tastes to the fullest. See the vivid or soft hues of color showcased all around your environment, hear the sweet sounds of birds welcoming the new morn, feel the warmth of the gentle sun on a spring day, smell the allergy-free blossoms bursting forth in all their splendor, smell the tempting cinnamon or pumpkin spice of the season and taste the freshness of a crisp newly harvested apple as you take that first tantalizing bite. Pick your all-time favorites to re-create at will. Add them to your safe, happy place you can visit anytime within your peaceful setting.\nAs you drift to another level of peaceful relaxation your inner being helps bring about a comfortable, easy change. An easy change in all areas of life. Your mind is a genius and knows exactly the depth of relaxation needed at all times. You have unlimited mental powers for health, wealth, happiness and success.\nYou have the key to unlock your magnetic, dynamic personality. You enjoy life, with more love and enthusiasm, day by day. A healthy enthusiasm in all you do, think or say. You feel so good, very comfortable and natural in everything you do. All facets of life, very natural and comfortable.\nYou carry a serene feeling with a new sense of brilliant logic, a happy logic and enthusiasm, so free of all discomfort. You are the master of your thought, words and actions. You view life with enthusiasm, a healthy intuition and an interesting touch of humor. Communication is so very easy.\nYou retain a clear thinking pattern, while remaining calm and collected, regardless of how traumatic any situation may appear to others. Never egotistical you love life. Life is special and so are you.\nIf you are feeling drowsy but are not ready for sleep you may easily come back to a fully alert state of mind refreshed and ready to perform flawlessly the rest of your day at the count of five. One; two; three; feeling more alive ready to move about; four and five; fully aware feeling wonderful in every way like you just had a rejuvenating nap and are now prepared for anything.\nYou can recreate this experience for yourself. So every evening when you are ready for bed repeat to yourself ten times: “Every day in every way I get better and better.” Count down the repetitions on your fingers. Use your imagination to picture yourself improving and succeeding in the areas you desire. Then you may drift into a restful renewing sleep cycle.\nAnd so, my friend, this is the gift I give to you. The rejuvenating gift of healing, nurturing and life changing (if need be) deep, peaceful relaxation. May it always be at you fingertips ready to be put to use." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: either way I have to shoot you\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1053\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where one character needs to betray the other, but isn’t sure if they can." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There was the sound of an unmistakable click. It resonated in the intimate space between them. Su Wei turned around, and was faced with the end of a gun pointed at her chest. It was Taleen at the other end of the gun, holding the weapon, steadily, with her left hand. Her face was unmoving, her grimace eyes behind her round glasses fixed upon Su Wei. Su Wei looked from Taleen’s index finger on the trigger, back up to her eyes, and slowly rose her hands in the air.\n“On your knees.” Taleen demanded, her feminine voice wasn’t threatening, but it was serious, the condensation from her exhale visible. She was glad Su Wei didn’t put up a fight about her eight hundred dollar pair of slacks. Su Wei got on her knees without a word, her hands still in the air, the women never taking their eyes off each other. Taleen’s face became more sinister, the street light above them gave shadows under her hooded eyes and frames.\n“Are you going to kill me?” Su Wei asked.\n“I haven’t decided yet.” Taleen answered, looking down at the other, her gun still pointed at her a couple feet away.\n“Taleen, baby, what's going on?”\n“I was cut a deal. I can have the money myself if I take you down. Those were the conditions.”\n“You ratted on me?” Su Wei’s eyebrows creased together. Taleen could tell by her voice and expression that that’s what upsetted her the most. “But we were supposed to take the money ourselves and run away together.”\n“There was a change of plans.” Taleen argued. \n“Who put you up to this?”\n“Jerry.”\n“Jerry told you to do this?” Su Wei asked in disbelief, her eyebrows raising, though she kept her hands in place. Taleen nodded.\n“He told me to dispose of you one way or another,”\n“So you’re going to shoot me?”\n“You shot me first!”\n“That was months ago.” Su Wei scoffed with a bored tone. “Taleen, honey, you really gotta let that go. Besides, it wasn’t enough to kill you anyway.” There was a moment of silence between them. Su Wei sighed. “So you want to betray me all because I betrayed you?” She asked in a quieter tone. Taleen’s eyebrows relaxed from their furrowed state. She turned her head, looking at the wet pavement around them. \n“I don’t know.” Taleen whispered.\n“I love you. Don’t you love me too?”\nThe question caught Taleen’s attention again. She looked back down at the woman in front of her whom she pointed the gun at. From Su Wei’s brown eyes, to her ruby red lipstick, to her soft hands in the air that Taleen cared so much to hold. \nSu Wei was Taleen’s first love. She loved everything about her. Her long black hair, the face she makes when she gets something she wants, her deep voice. Taleen fell so deeply in love with her, from every touch on her cheek to every kiss that left lipstick marks. They met on the job years ago, welcomed with the rest of the members in the organization, where they had become close. Money laundering was apparently a skill only very few had, and after Su Wei and Taleen got a hold of the funds they were told to take during a mission, that money was distributed back into the organization. Jerry is one of the heads of the organization. After she recovered from her gun wound, Taleen was livid enough towards Su Wei to tell Jerry about Su Wei’s plan to drain the organization of all they had and run off with it. Jerry gave Taleen an alternative in order to stay with the organization and not get hunted down. And with the rocky past couple of months she and Su Wei had together, Taleen took the deal. But although she shot her, although she never paid a visit to her in the hospital, or brought her soup and flowers at home, Taleen still couldn’t help but think of Su Wei every second of every day. Because she was her first love. Her only love. And she still loved her.\n“I… do love you.”\nTaleen just isn’t that person. The person to betray someone. Not even as an act of revenge. Everyone at the organization knows that. Taleen kinda hates that Su Wei knows that. Su Wei wasn’t scared of her. Taleen squeezed her eyes shut and she moved her glasses out of the way to rub her kids with her right hand. Su Wei grounded a foot on the pavement to stand up, lowering her hands.\n“Baby—”\n“Stay on the ground!” Taleen demanded, shaking her gun towards her. Su Wei got back on the ground in the same position. “Just let me think!”\nThere was that intimate silence between them again. A siren sounded in the distance. Taleen’s hand began to shake as she tried to keep the gun steady, pointed at her target. Her love for Su Wei clouded her mind, and the mere sadness she had for betraying her, how she could ever think to bargain a deal like that only to save herself. Taleen looked back at Su Wei below her, straight faced, and her hands still in the air. She could keep it up all night without a sweat, Taleen knew that. But Taleen herself didn’t know how long she could keep it up. Suddenly, tears poured down the sides of her cheeks. She looked away and exhaled an inaudible whine. Then she brought her other hand up to hold the gun steady. Su Wei stayed quiet. Taleen sniffed, and faced forward again.\n“I love you…” she started, “but I’m sorry.”\nFor a second, she saw how Su Wei’s face turned from emotionless to sorrow, and she lowered her gun from Su Wei’s chest, and to her abdomen, where she pulled the trigger. Su Wei fell forward to the pavement, and rolled over on her back. Taleen dropped the gun onto the ground and got onto her knees in front of Su Wei who moaned out in pain. \n“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” Taleen apologized profusely, using her hand to cover the wound. Su Wei let out an amused but shaky laugh.\n“Okay, you got me back.” Su Wei commented, “Can we move on 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: DON'T LOOK BACK\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1196\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with two characters deciding to spend the night in a graveyard." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "DON’T LOOK BACK\n Copyrights Abhik Bhanu\nBunty, Lucky, Roy, Sunder, Jenifer, and Tanisha were all college kids partying on a Saturday night on Goa’s Dona Paula beach.\nThe night was dark and cloudy, and the tide placid low so the beach was quiet- ghostly quiet. The sand was soft and cool under their feet. There was a cool and pleasant breeze carrying the sea smells. It was around 11:00 PM when somehow the topic of ghost stories began while downing more pegs.\n“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Bunty said bluntly.\nRoy supported him, “Educated people don’t believe in such idiotic things.”\n“I believe in ghosts. They exist just as we do.” Jenifer flicked her long hair.\nTanisha agreed with Jenifer. Tall and slim Sunder got up and said, “Ghosts are invisible. They appear when we call them.”\n“There is a process to call them- some Ouija board.” Tanisha supported them.\nThe conversation continued till midnight. Four of them were convinced about the existence of ghosts, Bunty and Roy were adamant that there were no ghosts.\n“Okay, can you go to a graveyard now and spent time till morning?” Tanisha challenged him.\n“You bet I will.” Said Bunty, “Will you kiss me if I spend the night in the graveyard?” He had a huge crush on Tanisha.\nCurvaceous and hot Tanisha smiled teasingly, “Sure!”\nTanisha watched his muscular frame in loose long T-shirt and shorts.\n“Take someone with you, I don’t want you to go alone.” Jennifer was concerned. \n“I will come with you,” Roy offered.\n“Any problem if Roy accompanies me?” Asked Bunty.\n“I want you to experience the truth, I don’t want you to die.” Tanisha\n“What is the proof that you have spent the night in the cemetery?” Jenifer asked.\n“You have to tie this scarf on one of the graves.” Jenifer pulled out a red scarf from her bag.\n“Such a long scarf!” Roy looked at the six-feet long scarf. \n“Okay, ghosts appear at 3:00 AM, so if you really want an experience, you have to stay there till 6:00 AM. If you sense something fishy, don’t look back – just run from there!” Tanisha pinned the red scarf to Bunty’s long T-shirt lovingly, “so it doesn’t fly away in the breeze. We will see you guys at 6:00 AM sharp. Okay?”\n“Okie!” Bunty agreed.\n***\nThe British Cemetery was just a short 15 minutes’ walk from the beach. Bunty and Roy set out to stay up till morning in the British Cemetery. They carried a full bottle of whisky to last them through the night.\nThe cemetery was dark and it took a while for their eyes to get accustomed to the darkness. They slowly saw a path and hundreds of graves. They walked confidently halfway through- where they saw only graves all around them.\n“This graveyard is more than 200 years old. People here are believed to be sleeping and not dead.” Roy scratched his nose.\n“They are all dead. No one sleeps for 200 years. Dead are dead!” Bunty was dismissive.\nBoth of them settled down on the cemented ground close to a grave under the open sky.\n“Are these stories all fake? Movies, web and TV serials, books- all of it just fiction? With not an iota of truth in it?” Roy took a large gulp of the whisky straight from the bottle.\n“Myth and business.” Bunty explained, “it is all hearsay, folk stories. One fellow said something, another fellow cooked it further, like Chinese whispers. Later, books were written and movies made. Everyone benefitted from these fabrications.” He took the bottle from Roy and took a swig. “Basically, it’s business. Those who make money out of it want us to believe.”\n“Okay. What if… let's assume, these stories are true?”\n“It's all in our head. Just free your head from these idiotic myths.” \nBritish Cemetery was calm, in fact pleasant! Both the friends joked and laughed till 2:50 AM.\nThen Roy heard a weird noise at some distance. He looked at his watch, the time was 3:00 AM sharp. It was a creepy sound, like someone crying.\nBoth the friends were suddenly very alert and scared. Roy started sweating as he heard the sound again.\n“Let’s go,” Roy whispered.\n“No, wait it is just some noise, don’t worry. Be calm.”\n“Listen Bunty, don’t be a fool. There wasn’t any sound till 3:00 AM.”\n“This is in your head. It is just a noise, nothing else.”\n“Do you want to die for your bet?” Roy sweated profusely and was now desperate, “I am leaving.”\n“If you want to go, I can’t stop you!” \n“I came here for you and now I am telling you- leave.” He looked around, “this is your last chance I am telling you,” He panicked, waited for a few moments, and then just walked away. \n***\nBunty was left alone. He held on to his post nervously but courageously. He picked up the bottle for another sip but it was empty. He was thirsty. He heard the noise now approaching him. It sounded like human cries and then turned into inhuman creatures fighting with each other. A big owl sitting on a tree close by uttered a hoot.\nHe sweated. Fear gripped him. He saw the time. it was 4:00 AM. He had to tie the scarf on one of the grave mounds. He stood up with trembling legs. Slowly pulled out the red scarf and tied one end to the mound. The noise was unnatural and angry and it was coming towards him- fast! He held his breath and panicked.\n***\nRoy went back to his friends.\nHe is such an idiot and so adamant. I left him.\n“What happened?”\n“Sharp at 3:00 AM, there were some bizarre sounds that started approaching us. I was scared. I told Bunty to come with me. But that idiot didn’t.”\n“We should go there immediately,” Tanisha said.\n***\nWhen the gang reached the Cemetery, they found Bunty sprawled on the ground. The red scarf was pinned to his T-shirt at one end and the other end was tied to the mound of a grave.\nThey touched Bunty’s body. It felt cold. They checked if he was breathing. He wasn’t. They checked and confirmed that Bunty was dead. They inquired further.\n“He must have tied up one fringe to the mound and forgot to unpin it from his T-shirt in a nervous state. And when he walked away to leave, he was pulled as the scarf was pinned to his T-shirt.” Lucky explained.\n“He was told not to look back.” Roy reminded everyone, “only if he looked back, he would have realized that no one was pulling him.”\nBut, what about that noise?” Tanisha reminded him,” you said at 3.00 AM sharp.”\nThey saw an old watchman approach them, “Lots of cats and rats create a raucous here.”\nRoy understood what was all the noise that scared them the most. \n***\nBunty was dead. The doctor said that he died of a heart attack.\n“Why did he go to the British Cemetery?” Police inspector Joseph asked.\nThey lied to him that a ghost carried him in there.\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: What is Trick or Treat\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1567\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone taking a child trick-or-treating for the very first time." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Bolin had known for years that he might one day have to move from his home in China to the USA, for his job. So for the last 5 years him and his wife Zhe, had been taking classes to learn to speak English. They also hired a private tutor to teach their daughter Ling to speak English. So when they found out that they would be leaving for America at the end of the month, they made a rule to only speak English at home. They were all doing very well and were sure they would have no problem in America.\n\nThey arrived in the United States on October 30th. Bolin's company had supplied a furnished house for them in a nice quiet neighborhood. When the cab dropped them off at their new house, Ling was so excited. She had a big bedroom of her own and the back yard was bigger than anyone's yard she ever saw in China. The next day her mom took her to get registered for school. They said she would start on November 1st, and her teacher's name is Miss. Martin. When they got home that afternoon, there was a knock on the front door. It was the neighbors from across the street. \"Hi my name is Sue and this is my daughter, Sandy. Welcome to the neighborhood.\" She said, as she handed them a plate full of cookies.\n\nZhe thanked them and introduced herself and her daughter Ling. It turned out that Sandy was 9 years old, the same age as Ling and she was in Miss. Martin's class also. The two girls hit it off right away. They talked and played while their mothers, Zhe and Sue talked in the kitchen. When it was time to go Sandy asked Ling if she wanted to trick or treat with her tonight. \"What is trick or treat?\" Ling asked.\n\nThey never heard of Halloween because they don't celebrate it in China. So Sandy told Ling that kids dress up in costumes and knock on doors and grownups give them candy. \"I am going to be a beautiful butterfly this year.\" Sandy excitedly shouted. Sandy's mother said, \"Ling is a little smaller than Sandy. I think Sandy's princess costume from last year would fit Ling perfectly. She ran home and got it. Ling tried it on and she was so happy. It fit her perfect and she felt so pretty dressed as a princess. Sue explained that there are 12 houses on each side of the street and that at the end of the street is a dead end. So she will allow them to go to all 12 houses on one side and then go to all of them on the other side and they will not even have to leave the street to get plenty of candy. \"It will be totally safe. Sandy will come over to get Ling to start trick or treating at around 6:15.\" She handed Ling a bag decorated with pumpkins to put her candy in and they went on home.\n\nZhe went to the store and got some candy to hand out to the kids who come to her house. Then she helped her daughter get all ready for her big night. Right at 6:15, Sandy came to the door and the two girls went to the first house and knocked on the door. The nice lady put some lollypops in both of their bags and they went on to the next house. Ling was thinking this is really cool. I love living here. They went to the next 3 houses and got lots of different goodies in their bags. But when they knocked on the next door. A very scary witch answered and screamed, \"I'm going to get you my pretty.\" Ling threw her bag of candy up in the air and screamed. She took off running through the grass. Coming across the lawn were 4 boys dressed as monsters. That really got Ling scared and she ran even faster. But she had gotten turned around and was running in the opposite direction of her house. She passed a few ghosts and ran all the faster. She came to the dead end at the end of the street. There was a big field and she spotted a huge bush, so she ran and hid behind the bush.\n\nShe sat crouched down behind the bush fearing for her life. She could hear her heart beating so loud. \"What in the world is going on.\" She thought to herself. \"I don't think I like America, after all.\" Just then a little boy named Bobby who was dressed like a cowboy, told the friends that he was trick or treating with, that he had to go to the bathroom. \"Wait right here while I go behind that big bush.\" He jogged across the field to the bush. Before he even opened his big cowboy belt buckle, he saw Ling crouched down behind the bush. \"You scared me. What are you doing back here.\" He asked her.\n\n\"A witch answered the door at one of the houses we went to and then I saw a lot of ghost's and monster's.\" She whispered. \"Well that's because its Halloween, silly. People are dressed in costumes.\" Then Bobby remembered that his teacher had told him that they were getting a new student from China tomorrow. \"Hey are you the new girl from China who is going to be in Miss. Martin's class.\" He asked. She nodded her head yes. He told her that his name is Bobby and he is going to be in her class. Then he explained that people are just dressed in witch and ghost costumes. They aren't real.\n\n\"My new friend Sandy gave me this princess costume and she is dressed as a butterfly. I didn't realize that some people were going to be dressed so scary.\" After she said this, Bobby's friends walked up to the bush to see who he was talking to. When Bobby told them that she was afraid of the ghosts, monsters and Mrs. Woods who was the one dressed as a witch, the boys all started laughing. Ling was so embarrassed that she ran home. Sandy saw her and yelled, There you are. I have been looking all over for you.\" But Ling was so embarrassed that she ran all the way home and went inside to her room. When her mother asked her what happened. She could hardly talk. Sandy came to the door but Ling asked her mother to tell her that she just wanted to be alone.\n\nThe next day when it was time for Ling to go to school, she didn't want to go. She was afraid that all the kids were going to know what happened last night and they would all laugh at her. Her mother tried to tell her everything will be fine but Ling begged her not to make her go. So Zhe decided to let her daughter stay home but she made her promise that she would go tomorrow. Sandy came to the door to see if Ling wanted to walk to school with her. Zhe explained to Sandy why Ling was going to stay home.\n\nWhen Sandy got to school, she told her teacher about what happened and that Ling was afraid that kid's would laugh at her and that is why she isn't at school today. Miss. Martin had a talk with the kids. She also sent a note home with all of the kid's, asking the parents to talk with their children and also asking if anyone has extra candy they could send. That way, they could make up a bag to give to Ling, since she didn't get to trick or treat.\n\nThe next morning Ling was still afraid that kids would laugh at her but her mother told her that she had to go to school. Because she was crying, it took her a long time to get ready. So she was running a little late and couldn't walk with Sandy. Her mother walked her to school and she was only about 15 minutes late. It turned out to be a good thing that she was late because it gave the teacher time to gather up all the candy that the kids brought from home to give to Ling. Her mom walked Ling to her class door and gave her a hug and promised everything will be fine. Ling knocked on the door and then opened it. Bobby and Sandy got up from their desks and came to the door and showed Ling to her desk. Miss. Martin and the whole class welcomed her and made her feel really comfortable. On the recess all the kids wanted to ask her questions about China. It seemed everyone wanted to be her friend. Not a word was said about her being afraid on Halloween. Then at the end of the day, Miss. Martin gave her a big bag filled with candy to take home, since she didn't get to trick or treat. When she got home her mother was waiting on the front porch, anxious to hear about her day. \"I had a great day mom. I cant wait to go to school tomorrow and I can't wait until next Halloween. I want to be a scary monster.\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Natural Wonder\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1041\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin a scene with a non-visual sense. Describe a specific sound, smell, taste, etc to capture your setting, then expand the story out from there." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In the heart of the bustling city, amidst the ceaseless hum of traffic and the cacophony of voices, there was a sound that went unnoticed by most. It was the soft, melodic tinkling of wind chimes, hidden among the urban jungle. Every afternoon, like clockwork, they came alive, offering a brief respite from the relentless noise of the metropolis.\nIn a small, dimly lit apartment on the top floor of a nondescript building, Sarah sat by the open window, her gaze fixed on the wind chimes that dangled from the iron railing. The chimes were an heirloom, passed down through generations of her family, a relic from a simpler time when life was slower, and the world was quieter.\nAs the sun dipped below the city skyline, casting long shadows across the room, the wind chimes stirred to life. A gentle breeze, carrying the scent of distant rain, swept through the window, causing the delicate metal tubes to collide. The resulting sound was a symphony of delicate notes, like a lullaby for the soul.\nSarah closed her eyes and allowed the sound to wash over her. It was a sound that transported her from the chaos of the city to a tranquil garden, where the air was scented with blooming flowers and the only soundtrack was the whispering of leaves in the breeze. She felt a profound sense of peace and nostalgia, a longing for a world that seemed increasingly distant.\nIn her apartment, Sarah lived a solitary life. Her days were consumed by the demands of a high-stress job that left little room for anything else. But those few moments each day, when the wind chimes sang their song, were a precious escape. They reminded her of her grandmother, who had once told her stories of a quieter, more connected world.\nOne evening, as Sarah sat by the window, lost in the enchanting melody of the wind chimes, she heard a voice from the apartment next door. It was a voice she had never heard before, soft and hesitant.\n\"Excuse me,\" the voice said, \"I couldn't help but notice the wind chimes. They're beautiful.\"\nStartled, Sarah turned to see her neighbor, a young woman with kind eyes and a warm smile, standing by the open door that connected their apartments.\n\"Thank you,\" Sarah replied, a bit flustered by the unexpected intrusion. \"They've been in my family for generations.\"\nThe neighbor stepped closer, her curiosity evident. \"Do they make that lovely sound every day?\"\nSarah nodded. \"Yes, like clockwork, every afternoon when the breeze picks up.\"\nThe young woman's eyes sparkled with interest. \"I've always loved wind chimes. Would it be too much trouble if I sat here with you sometimes and listened to them?\"\nSurprised by the request, Sarah hesitated for a moment before nodding. \"Of course, you're welcome to join me anytime.\"\nAnd so, a simple friendship began. Sarah and her neighbor, whose name was Emily, would often sit by the window together, their silence filled with the enchanting melody of the wind chimes. As the days turned into weeks, they began to share their stories and dreams, finding solace in each other's company.\nEmily, it turned out, was an artist who had recently moved to the city to pursue her passion for painting. She had chosen the apartment next to Sarah's because she found the sound of the wind chimes both inspiring and calming. Sarah, on the other hand, had once harbored dreams of becoming a writer but had put them aside to pursue a more conventional career.\nOne evening, as they watched the sunset paint the sky with shades of orange and pink, Emily turned to Sarah with a question. \"Sarah, have you ever considered writing again?\"\nSarah sighed, her gaze fixed on the wind chimes. \"I used to love writing, but life got in the way. I haven't written anything in years.\"\nEmily smiled. \"You know, the sound of the wind chimes reminds me of stories waiting to be told. Maybe it's time for you to pick up your pen again.\"\nSarah looked at Emily, her eyes filled with uncertainty. \"It's not that simple. I have responsibilities, a demanding job. I can't just drop everything to pursue a dream.\"\nEmily's voice was gentle but determined. \"Sarah, life is too short to ignore the things that make your heart sing. You don't have to quit your job, but you can start small. Write a little every day, even if it's just for yourself. Who knows where it might lead?\"\nInspired by Emily's words, Sarah decided to take her advice to heart. She began to carve out time in her busy schedule to write, even if it was just a few sentences each day. The act of putting words on paper brought her a sense of fulfillment she had long been missing.\nAs the days turned into months, Sarah's passion for writing reignited. She started a blog where she shared her thoughts and stories, and to her surprise, people began to connect with her words. She even received encouraging messages from readers who found solace in her writing, just as she had found solace in the wind chimes.\nEmily, too, continued to pursue her art with unwavering dedication. Her paintings began to gain recognition, and she held her first art exhibition, showcasing her unique perspective on the city she now called home.\nOne evening, as Sarah and Emily sat by the window, listening to the wind chimes that had brought them together, Sarah turned to her friend with gratitude in her eyes. \"Emily, you were right. The sound of the wind chimes, and your friendship, helped me rediscover a part of myself I had long forgotten.\"\nEmily smiled warmly. \"And you, Sarah, have shown me the power of pursuing your passions, no matter the obstacles. We've both been inspired by a simple sound.\"\nIn that moment, as the wind chimes continued to play their gentle melody, the two friends realized that they had found not only solace but also inspiration in the unlikely harmony of their lives. The sound that had once gone unnoticed in the bustling city had become a reminder that amidst the noise and chaos, there was always room for beauty and dreams to flourish." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Five for secret never to be told\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 2994\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a family attempting to hide their secrets from someone new." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Baigs were an aristocratic, highly educated, reputed family in Lucknow, which is known as the city of Nawabs. The senior Baig, Ataullah, had been sent to the UK to study law as was the tradition in pre-independent India and returned to become a highly regarded Barrister. The son Najibullah followed in the father’s footsteps and joined the family’s law practice. The law firm flourished until the elder Baig was alive but the younger Baig was unable to keep it going despite being armed with a foreign degree. Times, they were changing, and traditional ethics and principles that the father and son duo sincerely believed in could not withstand competition from young, aggressive, unscrupulous practitioners of law who had emerged out of nowhere. \nThe Baigs were left only with a fraction of the rural lands they owned, the haveli, the heirlooms, and their old family name. In addition to agricultural lands in the vicinity of the city of Lucknow managed by their serfs, the Baigs owned a majestic haveli in a prime location close to the Residency. But the Land Ceiling act introduced by the Government of India after India gained independence in 1947 compelled the family to sell five of the six sections of their ancestral haveli keeping only the sixth for themselves, which was an architectural marvel. The buyers of the other five broke them down into dingy, functional houses after demolishing their grand arches, balustrades, latticework, and wooden staircases.\nAtaullah’s daughter Dilnawaz had to be married in a haste to the scion of an equally illustrious family at the young age of fifteen. Accustomed to living off their ancestral wealth and with a training in liberal arts, the son-in-law, Salamat Khan, tried his hands at several businesses none of which took off. Sick of asking her in-laws for her personal expenses, Dilnawaz opened a beauty salon, unthinkable for a daughter-in-law of a well-known family in those days. Dilnawaz’s beauty salon offered treatments based on ancient Unani principles and she claimed to use her grandmother’s recipes in preparing the magical potions that she first tested on herself and then on her clients. Within a few years, Dilnawaz’s salon became the most sought-after salon in the capital that catered only to a select few clientele belonging to families similar to that of her in-laws. The recommendations of these elite clients brought other affluent women to seek her services, which she reluctantly began to offer over the years making her salon open to anyone who could afford the price.\nWithin a decade, Dilnawaz’s salons had expanded to several other neighborhoods in the capital, which she placed in the hands of trusted managers, usually poor relatives from her own extended family. She could trust no outsider with the secret formula for her rejuvenating beauty products. Demands from other cities came pouring in and Dilnawaz agreed to sell the franchise to salons run by beauticians trained by her. The staff in each of the salons was required to train in the Beauty School she had opened for a hefty fee and only those who were successful were allowed to work in the salons bearing her name. Since the business had become unwieldy and Dilnawaz had trained a large number of beauticians who could be trusted to deliver, she turned her attention to introducing a new range of herbal products under her brand name. The magic name turned the range into a profitable enterprise notwithstanding the exorbitant price of her products. Dilnawaz had become a national brand, whose fame soon spread to the Indian diaspora who displayed a preference for herbal products over those manufactured by well known global brands. Dilnawaz personal care products now shared shelfspace with some of the most reputed cosmetic brands worldwide and she acquired a large share in the global cosmetic market through her unique selling proposition – grandmother’s beauty tips.\nDilnawaz was invited to give talks at several events and was highly sought after by the media. In each of her interviews, she attributed the uniqueness of her products to the secret recipes passed down to her by her grandmother, which blended unani with ayurvedic principles in combining different herbs to produce a unique product. The magical ingredients used by her following the secret family formulae were impossible for any Indian or global company to replicate. Dilnawaz became the natural herbal cosmetic brand that alone could challenge the hegemony of old, global cosmetic giants using chemicals. She acquired a large following among women across the world who wanted to be naturally beautiful. Her grandmother’s secret potions that lay behind her success became the stuff of legend. But who was this grandmother whose beauty secrets had captivated the entire world? This was a secret Dilnawaz was loathe to share.\nThere was no doubt that aristocratic women from nawabi backgrounds who had a retinue of retainers to manage household chores had no other pastime except to keep themselves youthful and attractive for their husbands who could easily be led astray by aspiring young women desirous of marrying royalty. Muslim men of that generation prided themselves on the number of wives they could maintain and were susceptible to the charms of nubile young women whose families considered it their good fortune to forge an alliance with a nawabi family. Dilnawaz’s aristocratic background lent credence to her inheriting her paternal grandmother’s secrets. But Dilnawaz never mentioned her grandmother’s name and how she came to have such extensive knowledge of herbs. When probed about details, she would change the topic or dwell on the elegance of the old nawabi traditions.\nThe one detail she would never divulge to anyone was the nawabi tradition of visiting courtesans, which was traditionally sanctioned since the courtesans were expected to groom the nawabs in the finer aspects of existence such as appreciation of music, dance and poetry as well etiquette. It was rumored that the senior Baig first encountered his future wife at one of these parlors. Mehjabeen’s mother Katori Jan was a tawa’if of repute whose kotha was frequented by those counted in Lucknow’s elite circles. One of her admirers, a Raja of a small princely state, had fallen in love with her. Since the Raja was already married and marrying a tawa’if was out of question, he persuaded her to give up her profession and live in a secluded mansion that he had bought for her. He continued to live in his palace but would visit Katori Jan and request her to perform solely for him. He saw to it that she enjoyed the affluence that she was accustomed to and even offered to pay for her daughter’s education. Since the Raja’s wife remained in purdah, Katori Jan would be required to play the hostess at the musical soirees that the Raja would throw up in which the who’s who of Lucknow society would be invited. The highlight of the evening would be a performance by Katori herself who had reinvented herself as Katori Begum.\nKatori Jan had made up her mind that her daughter would not be a part of the life she had left behind and sent away Mehjabeen first to a boarding school in Nainital and subsequently to a finishing school in Switzerland with the Raja’s support. Generous donations to the boarding school ensured that Mehjabeen’s family background was concealed from fellow students. Every summer Mehjabeen would return to Lucknow where Katori Jan kept her protected her in a well-furnished room in the haveli and encouraged her to socialize with her friends outside the house. When Mehjabeen turned eighteen, Katori Jan shortlisted eligible young men who she could possibly be introduced to at the Sham-e-Awadh (An Awadh Evening) the Raja had planned to hold. Ataullah, newly returned from UK and burning in the fire of reforming tawa’ifs, was one such young man who completely fell under Mehjabeen’s charms. In UK, Attaullah was expected to mix with women in his law school and social circles but he had never spoken to any woman outside the family in India. Mehjabeen, who had bloomed into a ravishing beauty, combined the poise, elegance, and intelligence of the women Attaullah had met during his student days with the nazakat only Muslim women from certain families are seen to possess. Attaullah, with his newfangled western ideas about female emancipation, was understandably quite smitten by Mehjabeen who combined the best of the east and the west. His parents would have liked him to marry a lady from one of the old elite families of Lucknow. He had known most of them since his childhood and there was none he could think of his future wife.\nMehjabeen had always dreamt that an educated young man from an old nawabi family would propose to her. But she was old enough to understand that old nawabi families do not marry into those of courtesans. When she caught Attaullah stealing glances at her throughout the evening before finally mustering the courage to approach her, she did not want to raise her hopes. Katori Begum kept a watch over the two through the corners of her eyes. She would dearly have liked Mehjabeen to get married to a personable young man like Ataullah. But she was aware of the strict Lucknow codes that prevented such relationships from developing into formal marriages. Ataullah lost no time and led Mehjabeen to a quiet corner so that he could propose to her. Getting her to accept his proposal of marriage was a cake walk but persuading his parents to agree to the match was a nightmare. Ataullah’s parents could not fathom why their only son should turn down more suitable matches for marrying a woman from a family of ill repute. But Ataullah would not budge. Besides, his father who had political ambitions had given his support to the rehabilitation of former courtesans through getting them married or encouraging them to take up respectable forms of employment. The old nawab could set an example to his party members by taking the first step, the son suggested. Besides, Katori Jan had abandoned her profession decades ago and Mehjabeen had been carefully kept away. The nawab was worried about his reputation. A compromise was found with the Raja agreeing to officiate at Mehjabeen’s nikah so that they could save their face. This is how Mehjabeen, an extremely beautiful, accomplished and educated young lady, got to marry a young barrister from an aristocratic background. Other than the family, none was aware of her background.\nHer entry into the family was not expected to be smooth, particularly by the womenfolk, who never failed to remind her of her embarrassing origins. Mehjabeen took great care to ensure that she jettisoned every bit of her past, including her love for poetry, singing and dancing that she had inherited from her mother. Her favorite pair of ghungroos was left behind in her mother’s house along with her sitar and tanpura. She observed the habits and mannerisms of the ladies of the house and emulated them in every respect to get accepted. She wore muted shades favored by begums, antique jewelry and covered herself from head to toe following the decorum in aristocratic Muslim households. She never raised her eyes or her voice in front of elders and never spoke to the males in the family directly. But there was one aspect of her past that she found it difficult to let go because it had become second nature to her. This was the beauty regime that Katori Begum had instilled in her from her early childhood. She continued to follow her mother’s recipes and routine in caring for her skin, hair, and lips. Since she used to help her mother grind and mix the ingredients, she knew the exact composition of each beauty product by heart. She would get the khansama to bring her the ingredients from the bazaar and prepare them herself in her room.\nDilnawaz’s earliest memories were of her grandmother’s smooth, glowing skin and lustrous hair and of the magic potions she mixed in her bedroom when everyone was away. She watched her grandmother fascinated and begged her to allow her to crush the herbs in the small marble stone. Her grandmother would lovingly instruct the 10-year-old on how to prepare the special oil mixed with unpronounceable herbs that would keep her tresses long, thick, and lustrous. She would guide her into the miraculous powers of simple home products like milk, cream, honey, and turmeric in acquiring a supple skin and flawless complexion. One day when her grandmother was taking her afternoon nap, Dilnawaz opened her chest of drawers and came upon an album with sepia tinted pictures. They were all photographs of her grandmother. She was either striking a dance pose or playing an instrument. Her outfits were straight out of a period film. She wore pieces of jewelry that she had never seen before. Hidden behind one of the photographs was that of an old lady who bore an uncanny resemblance to Dilnawaz’s grandmother. She was past her prime but was resplendent in Banarasi silk sari and heavy jewelry. Her eyes were heavily lined with kohl and her lips were darkened with betel. She seemed to be holding court in a large hall of sorts and had an arrogant, mysterious smile. Who was this lady who seemed to have stepped out of movies about dancing girls? Dilnawaz was on the verge of waking up her grandmother but thought better of it and put away with the album tucking in the hidden photograph behind another. Dilnawaz instinctively knew that this was a secret never to be told even to her parents. Married in her early teens, Dilnawaz did not deem it fit that she should share it with her husband.\nBut secrets have a way of tumbling out of family closets when they are least expected to. In Dilnawaz’s case, it was her rivals, multinational cosmetic corporations who had a vested interest in setting the media to probe her past. The media was only too happy to dig into the globally renowned beautician’s antecedents and flew down one of their intrepid young reporters to find a story. Nazneen was personally chosen by the bureau chief because she hailed from a family in Lucknow who mixed in social circles similar to those of Dilnawaz. Nazneen was only too happy to get a paid holiday to spend time with family and friends. Although she had gone to the same school as Dilnawaz’s young grandniece, she had never been invited to her house even on occasions like birthdays. But they often bumped into one another at an Eid function hosted by one of the wealthy families. Nazneen’s visit coincided with the annual party. Normally reluctant to linger longer with the elders than the mandatory adaab, she hung on to every word said by the women, particularly the older women, who were the source of all gossip. She sat down with her own grandmother and her close friends who, she noticed, carefully distanced themselves from the group of sophisticated ladies in which Dilnawaz’s mother Mehjabeen was holding court. Nazneen caught snatches of conversation, “Who does she think she is? Putting on such airs. We all know where she has come from,” one of the matriarchs pronounced with her nose up in the air. “But you have to grant that Katori Jan’s daughter has inherited her mother’s mesmerizing good looks. It is said that Katori was known as angel face in her heyday,” another conceded with an arched smile. “And who gave her that title, may I ask?”, anther inquired with a sardonic smile. ‘’Shh, be careful about what you say. There are children around,” Nazneen heard her own grandmother imploring them to keep their voices down. But Nazneen could now smell a story and she was not going to let go of them so easily. “Who was called angel face and by whom, dadijan?” she turned to her grandmother with a smile that usually melted her heart. With a stern warning, “Child, you should not be listening to gossip. Please go and join your friends”, Nazneen’s grandmother shooed her away.\nBut Nazneen had found a lead and she was not going to give up that easily. The following day, she decided to call in on her grandmother’s friend using the shawl she had forgotten behind as an excuse. At her best behavior, Nazneen made her way to her grandmother’s friend’s bedroom and sweetly told her how she enjoyed listening to her the previous night. “But who was angel face?”, she innocently popped the question. It appeared to have jolted the old matriarch’s memory. “Your Dilnawaz’s grandmother, my dear. She was a raging beauty in her heyday with countless admirers. One of them bestowed the title on her,” she drew Nazneen closer and whispered softly. “She enjoyed their attention but then settled down with the richest, the Raja Sahib. Became Katori Begum if you please,” she sniggered. At that point, the family retainer entered with glasses of sherbet and the choicest snacks and politely informed Nazneen that it was grandmother’s time to nap and that the driver was waiting to take her back home as soon as she had her fill of refreshments. Nazneen had had her fill of gossip. She gulped down the Rooh Afza and raced down the staircase into her car. “To the Amanullah Library in Amina bad. Jaldi!” she snapped her fingers at the driver. In the Amanullah library that housed rare books and records, she found exactly what she was looking for. She poured over the records in the dark chambers of the library and saw the name classified file titled “Katori Jan”. Katori Jan had led a march against the abolition of Nautch in 1928 and came under the scanner of the Hindu brahmin reformers and Christian missionaries, who were hell bent on eradicating the courtesan culture. Nazneen smiled to herself. This story would surely get her out of the desk job!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: You are my only desire\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1302\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a romance that involves one partner saving the other from a fire." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "We are in a taxi and the song \"I want in that way\" by backstreet boys is playing on the car's radio. Sasha is upset with me, because she thinks that I will not marry her. She thinks that I wont marry her because I'm the son of multi millionaire Raj Mehta, I'm only 25 but I have 2000 crore asset on my name. Where as Sasha is a black women, a self made women and has no assets on her name. I haven't proposed her yet, because I couldn't find a ring that I connected too. Sasha is such a enigmatic, powerful, kind women and its tough to find a ring that suits her personality. We both are in a cab and she's looking through the car's window. And I'm looking at her. The car's window is acting like a mirror, where I see her reflection. She has tears in eyes, and its not my fault. I want to surprise her, in the best way possible. I can't sit in this cab longer, I instruct the driver to stop and get out of the car. I don't even say goodbye to Sasha, even I'm pissed at her. How could she think, that I have such mentality for her. I start to walk on the pavement in the opposite direction of cab. And after a few seconds I hear a loud boom of noise, and when I turn to see its source. I see a accident of a oil tanker and a cab, and see the cab is ablaze which had Sasha in it. I scream on top of my lungs. She was burning in flames.\n\nI wake up with a jolt, I'm sweating from head to toe. I check my phone its 5:30 am, when I check my bed, Sasha is not there. I see some messages pop up. Its from Sasha, in short its about her meeting at work and why she left early without telling me. I walk in the kitchen to drink a glass of water, there's a note on the fridge from Sasha 'I have made you breakfast. Love you\"\nI eat my breakfast and get ready. Its my daily routine, since a couple of weeks. I get into tiffany's store early, and spend hours searching for the perfect ring. But I couldn't because, the diamonds would be too regular, Sasha doesn't like Emeralds, Ruby would be too wild for her and Pearl would be too cheap. I have been mentally exhausted by this routine and suddenly my eyes fall on it.\nA rare pink diamond, just like my Sasha.\nI come back home, full of excitement. I have taken a break from work, and been busy making plans for future. I eat my lunch and sit down on my study table. I spot my diary, I take a look at it. I have bookmarked 25 September, the day I met Sasha. I initially fell for her bright eye's and afro hairs. I loved her long slender arms and how beautifully she had painted neon pink on her nails. She was unique in every way possible, her every action had purpose. I enter my dream into the diary. I wanted to take a short nap, because I loved dreaming about Sasha and me.\n\nWe were shouting at each other on the pavement, the onlookers were gawking at us. There was a reason for it, because I was Aryaman Mehta son of multi millionaire Raj Mehta. A Indian American boy marrying a black color, was scandalous in a way. But we were fighting with each other, in the middle of crowded street, was far more scandalous. I could see people clicking our photo's on their phone. But I was least concerned about it. Sasha saying I being ashamed of her was more hurtful.\nI said \"why do you think Sasha, that I'm ashamed of you\"?\n\"Because, its your family, they hate me. and whenever I ask you about marriage, you push the topic away\"\nI replied \" I push it because, its not ready\"\n\"What is not ready \" Ring, the jeweler said that the ring will be ready by tomorrow.\n\"See Sasha you focus on your work, we will talk about it later\"\n\"That's what you are saying, when every time I talk about it?\"\n\"Sasha ,can I drop you\"\n\"No, I will go on my own\"\nAnd she walks away.\n\nThud! there's a loud noise, Sasha has come home.\nI see my watch its 5:30 in the evening. She calls me\n\"Honey I'm home\"\n\"Yeah, I'm coming \"\nI check myself into the mirror and rush towards the hall.\nShe's tired but still looks so beautiful, I go and kiss her on the forehead. She gives me a fake smile. She seems tensed.\nI say \"hon why don't you go freshen up, and I set the table for you\"\nShe nods.\nShe's barley eating anything, I can see sense that something is going in her mind.\nShe says \"Do you know Henry and April?\"\n\"Yeah what happened to them\"\n\"Well Henry proposed April yesterday and she said yes. They are going to get married soon\"\n\"Its unbelievable, I never knew that in 6 months they would take such a big decision\"\nShe grunt's \"yeah, what have you thought about us\"\nWhy I'm feeling that I have seen this conversation before. I feel that my dreams are becoming reality. Its impossible, how come she's saying everything same, that I had seen in my dream.\nShe's accusing me, doubting me in every way possible. But I'm not reacting to it, cause I'm seeing this narration again. Everything is feeling like dejavu, I had seen this fight coming.\n\"you have stopped loving me right?\" Sasha says it with tears in her eyes.\nHer question brings me back to the present, the present which I had already seen.\n\"No, why are you saying like that Sasha\" I say\n\"Because Aryaman, every time when I come up about our marriage. You change the topic\"\n\"see Sasha you will get my answer soon\"\n\"ok, you know what Aryaman, when you are ready about your decision. Call me.\"\nShe picks her purse up and rushes out of the door. I run after her.\nWe are on the pavement, I'm running after her. I yell her name.\nShe stops, I go towards her and in a hushed tone say\n\"Sasha believe me I love you \"\n\"Then prove it to me Aryaman\"\nAnd we are having the same heated argument. People are gawking at us in the same way. And she walks away\nI should show her the ring, maybe I will propose her in the store itself.\n\"you believe me right\" I shout from behind\nShe stops and turns towards me and nod. But she says \" I have a errand to do, after that we will talk about it\"\nShe motions for a cab. The cab comes closer towards us and on its radio. The same song of backstreet boys is playing and I know what will happen next. Sasha is about to open the door of cab and go inside, I grab her arm and shove her aside. I sit in the cab and instruct the driver to go. The driver speeds up, Sasha is fuming behind us. I take out my phone and call Sasha.\nThe moment will come soon and I have to say my intentions to her fast.\nShe picks up the phone and before she could say anything. I say\n\"I Aryaman Mehta ask this beautiful young lady, for marriage\"\n\"Will you marry me Sasha?\"\nThe driver turns his head in excitement to see me, and from other side I see a oil tanker rushing towards us.\nWe collide and the car goes up in the fumes." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Knight for Hire\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2130\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a warrior who doesn’t want to kill the dragon." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A sword hung from the knight’s waist. He wore a brilliant suit of armor. With a mallet in hand, the knight nailed a sheet of parchment in the center of the town’s notice board.\nKnight For Hire\nOgre Eviction- 200 Gold Pieces \nWerewolf Taming- 100 Gold Pieces \nBridge De-Trolling- 100 Gold Pieces \nDragon Slaying- 500 Gold Pieces \nContact Sir Ronald The Brave\nNo one took notice of him. The town’s folk went about their business. They’ll read it later, he thought as he mounted his noble steed. Noble might not be entirely accurate. The horse was a bit on the smaller side. But that was fine because so was the knight. He gave one last glance around and rode back out of town. \nSir Ronald the Brave approached a cave a few leagues from town. Still not drawing his weapon, Ronald causally crept into the cave, enticed by the glow of firelight. Peering over a boulder, he spotted a giant green monster. The dragon filled most of the cave. With razor-sharp claws and enormous wings folded to its back, the beast was attending a slab of meat roasting over the fire. \n“Ronald, you’re back.” the dragon greeted. “Come on in, my boy. Did you hang our advertisement?” “Yes, I did,” replied the knight. Ronald entered the warm and cozy body of the cave, dropping his armor and weapons along the way. “Ronald, what have I told you about leaving a mess?” “Sorry Drake.” was the young knight’s sheepish answer, hanging his knightly gear on some rather nifty hooks his dragon friend provided. Without his protective suit, Ronald looked like the stereotypical nerdy eighteen-year-old. He was bespectacled and somewhat scrawny. He had the muscular build of someone who lifted only a few weights. Ronald sat in front of the cooking fire and helped himself to a plate of perfectly cooked venison and wild mushrooms. “Thank you for dinner, Drake.” The dragon beamed. Not much made the monstrous lizard happier than providing for his young friend. \nDrake found Ronald sixteen years ago after a band of highwaymen attacked and looted his parent's caravan. The only things left by the bandits were a few chickens and a sniffling and stumbling dark-haired little boy. Not one to let a free meal go to waste, Drake scooped up the mismatched brood and hurried away. There was something about the grime covered two-year-old that fascinated the dragon. Firstly, the snot-nosed tot didn’t seem afraid of the beast. Second, Drake never turned down the chance to learn. Dragons of today are not like dragons of yore. Drake was sophisticated and scholarly. He would prefer to study the stars or read a good book of poetry than burn a village to the ground. The problem of what to do with a toddler became a scientific study. Could a dragon raise a human child just as well, if not better than its parents would have? All these years later, the dragon was proud of the boy. Ronald had grown into a well mannered and intellectual yet somewhat messy young man. Thanks to the dragon’s tutelage, Ronald had a brilliant scientific and scholarly mind. The two analyzed the scientific breakthroughs of the day. They read and discussed all the great works of literature. They also wrote plays to perform for the shadows on the cave walls. Drake thought of Ronald as his own son. \nDue to his unique education and no family name, the kingdom’s universities were reluctant to take on Ronald as a student. And with the boy a bit undersized, no castle’s forces wanted him as a squire. Unwilling to slay dragons, Ronald was uncomfortable being employed by anyone who still practiced the barbaric tradition. In order to earn a living, the pair devised a plan. Portraying himself as a freelance knight, Ronald would rid the villages of their scourge, with Drake’s help, of course. If no monstrous trouble endangered the villages, Drake could provide a dragon scare. After a fierce battle, Ronald would appear victorious. The brave knight would collect his bounty, and the two would vanish with none the wiser. \nThe next day, looking much like a stout knight, Ronald rode back into the village to see if his services were needed. Ronald checked into the local inn. A few days away from his constant companion and in the company of other humans helped the boy adjust to a future amongst real people. This was a quiet village. Far enough away from the nearest castle, they were not affected by the hustle and bustle of the kingdom’s suburb life. The land was mainly comprised of crop and grazing fields. There were no bridges with trolls. The hills and caves have been ogre free for over a decade, and the only werebeast was a werecat who happened to be the town’s rat catcher. Ronald figured he would have to call on his friend’s services to provide income. A flyover by Drake, igniting a tree or two usually did the trick. The monstrous aerial show was never intended to cause harm. No livestock or agriculture was ever harmed in the display. After a week of perusing the bookstore, eating towny food, and flirting with Lidia, the innkeeper’s clever but somewhat awkward daughter, Ronald signaled to his partner that it was time to put on a show. \nThe performance was always the same. Drake would start out soaring high overhead. With large, lazy circles, the dragon would slowly get closer to the village. After a few hours of the menacing flyovers, Drake would roar his fierce dragon cries. By this time, he usually had the villagers’ attention. Then, as a grand show of force, Drake would ignite a tree in town. He chose a stately oak near the inn for his pyrotechnic display. The tree exploded from a well-placed fireball. Oak leaves and acorns showered the villagers, and Drake flew off to get ready. As predicted, the town’s mayor agreed with Sir Ronald the Brave’s terms to rid their lands of the threat of dragons. The bold knight, armed with sword and lance mounted on his somewhat noble steed and rode off to find the beast. \n“Nice show!” Ronald exclaimed, “It took only a minute for the mayor to find and hire me after your attack.” Hiding in their cave, Drake and Ronald went through one last dress rehearsal of their choreographed dragon-slaying performance. “I’ll let them know tonight that I have found your lair. Tomorrow morning I’ll be back for our showdown.” “You better make it noon.” replied Drake, “I still have to pack for our upcoming journey.” Now armed with his theatrical weaponry, Ronald hurried back to the village. “See you tomorrow, Drake.” called the knight as he galloped away. \nRonald returned to town to inform the mayor that he had located the dragon. “Tomorrow, I will confront the monster. Its lair is no more than two leagues away. If I set out in the morning, I’ll be there by noon.” The mayor, not wanting to give up the ransom money without proof and excited for a show, let the knight know that he would be joining him. Many other villagers were also keen on witnessing a display of the knight’s abilities and made plans to attend the fight. To Ronald’s delight, the innkeeper and his family were included. “Tomorrow, our young protector shall ensure the safety of our village!” announced the mayor. “But tonight we party!” And party they did. In the years that Ronald and Drake have used this Knight for Hire routine, this was the wildest sendoff bash ever thrown. But as in all good things, this too ended, but not before a good luck peck on the cheek from Lidia. Ronald had difficulty sleeping that night, still buzzing with excitement from the kiss and his upcoming performance. \nThe next morning, Ronald, a bit worn out from the festivities, rode out to Drake’s cave. The mayor and several cartfuls of villagers followed close behind. As the large crowd found a safe place to watch, the brave knight, fully armored and atop his steed, approached the mouth of the cave. In a booming theatrical voice Ronald called out to his friend. “Hey, dragon! You have threatened the village long enough! Come out and prepare to meet your end!” At this, a large fireball exploded at the mouth of the cave. The audience of villagers “OOhed” and AAhed, and Ronald’s horse reared up dramatically. Drake emerged. His scales were gleaming from a fresh coat of scale polish. Some villagers pointed, some hid, and someone screamed. Armed with his lance, Sir Ronald the Brave charged into battle. A well-placed swing of Drake’s tail separated the rider from his mount, and the horse galloped away to safety. The knight landed with a well-padded thud and airbag cushioning protecting him. Ronald was rather proud of the safety features he designed for his armor. \nGetting to his feet, the crowd cheered as Ronald drew his sword. “Let’s make this look good.” whispered Drake. The two combatants advanced. Blade met claw, and sparks flew. Drake had attached flints to the underside of his claws to add special effects. Knight and dragon circled each other. They exchanged thrusts and parries. Each attack was perfectly timed and well-rehearsed. Ronald was getting ready for the grand finale. “Oooh, Ronald,” Lidia sang out and blew a kiss. Turning red, the knight stumbled on his approach. Tripping over a rock, his spring-loaded sword slipped out of his hand and bounced off a nearby tree. At the same time, a pouch of fake blood on the dragon’s underside popped and let out a red geyser. “What is going on!” shouted the mayor.\nThe audience felt angry and betrayed. There was also the matter of a dragon to take care of. The villagers grabbed what they could, arming themselves with sticks and stones. Yelling loudly, they began to charge. Ronald got to his feet and jumped between the angry mob and his best friend. “Wait! Please don’t kill him. This dragon is my friend.” the embarrassed knight shouted. Everyone froze. Ronald took off his helmet and addressed the mob. “I am sorry I lied to you. I want to introduce you to my dragon. This is Drake. Say ‘hello’ Drake.” The dragon bowed a deep and regal bow to the stunned audience. Still holding their attention, Ronald continued. “I was orphaned as a child, and it was Drake who raised me.”\nRonald told his whole sad story of being left with only the chickens. He told of Drake’s patience and understanding. He went on to talk about his education in the sciences, literature, and theater under the dragon’s guidance. Ronald spoke of love and praise for his mentor and friend. His speech ended with, “I am truly sorry we deceived you. If you let us go in peace, I promise to repay you for your kindness and my stay at your inn.” Not a single eye was without tears, Drake’s included. The mayor stood silently for a minute, looking between the dragon and the young knight. Finally, he cleared his throat and addressed everyone. “As mayor, I am always looking to make our town a better place. When opportunity knocks, I answer. And today, I think we have a great opportunity for everyone here. I want to hire both of you to perform your act. Of course, we’ll need to build seating, and we can sell refreshments.” The performing combatants quickly agreed.\nThe town celebrated, and Roland and Drake were welcomed with open arms. Plans were drawn up for stadium seating around the cave. Two bits for open seating and four for the box seats above the mouth. Two refreshment tents were constructed to sell ale and turkey legs. Eventually, the innkeeper invented the deep-fried breaded sausage on a stick, and a third tent went up. The town sent notices all over the kingdom advertising seven weekly performances. Every evening, Wednesday through Sunday, with matinee showings over the weekends. Lidia was soon added to the act as the damsel in distress. The town’s mayor also contracted with Drake as potential security if any threatening creature should show up. None ever did. \nEveryone lived happily ever after. Lidia and Ronald soon got married. Eventually, they decided to settle down and have kids. When Drake got too old for the performance schedule, the town hired new performers to continue the shows. Ronald and Lidia took over the inn when the innkeeper and his wife retired and moved to the next-door cottage. Missing the role of mentor and teacher, Drake founded an academy that focused on the sciences, and theater, open to humans and dragons. Ronald and Drake still met regularly to discuss and debate everything from science to the arts." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Little Green Apples\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1120\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a romance that involves one partner saving the other from a fire." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My bedside phone rang persistently at 11 o'clock in the evening, rousing me from sleep.\nI got out of bed, grumbling. \"Hello\"\"\n\"Hello, Sheila, It's me, William,\" he answered.\n\"William, do you realize what time it is?What could be so important and so urgent that couldn't wait till tomorrow to be discussed?\"\n\"I'm sorry. Sweetheart. But the National Weather Service had just issued a Red Flag warning and Fire Weather Watches to alert fire departments of the onset or possible onset of critical weather and dry conditions that could lead to rapid or dramatic increases in wildfire activity. I just wanted to warn you so that you could stay safe.\"\n\"Oh, Will, I am so sorry for being rude to you. Please forgive me,\" I apologized.\n\"It's all right, Sheila. I have to go now. Bye, Stay safe...for me, he added for good measure.\n\"Bye, be safe, yourself,\" I said.\nI chose not to go back to bed. I started preparing for a possible disaster. I roused my driver, my two nurses and cook.\n\"Wake up, Carlos, Lila, Elisa, Eldon. Wake up, William had warned me that there would be wildfires in this area in the next 24 to 72 hours. We have to get out of here!\"\n\"Lila, get the little green apples out of bed and in the ambulance.\" Little green apples is what I had referred to the orphans in my orphanage. Why green apples? I loved the color green. They denote growth, nurture, life. These green apples will soon be red apples, ready for picking. If I had nurtured them well and in godly counsel, they would grow up to be good boys and girls and assets to the society. It would only be then I could pat myself on the back and say I have done a good job raising them well.\nI am a pediatrician and had worked in the children's ward as soon as I graduated medicine and obtained my license. I saw how little babies were abandoned by their mothers because they were just teens who knew nothing about raising children. Or babies left behind by a mother who died giving birth to him or her. Or babies of drug addicts who could not even recognie their images in the mirror because they were so intoxicated.\nI am an only child. Mom died giving birth to me. Dad was devastated by het death and wouldn't eat or sleep for months lamenting her death. One time my grandfather scolded him, \"Shape up. You cannot live like that forever. Move on!'\"\nOf course no one can fully plumb the mystery of another person's heart. You will have to really understand him to empathize with him.\nEventually, Dad got over his sorrow and answered an ad to be a Middle Eastern king's personal physician. That was 27 years ago, long before I had become a physician myself. The king appreciated Dad so much that he volunteered to put up Green Apples Farm for me.\n\"Doctor, we are ready to ship out,\" my driver said, interrupting my musings. I waved a hand at him to indicate I understood and it was okay.\nSuddenly, Elisa came running and stumbled on her words, Doc Sheila, I cannot find Herbie. I woke him up, dressed him and told him to sit down while I atttended to his room mates. Now he is gone!\"\n\"Goodness, where could he be?\" i cried. Herbie was the schizophrenic little boy who was abandoned by his teenaged mother as a baby.\nSuddenly, William blared a message on his megaphone. \"Sheila, are you missing a little boy I think he wants to stay behind and play but I don't see his playmate.\" Then he described exactly the spot where Herbie was playing.\nAnother message came from William. \"Sheila, your little green apple is now running aimlessly to nowhere. Could you send your driver to fetch him? In a few minutes I will be dumping a cloud of red retardant from the belly of my Gramman -TS 2A at the site of the forest fire to stamp things down before the ground firefighters arrive.\"\nAlarmed, I ran to the direction William had described, unmindful of my safety, risking my life for one of my little helpless green apples.\n\"Hey! Don't do that!\" William called out from his palne. Let someone else do it!\"\nBut I heard nothing of what he said. I just ran and ran and ran to save Herbie.\nWilliam had to force land his plane in a clearing and ran after me. \"That was a stupid thing to do!\" He chided me as he grabbed me by my waist. I chose not to retaliate. I had to admit he was right.\nAt last the ground firefighters arrived.But instead of training their hose at the fire they trained them on Capt. William, Little Herbie and me. We three were soaked but alive.. The little green apples clapped their little hands in jubilation, happy and grateful that their captain, their doctor and their playmate were alive.\nWilliam went back to his plane and lifted off to finish his job. We loaded some of the little green apples in the coaster because the ambulance was a bit crowded already.\n\"Herbie, that was not a good thing you did back there, You realize that?\" I said as evenly as I could muster. He said he was sorry. He just wanted to play and say goodbye to his friend. The others looked at each other quizically.. But they understood, of course and said nothing,\nNews of the incident went viral and reached dad in the king's palace. He asked for a few weeks leave from the king . But instead of letting him go alone, the king opted to join him in his journey to the Philippines.\n\"I want to meet your daughter. I think she is doing a great job of runing the orphanage. I admire her a lot,\" he said.\nAs soon as they touched down, the king instructed his personal driver to take them straight to the Green Apples Farm. The driver was only too glad to oblige.\nI showed the king around my facility, rather, his facility and mine -afterall he financed its construction and maintenance to this day.\n\"Allah must really love your green apples so much He spared their home from the wildfire,\" the king observed.\"You have done a great job, I am very impressed, Doctor Sheila,\" He went on. \"And because of that, I am making a hefty donation so that you could expand your facility. That way, you could accomodate many more babies.\"\n\"Thank you, Your Majesty, I am very grateful,\"\" I said bowing my head in respect. The end." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: My Mom\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1228\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who’s been sent to boarding school." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"I enrolled you in a boarding school.\" When I think back to the day I heard my mother say those words, I have so many so many emotions. I had no idea that she was even considering this and the fact that she just enrolled me without even discussing it with me made me furious.\nMy father passed away when I was a baby, so it has always been just me and my mom. We were very close. We did everything together. Every Saturday we sat down and made a menu of what we were going to cook that week. Then we went grocery shopping together and bought all of the ingredients. We spent so much time preparing meals and baking. We always went out to lunch after church on Sunday and almost every Friday night we would pig out on some of our baked goods and watch a movie. Then when I was 15, she started dating Ralph. Around that same time she got a huge promotion at work and started having to work longer hours. She started going out to dinner with Ralph on Friday nights. and a lot of evening I prepared the dinner by myself because she was working late. I guess things were very hectic for her with dating, demands at work and a teenage daughter.\nShe told me that she had always wished she could afford to send me to this very prestige school and now with her job promotion she could actually afford it. She seemed so excited for me. But I felt in my heart that she just wanted me out of her way so she could do more fun things with Ralf and focus more on her career. My feelings were so hurt and I felt like she wasn't even listening to me when I kept trying to tell her I didn't want to go. I couldn't believe that she enrolled me and was going to send me and that I didn't have any say so on the subject, before I knew it I was packing my bags. I can remember crying as I put my clothes and Patch, my favorite stuffed bear into a suitcase. I remember her coming into my room all cheerful and so excited when I was feeling so upset.\nIt was a two hour drive to the campus and all the way there, she kept telling me how this was going to be so good for me. \"This school will prepare you for college. They have the highest academic scores in all of the state. They will work with you individually and find out your strengths, so that you get on a perfect career path.\"\nShe kept rambling on and on while I sat quietly, thinking how can she do this to me. I didn't have a lot of good friends but I did have some friends that I didn't even get to say good bye to. I worried that the kids at this school might be a bunch of rich girl's and I might not fit in at all. When I told my concerns to my mom, she said, \"Oh honey, you are going to fit in just fine. When I enrolled you they asked me a lot of questions about you so that they could match you up with the perfect roommate. I think you are going to love it and be so happy at this school.\" I was thinking that its more like you are going to love having me out of your hair, so that you have more time for Ralph.\nWe pulled up to the building and I was overwhelmed with how huge the place was. I was so nervous. My mom helped me unpack in my dorm and before my roommate even arrived, my mom left because she had a big meeting to get to. I sat on the bed wiping tears off my face feeling abandoned and frightened.\nThat was 48 years ago. My mother passed away last week. I'm sitting on her bedroom floor reading from her journal. As I read what she wrote on the day that she dropped me off at the boarding school, I cant stop crying and I feel so much love for her. She wrote, \"After I dropped Jane off at the school, I cried all the way back to the office. I looked in my rear view mirror and I had mascara smeared all over my face. I couldn't go into that meeting. Not because of the way I looked but because of the way I felt. I missed my sweet little girl so much already. I took this promotion so that I could afford to send her there and now I don't know how I am going to go on without her by my side. I hate my job and this promotion is only going to make it more stressful. I know it is going to be worth it because now Jane is going to have the very best education. This school is known for having experts who are trained to find their students best quality's and strengths. Then they get them on the right path. My little girl is the most important thing in the world to me and I want the best life possible for her. I don't want her to have to dread going to work everyday. I hope that they help her to find a career that is perfect for her and that she never has to dread going to work.\"\nAs I sit here on her bedroom floor reading this, my heart is filled with so much love for my mother. I remember that day as if it was yesterday. All these years I really thought the reason she sent me there was to get me out of her hair, so that she could have more time for her personal life. It turns out she wasn't being selfish at all, she was being completely selfless.\nThe boarding school turned out to be awesome. My roommates name was Zhe, she was from China. We became great friends and still are. The school offered classes in Mandarin, which I learned to speak fluently with the help of my new best friend. I got my first job as a translator for court cases and documents. I loved my job. I met my husband at work, he was a just starting out as a lawyer. The two of us hit it off right away. Now he is an advocate for the Asian community and I am his translator. We have 2 awesome kids. I sent both of my children to that same boarding school. I cant imagine what my life would be like if my mom hadn't done what she did.\nI'm so happy that my mother lived long enough to see that her hard work to send me to that school had paid off. She was able to see that I am having a great life and a great career because of her and I never ever dread going to work. The last thing I said to her before she passed away was \"Wo ai ni.\" which is I love you in Mandarin. I thought those were the very best last words but now I wish my last words would have been, xiexie which means thank you." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: 'Charted' Territory\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1314\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who’s had their future foretold from birth — but isn’t sure if they believe it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trigger warning: Suicide\nPink sunlight flooded the room, caressing every surface with its light, rosy fingertips.\nZaneerah stared out of the open window, hands fidgeting with the dull sand-colored quilt on her bed.\nBehind her sat her mom, who held a wooden comb and a piece of Zaneerah’s hair.\nThe brush connected with Zaneerah’s hair in soft strokes, brushing each piece with such delicacy-.\nZaneerah cried out as the hairbrush discovered a tangle in her silky smooth hair.\n“Sorry, Zan,” her mother said, her eyebrows furrowed and her full, red lips pursed.\nBlinking away the tears that sprouted in the corners of her eyes, Zaneerah nodded and gave her mom a closed-lip smile.\nThe silence in the air thickened and Zaneerah choked on it as the clock ticked loudly. She felt more uncomfortable than if she’d waved at someone who wasn’t waving at her.\nSo she tried to break the silence.\n“Hey, Ammi! Guess what?” she asked, grimacing as her mom pulled at the hairbrush which had gotten stuck in her charcoal-colored hair.\nHer mother stopped brushing and set the brush down next to her. “What, sweetie?”\n“You’re supposed to guess!” Zaneerah whined, her pure, rosy lips scrunched together.\n“I’m not good at that stuff, Zan.” her mother reminded Zaneerah, tapping her on the nose.\n“Okay, fine. I know what I want to be when I get older!”\nZaneerah shifted closer towards her mother, but she wore a big frown.\n“Zaneerah,” - her mom grabbed Zaneerah’s little hands and held them tight- “you don’t have to worry for your future.”\n“Why, Ammi?”\n“Because you need not think that hard, we’ve decided everything for you. It’d be a shame if it went to waste.” Zaneerah’s mom said with a smile.\n“Everything?”\n“Sit still now, میری محبت, so I can brush your hair.” her mother instructed, picking up the brush.\nZaneerah rubbed the wooden frame of her bed, sighed, and watched as the sky changed color.\n❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤\nThere she was.\nA man with a receding hairline stood at the door, sweat dripping down his red face.\n“He’s my...” Zaneerah said, turning back to her mother, who was staring at the man with a nonchalant expression.\nA few minutes ago, after cleaning the dishes and cooking, Zaneerah’s mom had come out of her room and she had on one of her most refined dresses.\nShe’d instructed Zaneerah to put on something nice.\nThis was her first time in the mardānah, but her mother had assured her that everything was okay.\n“He’s your husband.”\nZaneerah’s mother hugged her daughter, smiling at the man who had to be at least five years older than herself.\nThe man grinned at Zaneerah. She avoided the man’s eyes, feeling as though she were pizza on a fancy platter.\n“Pleased to make my future wife, my name’s Hamood Farooqi.” the man said, holding his hand out to Zaneerah’s mother.\n“Um... hello, I have a question.”\n“Ask away,” Hamood said, his eyes glued to Zaneerah.\n“How, um...” - Zaneerah stopped, not wanting to sound rude, and glanced at her mother, who nodded - “are you older than me?”\n“Um...” Hamood mocked Zaneerah, “I’m 37.”\nAh, so he’s... what’s 37 minus 14? Oh, he’s 23 years older than I am. Great, wow.\n“So, how did this,” - Zaneerah motioned to both her and Hamood - “happen?” she asked, ignoring the ‘what’s-wrong-with-you’ glare her mother was giving her.\n“Your uncle, he committed a crime, and... let’s just say he owes us. So, you’re my prize.” Zaneerah’s froze, her eyes widening.\nOh. My. Gosh. What the hell is wrong with him?!\n“We’ll be leaving now,” Hamood said, grabbing Zaneerah’s wrist.\nZaneerah felt the urge to scream for help as soon as she saw Hamood's gray eyes glaring at her.\n“Um, no. I-I’m good. I have... school tomorrow?”\nZaneerah’s mother nodded slowly and grabbed Zaneerah’s wrist.\n“She has to pack and finish her studies, don’t worry,” she told Hamood, who flashed her a suspicious look, “school ends tomorrow.”\n❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤\n“Zan,” Zaneerah’s mother said, walking behind her. “Can I brush your hair?”\nZaneerah turned to face her mother, her arms crossed. “It’s fine, I could brush it.”\n“It’s fine, I’ll do it,” her mother pleaded, “it’ll be just like old times.” She had a weak smile on her face.\n“Alright,” Zaneerah said, walking into her bedroom. “When’s Dad coming home?”\n“Soon, sweetie.”\nZaneerah’s dark brown eyes widened, and she said, “So, does he know about... this?”\n“Yes,” her mother answered calmly.\n Zaneerah nodded, pressing her full, peach pink lips into a thin line.\n“Don’t be too hard on him, okay?” her mother asked, squeezing her shoulder. “He had no choice, and he loves you.”\n“Fine, sure. Whatever. Choices are everywhere. Can’t we just move or something?”\nZaneerah’s mother sighed and patted her daughter on the back. “Sometimes it’s not that easy, پیاری.”\n❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤\n“Now we’ll be leaving, right, Zaneerah?” Hamood said with a shark’s grin, grabbing Zaneerah’s wrist even tighter than before as if making sure there were no interruptions at that time.\nZaneerah’s mother aimed a tight smile at Hamood. “Your wedding is in a week, congratulations!”\nZaneerah’s eyes widened, and she felt numb as Hamood dragged her to his silver Audi A8.\n“Love you, Ammi!” she cried out with tears in her eyes and the man forced her into his car.\nHer mother waved before closing the door.\nAs soon as she was inside the car, she heard a click. Her heart stopped.\nAre the doors locked?\nShe tested the door, pulled with all her might, yet it didn’t open. Hamood opened the door to the front seat and Zaneerah froze, jumping in her seat.\n“Listen, girlie,” Hamood said, seizing her chin and inspecting her face. “You’re pretty, I could get some money outta you,” he muttered, not talking to her. He caressed her back, and that single action sent shivers down Zaneerah’s spine. “I want kids.”\nZaneerah’s eyes widened. “What the hell?”\nHamood grinned in a deranged way, letting go of her and starting the car.\n“You’re my wife, it shouldn’t be a problem!”\n“I’m not your wife yet.” Zaneerah reminded him, her arms crossed. “Plus, I never agreed to this marriage.”\n“That’s the good thing about this. Nobody needs your approval. I’ll use you ‘till you’re worn out. That’s what you’re made for.”\nZaneerah snarled at Hamood, her nostrils flaring. She crossed her arms and turned away. The rest of the car ride was silent.\n❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤\nOnly one bedroom and the house itself was quieter than dust. From the outside, the house looked alive with all the colors, but the inside was one step above emptiness.\n“Is there another bed or something?” Zaneerah asked, searching for another soft mattress.\n“No, it’s this or the floor.”\n“I’ll take the floor.”\n“You’re going to sleep on the bed, honey. I’ll kill you if you don’t.” Hamood had tried to make his sentence sound humorous, but it just made Zaneerah want to scream and cry louder.\nSo she slept in the one bed. The night was more silent than the car ride, which Zaneerah hadn’t thought was possible. Even worse, Hamood’s arm was wrapped around her waist tightly.\n❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤\nThe cold metal pinched at her feet, but it was better than the last few weeks of her life, because she’d been with Hamood.\nEveryone referred to her as Mrs. Farooqi. She was only 14, and Zaneerah had wanted to help animals.\nShe was married now, and Hamood had no intention of letting her pursue her dreams.\nZaneerah took a step closer. Closer to the end. To freedom.\nThat’s what I want. To be free.\nShe took another step, gasping as she did so. She plunged to the ground like a bird with broken wings. Yet she was soaring." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Destiny\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 2005\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who’s had their future foretold from birth — but isn’t sure if they believe it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Raghav, the go-getting young man in her hobby class, wanted Rashmi to introduce him to her beautiful classmate Akira. “What is the point?”, Rashmi warned him. “Her parents are devout Tamil brahmins and she will be allowed to marry only someone whose horoscope matches hers.” Unlike most Indians who have their horoscope prepared at birth, Rashmi did not have one since her progressive parents did not believe in horoscopes. They belonged to a reformist sect of Hinduism that viewed Indian astrology as an irrational knowledge system and believed that one could shape one’s own destiny. Rashmi grew up with her black and white new-born photograph behind which her grandfather had carefully noted the date of her birth rather than a janampatri, as the horoscope is called in Hindi.\nBut Rashmi’s’ grandmother Sitawati secretly continued to entertain faqirs or mendicants in her courtyard in adherence to the folk religion she had practised before her husband had converted to the new reformist movement. Once her husband had left for work, she let in the old faqir begging for alms in the back street through the back door and softly cajoled him to foretell the new-born’s future. The old faqir, after relishing the delicious breakfast Sitawati had placed before him reverentially, agreed to read the new-born Rashmi’s palm. “This daughter born on the auspicious day of Durga Ashtami will be as strong as the goddess Durga and will not need any man’s support,” the faqir declared. Unable to imagine a life for a woman without a man, Sitawati became distraught, “But babaji, does this mean that she will never get married?” The faqir reassured her, “She will have enough money and a comfortable life. Marriage enchains one.” He made his way out to seek alms in the house next door. Sitawati kept pondering over the prophecy but did not dare to share it with anyone, not even with her daughter Rita, who was, at that moment, having a bath.\nRita, who had graduated with a bachelor’s degree in science a week before she got married, had no inkling about the faqir’s predictions and raised Rashmi following our own rational scientific outlook. Observing Rashmi’s inquisitive mind and hunger for learning, Rita encouraged her to excel in academics. She released her daughter from domestic duties that young Indian women are trained in from their early childhood so that Rashmi could pursue a career of her choice. Rita herself was forced to get married before she had turned nineteen and did not want her daughter to go through the same ordeal. Besides, Rashmi’s brown skin would come in the way of her finding a good match in their ‘fairness obsessed’ community. Scoffing at the superficially modern female students in her school who observed fasts, visited temples and rituals like traditional Hindu women to pray for a suitable husband, Rashmi remained oblivious of horoscopes until the family moved to the South. A near fatal accident had their neighbour, professing a deep interest in palmistry, read Rashmi’s palm and identifying the rupture in her lifeline around the age of 16, exactly the year Rashmi met with an accident. Peering deeply into Rashmi’s right palm, he comforted the anxious Rita that no harm will come to her in the next forty years, after which she detected another break in Rashmi’s lifeline.\nA bright student who excelled in academics, Rashmi gained admission in an elite college and was astounded to find that her wealthy classmates from trading families fasted every Monday and visited the Shiva temple so that they could be blessed with a good husband. Her roommate, a plump fair Nepali girl, was a strong believer in what the stars foretold according to the western calendar. The Nepali lass never began her day without consulting Linda Goodman’s sun signs of which she possessed a paperback version. Rashmi herself would sneak a quick look into Peter Vidal’s weekly predictions in the Indian Express every Sunday but could not believe that anyone could began their day only after consulting their daily horoscope.\nReading the palm is a clever ploy used by young Indian men to hold young women’s hands, strictly forbidden in the years Rashmi was growing up. Rashmi was offered her share of palm readings by male admirers that she clearly saw through and refused to extend her palm. Besides, she did not need to know when she was going to get married as she had already found her true love and was soon to have a fairy-tale wedding. However, the cracks began to show shortly after their marriage as they had been young, immature, and probably not ready for marriage.\nShe came to know about a South Indian fellow student called Kedar who cast horoscopes as a hobby. She had caught him staring at her several times and he would often pay her extravagant compliments. She was initially reluctant to take up his offer of casting her horoscope. But her curiosity about what the coming years had in store for her got the better of her and she promised to share with him details about her exact time of birth after checking it with her mother. “Ma, I have heard everyone say that it was at the crack of dawn. At what time exactly was I born?”, she made a frantic call to her mother. “Why do you want to know this all of a sudden?” Rita appeared surprised but informed Rashmi that she was born when it was ten minutes to 5 a.m. “Will I earn enough money? Will I get a good job?” Rashmi asked Kedar jocularly. Kedar promised to come back with her horoscope a week later. She spent sleepless nights worrying about what the future held for her. At last, the long wait was over. Kedar walked into her office with a wide grin and handed over her horoscope to her. She tried to focus her gaze on his bald pate as she heard him say as if through a haze, “You are going to earn enough money and will not be dependent on anyone.” “That is wonderful,’’ she thanked him thinking he looked as wise as the sage Chanakya. He swallowed and continued, “But your horoscope shows a separation between you and your husband.” Rashmi caught him leering at her and, as soon as he left, sat down holding her head in her hands. She looked up only when her best friend entered her room asking in her high-pitched voice, “Are you all right?”\n“Kedar just brought me my horoscope and it shows some problems with my marriage,” Rashmi mumbled. “Why did you have to share your details with Kedar? Didn’t you know he also practices the magical art of Tantra and might tamper with your horoscope?” But what was done could not be undone. Kedar’s leering smile with the fateful prophecy kept appearing in all of Rashmi’s nightmares. But all her fears vanished at daybreak. Her husband was still very much in love with her and her marriage appeared to be intact.\nOnce again, a few years later, they were going through a rough patch and there was a self-styled palmist at hand, a middle aged South Indian staff member, Mr Iyer, who read everyone’s palms during the lunch hour. She agreed to show him hers on one of the days when he appeared to be relatively free. “You are in the wrong room. You should be elsewhere. In a different profession. This is not the right career for you.” He observed. “Your life is good. All your problems in life are due to your husband. His family has not made offerings to their ishtdeva (family god) and you are suffering as a consequence. She promptly came home and reported it to her husband’s mother, who, like her own mother, practiced a progressive form of Hinduism and was deeply offended to learn that Rashmi’s problems could have anything to do with her darling son. Her husband’s father snorted when she mentioned the family god. She reluctantly agreed to accompany another colleague to the house of a young astrologer who cast her horoscope. “You have the raja yoga. It is very rare. You will earn name and fame in the next ten year, “he smiled benignly in the expectation of a hefty fee. “But after that that … “. The astrologer’s assistant chimed in to display his knowledge but was hushed in mid-sentence by his senior. Rashmi went home and noticed that she was a manglik, which meant that she was destined not to be married. But she, ignorant of her stars, had defied her destiny and got married to a man of her choice. She also noticed that the astrologer had not made any predictions after age 60 to which his assistant had drawn his attention,\nSince her husband continued to remain affectionate and caring over the years that followed, Rashmi forgot about Kedar’s horoscope, Mr Iyer’s warning and the young astrologer’s truncated horoscope until she found that her husband, who would share every detail of his life with her, had grown increasingly secretive. White lies like his parents not wanting her to attend his grandmother’s cremation and he himself giving it a skip that came to her knowledge through the guests made her wonder if anything was wrong. Unaware of what was going on in his mind, she began to read both their weekly horoscopes in the newspapers very carefully. With none to guide her, Rashmi began to rely on horoscopes to guess what he was planning to do. She realised that she had become a horoscope addict. Rashmi’s mornings would begin with consulting the horoscope on what the day had in store for her and she would act according to the leads provided by the astrologer. This went on for a decade with her checking on how many career moves, romances, change of location were predicted for her. When the inauspicious events did not come true, Rashmi would heave a sigh of relief while diligently following the remedies suggested by astrologers to avert misfortune. Her week, month and year was regulated by fasts, prayers, donations suggested by the gurus. She had become a true sanatani (orthodox) Hindu like her college mates observing all the rituals that would help to ward away evil. Rashmi’s house help would egg her on adding new rituals dedicated to tribal and local gods and goddesses.\nThis is when she came across the guru on YouTube who had his own channel. He had a wickedly Brahminical features and reminded her of someone, possibly a staff worker in her father’s factory, with a similar surname. For some wild reason, she began to follow his predictions uploaded on YouTube almost daily, particularly the annual forecast. Her annual forecast for the coming year appeared to be very promising, according to the YouTube astrologer’s predictions, which would bring her wealth, professional success, and love. But, he warned, all those born under the sun sign had to be particularly careful from mid-October to mid-November. The sun sign was under the influence of death and forbode the death of those born under the sign while assuring his viewers that its evil effects would be felt more by the elderly in their 80s and above. Rashmi was several decades younger. Why did she need to worry?\nShe had almost forgotten the inauspicious month until the pandemic struck the world. None was immune now from the sign of death, irrespective of their sun sign. Only the month differed. The words of the guru began to ring in her ears. “On 23rd October, Venus, the lord of your sun sign and life will be in the descendant. Remember not to drive fast, don’t forget to take your medicines, watch out if you break into a sweat. It is my duty to warn you.” It was October. Rashmi has been suffering from a mysterious ailment for the last few months. Was her end going to come soon? She asked herself and resigned herself to what the stars held in store for her." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Human Cycle\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1580\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character preparing to go into stasis for decades (or centuries)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I sat in the waiting room, mentally preparing myself for my life’s greatest adventure. I had already physically prepared for what will happen today, but no amount of meditation has eased my nerves for the moment ahead.\n“Julieta Bautista?” I hear my name called and I stand, shakily to my feet. The woman smiles. Her cold violet eyes contrast with her warm inviting smile. “We’re ready for you.” I nod my head trying to return a smile, but failing.\nShe leads me down a long plain corridor. The overhead lamps swinging with the tremors of the ground. A large quake happens and we grab onto the handles in the walls to steady ourselves. Three months… That’s all we have left here, I think to myself. I exhale a shuddering breath I didn’t realize I was holding. We finally reach a small room and she sits me down in a chair, telling me the doctor will be with me shortly. She leaves the room with the same cold eyed smile she greeted me with. She’s jealous. At least, I think so. \nA few moments later and the door swung open and a tall man with dark skin and silver blonde hair stepped through. “Ah, Julieta. It’s lovely to meet you.” There was no warmth in his words.\n“We’re going to start with a series of questions. But before we get started, I want to make sure you understand your position in this. You were selected to be one of the twenty humans from the Philippine islands who will be going into stasis. Part of the selection process includes being of pure heritage, which as you know, is incredibly rare. Less than one percent of the world’s population has pure human DNA.” I swallowed hard and remembered my small island of Palawan. “We are looking for an even number of male and female humans of reproductive age for the task of repopulating the New Earth. We have tried to find pure humans from each country with such a heritage for stasis. The Guidance would like to preserve as much of the human archaic history as possible and needs cooperation from as many countries as we can get. This is on a volunteer basis, but your cooperation would benefit the New Earth and the many generations to come. Is this something you wish to continue with?”\n“Yes.” I struggled to meet his bright green eyes. The fear was overwhelming. But, I knew I had no other choice.\n“Part of your preliminary screening that you had last month involved running DNA tests to confirm you are in fact one hundred percent human and to determine your specific ethnic origins. Your test results confirmed you are pure human, and of Filipino descent. Does that sound right?”\n“Yes.”\n“And you are fluent in the dying language of Tagalog?” He said, skeptically. Speaking any language other than the Universal was a very rare skill. It’s hard to believe that long ago, the ancients used to speak thousands of languages throughout the world. It wasn’t until one group of people invaded the others, that these languages began to die out until almost all that was left was the Universal.\n“Yes.” He raised an eyebrow at my answer but kept his doubts to himself. I was surprised he accepted my answer without a demonstration. For all he knows, I could be lying to get this position but I knew better than to do that.\n“What is your date of birth, weight, and height?”\n“July eighteen, 3042. I am thirty two terrons and seventy nine durons tall.”\n“Good physical conditions for this trip. Any history of diseases in your family such as heart disease, cancer, or the morose sickness?”\n“No, no family. No history that I could tell you.” He raises his eyebrows and scribbles something on a chart. “Will that affect anything?”\n“Not necessarily. You are in good physical health at the moment. Well enough for stasis. Family history is recorded and sent with each person in stasis for their records in the future. Have you ever been married, pregnant, or have a condition that will prevent you from bearing children?”\n“No, never married, pregnant, and no condition.” Tears welled in my eyes as the reality of what my future will look like. I tried to keep it together and remind myself that this was for humanity’s sake.\n“Thank you Ms. Bautista. Lastly, you understand that if you choose to accept this position, you will undergo stasis for decades, possibly centuries?”\nMy breath caught in my chest as I thought of the family I never knew. Having been raised without parents, I lived in a small orphanage in Palawan till I came of age. No one knew who my parents were. I was given the surname of ‘Bautista’ after some Baptist. Everyone at the orphanage thought I was strange with my dark hair, skin, and eyes. The other children from the orphanage were different from me with hair and eyes of many colors. I was the odd one. Now that oddity has given me this opportunity.\n“Alright. We have all we need to know. Sylla will be back to take you into the stasis chamber. After you are placed under stasis, your pod will be transported to the Dome and be prepared for launch to the New Earth. The journey is estimated to take 7 decades, but the Dome could encounter obstacles that would delay the journey. I’ll need you to sign this form before we put you under.” A tremor shakes the room, hiding the shiver that runs through my body.\nHe rolls to the counter and grabs a form. He hands it to me with a sterile bloodpen. He wants me to sign with my blood. I press my thumb on the side of the pen, feeling the small sting of the needle as it samples my blood to use as ink. After I sign, he bandages the small wound, thanks me for my cooperation and leaves the room. I sit there for a few minutes before the woman returns to lead me to the chamber.\nInside the chamber it is cold and dark. When I was selected for this position, I was instructed to leave all possessions behind. I would be entering the pod with nothing but the clothes I came in. Everything I would need on the New Earth would be brought along in the Dome.\nI climbed into the pod and arranged my limbs like she instructed me to. I whispered a silent prayer, hoping that this would work out. I looked hard at the woman whose cold eyes would be the last I see on this planet. The last for many, many years. I knew she wanted to be in my place. So many people coveted this position. Everyone wanted a way out of this doomed planet. Almost everyone was unqualified. I accepted this position for the sake of preserving my ancestry, my humanity. Our current Earth only has three months of habitable time left. The tremors are becoming more frequent, the seas have been restless, and much of the planet’s air has become polluted. Almost one year ago, the planet’s crust was predicted to crumble and sink into itself. When they found out, the Guidance formulated a plan that would revive the archaic Earth, save humanity, and start anew on another planet. Humans have destroyed what once was known as the blue planet. And now the planet is dying. Thankfully the astronomers have found a planet 50 lightyears away that is habitable for humans, but only pure humans were estimated to survive. Those with even the smallest trace of Other blood could not live through the gas and chambers used for stasis. Technology, although scarce for the general public, is well advanced for those who work for the Guidance and have a way to transport pure humans in Domes that are almost as fast as light. If everything goes well, my body will be in stasis for no longer than 60 years. If our Dome gets lost, it could take centuries for it to reroute to another habitable planet.. Do not think of those things… I stop the thought from flooding my mind. It was too late to turn back.\n“One more question while you get settled in. Do you wish to retain the memories of your previous life? Some people choose to have them erased so the memories of their former lives and the people they left behind do not negatively impact the futures they will have. The Dome will have details about your mission on the New Earth but memories of your life on this Earth will be gone. Do you wish to keep your memories?”\nThe woman was now adjusting a mask to go over my nose and mouth. A few minutes from now, gas will start to flow and the stasis will have begun.\n“Yes,” I say hesitantly through the mask. The woman nodded and closed the pod. A powerful tremor happens and for a moment, I felt a rise of panic set in but relief soon washed over me as the gas flowed through the mask. My eyelids grew heavy as I began to fall into a deep sleep with the rocking of the pod. I start my journey across space, leaving behind a crumbling wasteland with billions of inhabitants doomed to die. Humans have caused this, and now we are doomed to repeat this cycle again." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Me and those days\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1236\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who goes to — or purposefully avoids — their high school reunion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I'm talking about a memory from the history of my life that is still on the one hand obscure and on the other meaningful to me after 40 years later.Those days began with my father's voice, who woke up earlier every morning and made breakfast for everyone, and ended with his voice arguing with my mother.We went to class with great enthusiasm,Not to study and learn science, but to see, play and talk to my classmates, and of course there were people closer to me whom I liked.It was more fun for me to be in the crowd and see the behavior and hear what my friends were saying, than it was instructive,Most of the kids in my class liked me because I studied and got good grades, and I was clean and tidy.But unfortunately I did not feel that way about them,Except for a few of them, our teachers were people who were still in disbelief and confusion, because in my country there had just been a revolution, and they had entered a new path from a special and regular life, which was not known.On the other hand, in the news and among the family, there was talk of a revolutionary government and extensive changes that had taken place in government organizations.I, who had just become acquainted with the books on chemistry and physics and advanced mathematics, just memorized them, took the exam, and got a passing grade.But I never understood the true meaning of these sciences, not because they were difficult to learn or did not like, but because my focus was only on playing.In high school, unlike previous courses, I met people who were in the upper classes, and talked about politics, political philosophy, the state of the world, powerful and poor countries, and the importance of fighting for freedom.They all made political gestures, and at that time all the attention was on whether the left parties were telling the truth and were right for the country, such as Marxist, socialist and communist governments, or right-wing parties, and capitalist and democratic governments.I and most of my classmates at the time were thinking of nothing but football, reading textbooks, going to parties, and going to the gym.But some did not think so, and instead of a normal high school student, like a series of robots or dolls, they did things that were injected into their minds by adults.Although I had no study of society and political cultures, I did not feel good about those people, so I distanced myself from them.After a year, educational facilities, such as high schools and universities, became centers for recruiting political parties.And the more our teachers, and not all of them, told the students not to get involved and continue to study,But few listened, it can be said, that when a ship is sinking, and no one listens to the cries of the main captain, and whoever plays the role of captain, nothing can be done with a mistake, and only It must be said that history repeats itself, or even higher, the pre-designed plan of some was successfully executed to defeat others.At that time, fathers used to say to their children: Study, be a good child, do not lie, be polite, do not smoke, do not make friends with bad people, and become a doctor or an engineer, and the like of these models of education.But they did not know that this little information could not protect the thirsty and curious minds of young people from mental pollution.Of course, this is not surprising, because the grandparents did not teach them anything else,We have a proverb in Persian that says fish rot from their heads, not their tails.With the mentality I had in my simple, small family life, I kept myself mostly with painting, sports, and movies, because I had not learned any other way,I could easily understand how talented and young minds could easily be determined and perished by imported thoughts,Unfortunately, I could not figure out what I was talented at, or even what I was interested in.Worst of all: I had a teacher, Mr. Therapist, who talked to me during class breaks, and I asked him for guidance in thinking right and moving in high school to succeed.But unfortunately, despite listening to him carefully and with interest, I did not perform them, or I could not act,What was more interesting was that at that time I had good communication with most of my classmates, even those I did not like.We did not pay any attention to the analysis of their personality, and the social status of their family,I looked at everyone with a certain simplicity, and at that time I felt more relaxed and comfortable than I do today,Those days are like a big ambiguity for me, because at a certain age, there was no one to teach me how to think and learn properly, and I think I was asleep during those years, and that was a heavy sleep,And it was meaningful, because my life and the lives of millions of people like me were in a special position and path in the history of my country.Whatever I am today is the product of what has happened to me over the years.Sometimes I wished I could go back to those years, so that I could redefine life for myself, and sometimes I do not have the desire, but what makes me go back to the past are very disappointing predictions for The future, and the bad conditions of the present,Fears and worries are a deterrent, but not liking something or someone is a choice, looking at the past in some ways is unpleasant for me, and in most cases remains like flipping through the book of my life.I remember many days that were full of moments, and I spent a lot of time figuring out what to do with all these opportunities,I remember the decision days, and a few days later, the actions I wrote down to do, and for a few days I was faithful to them, but I went back to my first point, where I was again. I had to design another program, and to my surprise, I guided others carefully, giving them a plan and purpose, but I was incapable of managing and directing myself.I remember a movie from high school that kept me thinking for a while, and that was the story of the Titanic,Today, when I have largely distanced myself from past mistakes and bad habits,I have come to the conclusion that I am also a passenger on a Titanic, the only difference between this story and that incident is that the passengers of the Titanic at the time did not know and did not expect it to hit the iceberg, and To drown.But I know that soon we will collide and drown, the people on the upper floors of the ship will have a great chance to be saved, and unfortunately the rest, most of whom will lose their lives,In such a situation as clockwise, going back and forth may be because there is a chance of hope to prevent this accident, it is a possibility of hope that the wind does not blow so that the small candle flame goes out in the dark desert.The name of my high school was Bamdad, meaning morning light, and the thousands of hopes that shone in that light and went away." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Do Fireflies Go to School?\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2343\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story on the eve of the first day back at school." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Usually I love fireflies. Not tonight, though.\nUsually, when I see the world light up around me with tiny suns, it means the next chapter of today’ fun is beginning. For two months, it meant grabbing that old jar Dad gave me and stuffing my toes into my already-tied sneakers. Mom hates when I do that. She says I’m going to ruin my shoes, and that I already grow out of my shoes too fast as it is. But I still do it because I know she’ll still laugh as I run out the door, swinging and grabbing at every firefly in sight. Most bugs are hard to catch, but not fireflies. It’s like they’re in on the game, wanting to give me a chance to catch them. They don’t get scared away, either. Even when they see a giant hand flying up to capture them, still they wait there for me. By the end of the night, my jar looks like a little Christmas tree, minus the tree part. Just a bunch of twinkling lights floating around, waiting patiently until, as the last sign of real sunlight disappears, I unscrew the punctured cap and watch them disappear back into the night. They don’t mind, though. For two whole months, they’ve always come again to play the next day.\nNot tonight, though. Tonight, the fireflies coming out is like an alarm bell going off, telling everyone who sees them that another day is ending soon, and tomorrow is almost here. And today’s tomorrow is the worst tomorrow there is. Because today is summer, but tomorrow is school.\nI try to hurry outside without Mom or Dad seeing and wave the fireflies away. I beg them to please, please, please not come to play tonight. If Mom sees them, she’s going to know that the day is almost over, which means going to sleep, which means waking up, which means going to school, which means saying goodbye to summer. For a whole school year. That means no summer until I’m seven, and I just barely turned six. Maybe if I can get the fireflies to hide for tonight, I can figure out another way for us to play tomorrow without Mom and Dad seeing. Normally, I like that the fireflies just hang in the air, not running away. Tonight I’m annoyed, though. No matter how much I try to shoo them away, they just float there, waiting to be caught.\nAnd now it’s too late, because Mom is calling me back inside. She says I can’t catch fireflies tonight because I need to go to bed early. I try to ask her for just five more minutes, but she said I already got five more minutes. Even when I ask for just one more minute, she says no.\nUpstairs, I try to do everything as slowly as possible. I don’t really like brushing my teeth, but tonight I brush each tooth an extra two times to make sure it’s clean. I don’t really like washing my hair, but tonight I make sure to scrub every hair on my head until it stings a little. Mom says I’m dragging my feet, so she stays to make sure I get everything else done more quickly.\nMy stomach is starting to not feel so good now. It feels a little bit like when I ate too much cake at Alex’s party. It was chocolate cake, my favorite, so I took the biggest piece Alex’s mom cut. It had been the best cake in the whole wide world, with so much chocolate icing and even crushed chocolate cookies sprinkled on the whole thing. After everyone had gone back to playing, I snuck back to the leftover cake to have another piece. And then another one. My belly felt ready to explode that day, so Dad drove me home and talked about listening to my body when it tells me I’ve had enough. My stomach still had a little case of the gurgles by the time the sun said goodbye that night, so Dad carried me on his back while I grabbed little fireflies from the air. When I looked up at the red and purple sky, I pretended I had my own wings like my fireflies. Closing my eyes so tight they hurt, I asked Dad if I was glowing. He laughed his big laugh and said he saw my glow every time I smiled.\nWell, Dad, unlike with that chocolate cake, I’m listening to my body now. It sounds to me like it’s saying that I’ve had enough school and not enough summer. Maybe if I just get a little more summer, my stomach will feel better. I might need to stay home for a few more weeks, or months. Mom doesn’t agree, though. She says I’m just feeling nervous, but it’ll be better once I’ve made friends in my new class and met my new teacher.\nAs Dad tucks my pink blanket in around me, I can see little dots of light flashing outside my window. The fireflies. They’re still waiting for me. Every single night, when the sun dropped behind the tall trees in our backyard, they’ve appeared, one by one, ready for me. I wonder where they go during the day. Are they sleeping in the trees? Maybe they sleep in that big, dark hole in the oak tree. Brandon dared me one time to climb up the branches and stick my hand in. Suddenly that tree seemed as tall as a mountain. But I didn’t tell Brandon that because big brothers make fun of you when you’re scared. I had been halfway up the trunk when I felt a cracking underneath my feet. A lot of crying and one fast car ride later, I had fourteen new stitches in my knee. Brandon held my hand the whole time. When we got home, he even helped me climb down from the car. That night, when the little specks of light appeared in the bushes, he held the jar for me as I limped around after my shining friends.\nDad is reading my favorite book tonight, but something’s wrong. Is he reading faster than usual? It doesn’t sound like it, but then how are they already to Foxy Loxy’s cave? I stare at the illustration of a little chicken and duck peeking inside a black cave as a red fox grins behind them. The cave looks so dark in the book, like a big, scary mouth waiting to swallow them up. It’s a good thing that chicken decides to run away. I wouldn’t want to go in there, either. That’s why I sleep with a little mermaid nightlight by my bed. Darkness means I can’t see Mom or Dad or my teddy bear or even my own hand. Brandon told me that darkness lets monsters that are usually trapped in shadows go wherever they want to eat little sisters.\nMom said monsters aren’t real, but one almost got me once. One night as I sat among the fireflies, I found a bright green rock I had never seen before. It felt smooth like water and looked like the pictures I’ve seen of the ocean. I wondered if maybe it actually was from the ocean and imagined what fun stories it had to tell me about living in the underwater world. I got so caught up in dreams of mermaids and pirates that I didn’t notice the fireflies say goodbye, or the sun going to sleep behind the trees. When I looked up, all the green leaves had turned black, and all the bushes around me had combined to make one big, dark wall. The blanket of dark lawn between the back door and me felt like a whole football field. I was alone, and darkness was inviting out the night monsters.\nWould the shadow monsters eat me before I can get to the door? Just as I jumped to my feet to run inside, leaves nearby rustled softly. Monsters! Tears were threatening to fall down my cheeks, and my voice cracked as I yelled for Dad. I had dropped to my knees and hugged them close when the dark was chased away by a bright light in front of my face. Right in front of my face, blinking slowly bright yellow, hung one of my wonderful fireflies. It must have heard me crying, because it stood like a knight in one of Brandon’s books, guarding me from any shadow monsters waiting in the dark. Finally, with a shuffle of branches, Dad pushed aside the bushes where I hid and scooped me up. As he carried me to the safety of the kitchen lights, I waved one last goodbye to the firefly who had protected me.\nDad closes the book and says it’s time to sleep. I ask Dad to read another story since that one went way too fast, but that doesn’t work. As he gives me a kiss on the forehead, I look back at the flashing lights outside my window. Tonight is the first night all summer that I haven’t stayed to play with them. They’ll be wondering where I’ve gone. Do fireflies go to school? I bet they don’t even know what school is. They might not know that tomorrow is different. They might keep coming back, waiting for me to come play. But I won’t be there. Each night, they’ll keep coming, and I’ll still be missing. Until one day maybe they don’t come. And one by one, they all disappear. And maybe I’ll become just a memory for them, until even that goes away.\nI thought Dad was going to turn off the lights, but instead I feel his warm, rough hand wrap around mine. He brushes my hair off my forehead softly and asks why I’m crying. I feel my chest start to shake up and down faster and faster as loud sniffles slip out my nose. I ask Dad if the fireflies forget their friends when summer ends.\nDad is quiet for a moment as he continues to stroke my hair. Then he asks me something funny: do I think my mouth forgets my hand when it’s not eating? What does that mean? Mouths don’t have memories, do they? Maybe they do. Maybe that’s why mine is always asking for ice cream. Dad laughs at that. Then he takes my hand, looking so little in between his, and holds it up for me to see. Without my hand, he says, my mouth would never be fed. Every day, every bite, my mouth trusts my hand to return when it needs food. And, he says, without the mouth feeding my body each day, my hand would become tired and weak. They work together, forever partners, and even when the mouth is finished eating each meal, still the hand will come when it’s called. Together, along with every other part of my body, they make one, whole, beautiful me.\nDad says that’s the truth of the entire universe, everything tied together, like a beautiful spider web. I never thought that spider webs could be beautiful. But he says this one is. He says with every memory I’ve made with my fireflies, with every touch of their little legs in my hands, they’ve become a part of me, and me a part of them. Even when I’m not here, my little fireflies carry me with them.\nI ask Dad if the fireflies will come every night to see me for the rest of my life. Maybe I could show them what it looks like when the leaves turn orange and red and fall like snowflakes to the ground. Or I could even show them how real snowflakes turn to blankets of snow over the grass. And maybe they could stay forever with me. Squeezing my hand softly, Dad shakes his head. He says there will be days where it’s cold and dark and even when I look for them, I won’t see those glowing lights out my window. He says every person I meet will have days where they can’t see the fireflies. On those days, he says, I should remember them in my head and feel them in my heart, and there I will find them again.\nAs Dad closes the door to my room after a kiss goodnight and whispered goodbye, I look out the window as the last of the glittering dots disappear. My eyes feel scratchy and heavy now. I guess there was no fighting off tomorrow forever. Right before I let sleep take me, I put my hand on my chest and feel the gentle thud of my heart, and I promise my fireflies to take them with me wherever I go.\n***\nMy hands feel sweaty, but somehow my fingertips still feel cold. My shoes smack loudly against the tile floor as I follow behind Mom’s long legs. I hear shouts and laughter from each door we pass as other kids see old friends and greet soon-to-be new ones. Outside each door, a teacher smiles and waits, waving in other girls and boys who hide behind their parents.\nMom says first grade will be so much fun for me. She says each class has its own special name for the school year. She points to each door as we pass. A bright poster hangs on each one, decorated with cartoon pictures of that class’s theme and a message from the teacher:\nWelcome Ladybug Class! Come find your “spots”!\nHello Bumblebee Class! I’m “buzzzzing” with excitement to meet you!\nCome on in Grasshopper Class! Time to “hop” into fun!\nMom gives my hand a tight squeeze as we stop in front of the last doorway. She says this is my class. With a deep breath, I look up at the door that seems to tower over me. And I gasp. I press my hand to my heart, and for a second I’m certain I can feel it glowing.\nWelcome Firefly Class! I’m de“light”ed to meet you!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: You may not love it\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1048\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character passing down their favorite childhood toy to a new generation." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Adeem had a chequered childhood- a childhood of mons and sobs.Adeem wound leave for school earlier than his other classmates living in the neighborhood.He had no sense of time.He would leave his home, go to his friends and if he would not be ready would look for some other to play with.For Adeem school was not jan institution where he would learn but just a brick-stone structure akin to garden full of love and latitude.He was always at his happiest while at school.He was not a gem of a student.He would only love school for his home was no better.\nOne day Adeem was coming home and he came across a vendor.The vendor had a peculiar voice- some would just pop out on the road to find out the source of this grotesque voice.Some would try to answer his calls in the similar way as his.Adeem went close to the vendor,sized up his way of selling things.The vendor came across as a very innocent man not alert to any theft or pilferage.Adeem was fascinated by a small toy- a toy dog which seemed an oddity in the maze of hundreds of other articles such as sharp knives, scissors,pens,pencils, handkerchiefs etc. For a child of third standard like Adeem a pencil or a pen or for that matter a knife should have been a vivid attraction but he his Herat was in the toy-dog however dusty it was.Adeemcame from behind,followed the vendor for few steps and then stopped.He followed the vendor agian ,till he was hemmed in again by a horde of wen again as if he knew that women always fall for vendors.Now when Adeem felt that the vendor cannot monitor all that goes around ,he grabbed the toy-dog,ensured it is seized upon firmly,open the zip of his bag and put the toy-dog into it.He was all joy now.\nAdeem was not all that normal at home.He would often find his parents quarrel.His father would often beat his mother.He was no priority for them.His mother would at times go to his school not for any academic check for just to ensure tht Adeem was there no. She would often be at the fields in the morning and Adeem would leave for school as usual.Adeem's father Ashir would not care for him.He had fallen prey to gambling and drinking.He would lose temper on being asked to stop these.Adeem would never bring himself upto him to ask for anything to his father.So his father was not his.One day Adeem father was was reported to have died in an accident.The news of his death didnot create any sort of commotion in the village.It was as of something normally usual or something of workaday importance happened.Adeem's mother Haja wept with Adeem in her lap.She weft for an about an hour.Some women from the neighbourhood visited her, consoled her and some brought some fruits.After some days,Adeem's mother resumed her routines. Adeem would go to the school as usual.Now Adeem would rush back home in the afternoon.His home was now a peaceful stead.He would help his mother in the morning and in the evening.One day Hajra fell ill and died.Adeem wept bitterly and left home.He spent some days with his friends.They consoled him.Their parents consoled him.For him the world had nothing g good in the offing.He had lost everything.He rather hadn't anything.\nAdeem left his village only to work in a factory in the town.Years passed and passed.He would work through the day and fritter the earnings in the evening.He didn't want to earn to live life the better way.He had just come to town with that school bag with a broken pencil and that stolen toy-dog.The toy-dog was his relic from the past.Years passed and passed. The owner of the factory at which Adeem worked took Adeem to his home.It was perhaps the marriage of the owner's youngest daughter. Since Adeem.was the only worker in the factory to put up inside factory precincts.Adeem took his bag with and left with the owner.The bag had gathered a thick layer of dust.Adeem didn't mind that.He didn't want to part ways with his prized relic.On reaching the owner's home,Adeem was shown way to a room outside the owner's mansion.Adeem want inside the room.He flung his bag on the bed.The toy-dog fell off from it.Adeem was hurled back to past,to the history of thos toy-dog.His eyes welled up.He washed his toy-dog.It lit up in shine.He kept it on the table close to the bottom of his bed.In the morning,Adeem was invited to the grand feast by a servant of his owner.In a strange,Adeem swooped the toy-dog in his hand and followed the servant.Adeem was astonished to find a long and rambling hall filled with guests in glittering costumes.He was shown a room where some fifty to sixty people were eating on a table.\nHe was handed a bowl full of sweet rice.After having finished the feast,Adeem,like other guest in his room, stepped out in the open.The toy-dog was half dangling from his trousers' left pocket.He had taken a step or two,the toy-dog fell off from the pocket with a loud thud.A child happend to run towards it and picked it up.Aleem was happy at seeing a child pick it up.The child sized it up keenly for a while and left it there.The child left saying ' umhhhh too very old not something very good.\"The child looked back at the toy-dog as Adeem picked it up and pocketed it.For Adeem the toy-dog was a thing with an immeasurable value and for the child the toy-dog was a thing worn-out and rediculously too old to find a place with him.Adeem seemed to be talking to himself.Yes he was saying something to himself.He was perhaps trying to relive his past.The past where the toy-dog lived,the past where his mother lived and the past where his father died.Adeem left the place with a heavy heart.He forgot for some time that he was at his owner's home.He forgot all the railleries around.He now paced up as he left.Adeem felt as if the world had turned upside down.As Adeem was now walking down an alley,the toy-dog fell off from his pocket and broke up into two large pieces.Adeem didn't stoop to pick up the pieces.He left behind his broken toy-dog and moved on." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Violet's Second Chance\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1261\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story on the eve of the first day back at school." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Grade five had ended on a sour note for young Violet. On one of the very last days of elementary school, she had been caught stealing an eraser from a grade-five-only book fair set up in the hallways. She was humiliated in front of her teacher and her entire class when a parent volunteer walked in with the school principal and pointed her out specifically as the thief. She was then forced to publicly return the eraser that she had taken and the shame she felt was all consuming. Summer vacation couldn’t come fast enough after that. Maybe after two whole months of no school, her classmates from grade five would forget all about the ordeal and she could sneak subtly into middle school without catching anyone’s attention. It was much safer to fit in quietly than to stand out.\nThe summer break had been rejuvenating, relaxing, and refreshing. The eldest of six kids in the family with a single mom, Violet spent a lot of her time around home babysitting her siblings. However, she was old enough now that she could take them on short adventures to the playground or for walks around the block. If money allowed, she could even walk them down to a nearby convenience store where they could pick out an ice cream treat or a cool drink. Though she was often in charge of looking after the kids while mom was busy or working, she still found enough free time to contently sit down and read a book. Reading was one of her absolute favourite things to do. She could read the same book five times over again before she got tired of it. It didn’t matter what she was reading. All that mattered was that she was reading at all.\nNow, on the night before a new school year would start, Violet sat crossed-legged in the soft grass of the backyard. Around her, the bugs of the evening started to sing and the sunset painted the sky a deliciously golden colour. The clouds were like smears of white paint. As an eleven year old going ready to step into her first day of middle school, she figured it was time for some introspective reflection. Being the oldest of her five younger siblings, Violet was used to the prospect of having to grow up and mature quickly so wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable with how she was feeling on this eve of the first day back at school.\nA mosquito buzzed irritatingly around her ear. When it landed on her cheek, she swatted at it and it left a dismal display of blood and bug guts on her skin. “Yuck,” she said, using her shirt sleeve to wipe it off.\nThe back door opened. Mom stepped outside onto the deck and closed the door behind her. Violet looked up at her from where she was sitting on the grass.\n“How are you feeling?” asked mom.\nViolet picked a dandelion up from out of the ground and gently blew on it, sending fluffy wisps of seeds wherever the air decided to take them. One wispy seed clump landed on her cheek just opposite to where the mosquito had landed. Looking up at her mom, she smiled.\n“I’m feeling good,” she replied.\n“Ready for tomorrow? First day of middle school!”\n“I’m ready!”\nMom walked down the deck stairs and joined her eldest daughter in sitting on the ground. She then put her arm around her and pulled her in for a one-arm hug.\n“You know I’m always proud of you, right?” asked mom.\nThe truth is, Violet didn’t always know this. She spent so much time being the second mom figure to all her younger siblings that sometimes she couldn’t tell at all if her mom was proud and thankful for her or if mom simply saw Violet as an equal. Another mom. Another adult in the house ran wild with little kids. As an answer to mom’s question, Violet shrugged, but the corners of her lips curled upwards.\nTogether they sat silently in the grass for some time, just taking in the heavenly summer evening, before Violet broke the silence.\n“I wonder if I’ll make some new friends this year,” she said.\n“Of course you will!” mom replied in a way that was uncharacteristically enthusiastic for her, “all your old classmates will be there but a bunch of kids from other schools will be there too.”\nAt the mention of the word ‘kids,” Violet felt her neck and shoulders relax. She had been unaware up until that point that she was unintentionally holding stress in her upper body. It felt good to relax and she realized her body hadn’t felt relaxed like that all summer, despite the summer vacation feeling serene and fairly stress-free. Mom then spoke again.\n“Maybe you’ll find a new friend who loves reading just as much as you do.”\nMom rarely took an interest in Violet’s reading. She was too busy feeding babies, wrangling toddlers, and putting the older kids in timeout to stop and ask about a book she may have been reading. \n“You know, when I was a kid, I loved reading too.”\n“Really?” asked Violet, feeling suddenly inquisitive.\n“Yep! Back then, it felt like I had all the time in the world for reading!”\nViolet wanted to know more. “What did you like to read?” she pressed on.\n“Anything and everything,” mom replied, “encyclopedias, poetry, magazine articles, mysteries, romances, dramas, anything.”\n“Do you still have any of your old books?” Violet inquired further.\n“Hmm, no,” mom said with a hint of sadness in her tone, “most of the books I read were from the library. The few books that I did own to myself were sold in a garage sale to raise money for me to go to college.”\nViolet didn’t know her mom had ever gone to college. Almost as if reading her daughter’s mind, mom continued to explain.\n“I didn’t make it all the way through college, but I did get a decent start at it.”\n“Why not?” Violet asked. She was as captivated by her mom’s story as she was by any of the most interesting books she had ever read.\n“Because I had you!”\nViolet felt suddenly guilty but mom pulled her in again for a tight hug, indicating there was no sourness to be felt about the disruption of college caused by the birth of a baby. Violet felt comforted by her mom and got the sense that there were no hard feelings arising from the conversation which had gotten promptly more serious in nature.\n“I hope I get to go to college, too,” said Violet.\n“I hope that for you, too, dear,” said mom.\n“But we probably won’t be able to afford it,” said Violet, now sounding dejected.\n“We’ve got time. We can save up.”\nAn idea struck Violet’s mind like a bolt of lightning.\n“I could sell some of my books,” she said, “just like you did.”\n“You sure could,” said mom, “but you’re only eleven. I think you should keep them for a while yet.”\nA dragonfly flew towards the pair and landed gently on mom’s foot. Violet reached out to it and the dainty insect crawled onto her hand. It stayed perched there while the mom and daughter examined and appreciated its intricate beauty, and then, just as fast as it came, it flew off into the calm summer evening, and left the mom and daughter duo to taste the sweet air for a little while longer in their own retrospective silence." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Yellow Lights\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 2844\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who goes to — or purposefully avoids — their high school reunion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There were pillars lining towards the entrance of the conference hall, each pillar painted an immaculate white with yellow lights shining on top of them, each was at least 6 feet tall and sturdy looking, and everyone seemed to be in awe of them as they all took out their respective phones to start snapping one for the gram. Upon the entrance stood two more pillars at each end, towering taller than the ones leading towards them, and then right above the entrance door hung a huge sign made of sturdy material, in bold blue cursive letters that read \"BATCH '15 HIGH SCHOOL REUNION\". Lots of former students were already almost running their way inside, excited to be able to see their old classmates again and goof around like before. Well...at least that's how most of them felt.\nLily Min fidgeted with her fingers as she rocked back and forth on her heels, waiting for her best friend who had promised to meet her up front so they could go in together. Lily was never even supposed to be here, she never had any intentions coming back to a place where she never even felt like she existed. High school was never a bad experience for her though, but it wasn't the best either, it was just...bland, like how her older sister cooked, just bland. Nothing much happened during high school, Lily was just the typical average student, she didn't socialize with the popular kids, but she wasn't exactly one of the nerds that would get bullied by some arrogant jock or boastful cheerleader, Lily would've even wanted to be one if she could, in order to be noticed, but she was left to become one of the invisibles; the ones who no one really paid attention to, like sure you're there but were you though? \nAll throughout high school Lily had succeeded in making sure she was hidden in plain sight, she went with the flow, cheering during games, booing during extended class periods, sighing whenever the lunch lady would give them frozen vegetable pizza, she had made herself almost blend in together with the wallpaper. Her best friend, Roseanne Park was the same, so both of them stuck together, and honestly speaking, Roseanne was probably the only good thing Lily had in high school, they had their own set of adventures, heck maybe even their old classmates would be envious if they even knew what she and Roseanne would get themselves at during weekends of high school and after class hangouts. But Lily was never one to talk, she liked to keep her memories and moments all to herself, plus no one really cared to ask anyway, majority of the the people inside probably don't remember them anyway.\n\"I'm here!\" A high pitched voice exclaimed\n\"Yeah, no shit Sherlock\" Lily rolled her eyes at her best friend\n\"Hey, cheer up, my dear best friend! Remember, we're here to enjoy ourselves and look back on the greatest memories we had with our lovely classmates back in high school\" Roseanne grinned\n\"Sure, do you think they'd remember that one time we actually existed and went to high school with them?\" Lily deadpanned\nRoseanne grunted and linked her arm with Lily's and dragged her towards the very bright and lovely entrance.\n\"Free food is better than taking to people who never even knew us anyway\" Roseanne smiled as her eyes almost popped out when she saw the long table filled with food\nLily sighed as she took in the whole gymnasium. It was still the same as before, bearing white walls and sky blue colored tiles, there were a bunch of banners hanging by the walls, some just logos of their school, others were just some sappy quote welcoming students back. The lights were slightly dimmed, the tune to some indie song playing in the background whilst some people were dancing to it and others just chatting over it, then the stage in front of them was filled with white and blue balloons, a podium stood at the far right and different colored lights filled the stage.\n\"I can already see some hash browns, Li!\" Roseanne squealed\n\"I would've just driven you to McDonald's, Rosie\"\nThat earned her a hard nudge, Lily simple chuckled and dragged her best friend to the long table. As expected, Roseanne was already seconds away from devouring the food displayed in front of her, while Lily enjoyed the slow beat of the song playing as she slowly picked out some sweets instead of the abomination Roseanne was piling up on her own plate.\n\"Attention Seoul National High School! I hope you guys haven't forgotten me yet\"\nA tall and happy looking man stood behind the podium on the stage, he had on a varsity jacket with the letters \"SNH\" embroidered on the upper right; Joe Jeon, that's who he is. The school's MVP on the basketball court, the good guy and ever charming sweetheart that everyone seemed to adore. He lacked quite much in academics but had easily won over the presidency in the student council.\n\"Just your ordinary Joe over here greeting each and everyone of you a good evening! It's so glad to see familiar faces around and I'm proud to say I still remember every single one of you here\" he grinned widely \nThe whole auditorium erupted in cheers, hollers and loud claps. Lily and Roseanne made it to the table for two that was near the photo booth where a bunch of people were lining up to. \n\"Nice try Joe, but maybe try to actually scan the room next time\" Roseanne said through a mouth full of pecan pie\n\"Well I won't stay on any longer, just wanna wish you guys a fun night and I hope you all enjoy the food sponsored by our one and only Naya Im! And make sure to go over to the photo booth over there to remember this night. So that will be all, enjoy!\"\nJoe quickly ran down and back to his table where his old basketball team sat, they all still looked the same, still mischievous and quite arrogant who just grew a beard or two. Beside them was of course the old cheerleading team, headed by none other than Hannah Woo, their table was much lesser in number and not really interested at the conversations being thrown their way by the jock table.\n\"Can you believe how high school has never changed? Everyone is literally still in the same group and eating at the same table with the same people\" Roseanne said\n\"Yeah well that's high school. Plus, I never wanted to come here, Rosie, this was your plan\" Lily rolled her eyes at her\n\"You gotta admit that the food is good. Who would've thought Naya would end up as a chef with a catering service? All those punishments working along side the lunch lady was totally worth it, I guess\" Roseanne snickered\n\"Yeah but it is a bit stuffy here. I'm kinda losing it already\" Lily admitted\n\"Go and take a breather outside\" Roseanne suggested, and Lily took that as a cue to leave, so she stood up and thanked her best friend before exiting\nThe cold Seoul air engulfed Lily straight away, she swore under her breath as she realized she had left her jacket back inside, but she really didn't want to head back in and be with people who were never really a part of her life anyway. They were merely passerbys just as she was one to them. The point of a reunion was to check on the people who you haven't seen in years but what's worse than knowing everyone there but them not remembering you at all? It all felt overwhelming to Lily and the room had felt stuffy and too hot, and Lily hated feeling that too. So she wound back by the entrance where no one was at, most of them probably preferred the photo booth than suffer in the cold winter air for a picture with some lights. It was nearing 8PM and the music inside shifted into a more upbeat one, she could hear the muffled voice of Joe announcing that it was \"Dancing Time\" to the crowd. \nLily glanced around and saw the field, the lamp posts illuminating the beautiful mowed green grass, the old soccer net still in good condition despite the numerous students playing monkey bar with it back in the days. The benches were now painted a dark gold, different from the bright red from their school days. The big statue of the owner of their school still stood proudly just to Lily's left, the bronze sculpture still exuding pride and confidence and even inspiration to any of those who glanced up at him. The school looked good, still so fresh and beautiful, it was one of the reasons why Lily wanted to go to high school here, because she loved how nature took over the school, literally a forest of trees could be found there and the school was always eco friendly.\nThe yellow lights coming from the pillars danced around Lily's skin, the cold air embracing her more and giving her more reason to hate winter.\n\"Here\"\nLily jumped when she heard the voice. See turned around and saw Jackie Kim, a girl who she recognized as a part of the track team back then. And now she was here holding out what seemed to be jacket, her face flushed red probably due to the cold air, she had on a bright smile, her cat like eyes boring into Lily's.\n\"It's cold, is it not?\" Jackie asked\nLily nodded and grabbed the jacket, slowly putting it on and melting into the sudden warmth it brought.\n\"Why are you out here all alone? I saw Roseanne inside still working on her appetite\" Jackie said, chuckling at the last part\nLily was taken aback. Did Jackie Kim know her? Assuming she knows Roseanne, did she actually know Lily as well? Preposterous.\n\"Y-You know Roseanne?\" Lily asked\n\"Of course. I know you too, Lily.\" She smiled \"I'm Jackie Kim by the way, I used to run track\"\n\"I know\" Lily said, although still surprised that Jackie knew her, but Jackie seemed more surprised at Lily's statement\n\"Really?\"Jackie asked, her cheeks now redder as bit her bottom lip, holding back a smile\n\"I didn't think you'd know me?\" Lily said\n\"I didn't think you'd know me too. I was always the invisible kid in high school anyway\" Jackie admitted, and that definitely baffled Lily\n\"You ran track. Me and Rosie always watched the track meets since we often hung out a the bleachers. Why did you think you were invisible?\" Lily tilted her head to the side to study Jackie's face.\n\"I saw you often even during practices, you and Roseanne. I heard you guys bickering a few times so I caught your name. We shared a few classes together in senior year too but I doubt you remembered. And to answer your question...well no one really paid attention to the track team and I mostly just hung out with Jill Krasinski, so I didn't think you'd know me\"\nFeline eyes looked up at Lily's doe eyes. The action suddenly making Lily's heart go beserk because wow, why did God think to create such beautiful eyes like Jackie's only for Lily to almost catch a heart attack because of how stunning those are. Lily doesn't think anything else could amount to such beauty--\nJackie gave Lily a gummy smile.\nOh dear God!\n\"I could write a whole chapter about you\" Lily whispered\nJackie flushed scarlet as she bit her lower lip but this time not holding back a wide grin as she eyes Lily, like she was carefully figuring out a puzzle, not exactly knowing why Lily had said that.\n\"You would what?\" Jackie asked\nIt was Lily's turn to blush.\n\"I...could write a whole chapter just describing your smile and those beautiful eyes\" Lily said truthfully\n\"I see\" Jackie chuckle softly\nSo softly that Lily was already writing a brand new chapter of how beautiful the sound was in her head.\n\"I could paint you like this\" Jackie whispered\nLily furrows her eyebrows but smiled at her.\n\"Under the yellow lights\" Jackie took a step forward and tucked a stray hair behind Lily's ears, suddenly all coldness in the latter's body vanished, she was now filled with complete warmth\n\"I've been admiring you since the first time I saw you on the bleachers throwing lettuce at your best friend's face\" Jackie laughed lightly \"I'm sorry I never talked to you back then...I was scare I'd freak you out\"\nLily nodded, if Jackie ever did tough up and talk to her back then, Lily wouldn't have trusted the action knowing well how high school kids loved to tease the invisibles.\nJackie then grabbed something from her front pocket.\n\"I was going to run up to you on graduation day to give you this since I found out you were going to Hongik too, but you had already run off with Roseanne\" Jackie grabbed Lily's palm and placed the item on the open hand\nA small gold eagle pin that only athletes were given, it was some kind of pride that you could wear, and everyone envied those who wore them, mostly because the athletes loved to give it to their significant others to wear for support during games. Lily and Roseanne had seen all the jocks give one to their girlfriends, and how all the cheerleaders asked their boyfriend's to wear it too. It was a bit cheesy to Roseanne but Lily somehow fell in love with the idea of it, sure it was just a pin but it had something of importance to every athlete; it had the athletes' full name engraved perfectly on the pin, to make it more personal, it was a token of something to be proud of.\nAnd now Lily had one on the palm of her hand. The same golden eagle pin she had seen plenty of times during any games the school had. And on this pin, engraved in cursive letters; \"Jacqueline Reign J. Kim\".\n\"I wanted you to wear it in our time in college since I still ran track and I never got you to wear it during my high school meets. I kept looking for you in Hongik but I never seemed to find you\" Jackie admitted sadly\n\"You want me to wear this?\" Lily asked, silently cursing herself as well for never attending any of the track meets in Hongik\n\"Yes\"\n\"Why?\"\nJackie smiled sheepishly.\n\"I've liked you since high school and I wanted to ask you out since forever but I'm a bit of a coward as you can see and I just really wanted to see you donning my pin\" Jackie shyly lowered her head\n\"Have you looked for me after college?\" \n\"Lily, college graduation was literally just last week. This was my last hope of trying to find you. And here you are\" Jackie whispered the last part, her eyes locking gazes with Lily\n\"So...would you want to go out on a date with me?\" Jackie asked nervously\nLily chuckled and handed Jackie back the pin, which made Jackie's face fall as she gripped on the pin.\n\"I want you to pin it on me\" Lily said\nJackie snapped her eyes back at her and grinned as she quickly pinned it on Lily's button up shirt. \n\"And how about that date?\" Jackie asked nervously\n\"I would love to\"\nJackie smiled like a goofball, she just had this look of admiration on her face as she looked lovingly at Lily like she had hung up the moon and stars for her. And just because, just because Jackie looked so adorable under the yellow lights that were dancing on her skin, maybe even the moonlight was illuminating against her skin, her eyes so bright and beautiful as it also reflected the lights from the pillars. And the golden pin with Jackie's name on it, worn proudly on Lily's shirt, the light shining over it reflecting its color against Jackie who had moved closer. And when soft lips met Lily's cold ones...\nMaybe high school was never bad, or at least...the high school reunion wasn't bad. And Lily wanted to smack her own head for moping over the fact that she had always been invisible yet here Jackie was telling her of how she saw only her, and Lily realized it was she who failed to see the beautiful girl now in front of her. All those years thinking how people never saw her, yet all this time she was the one never really looking, because as Lily looked on at the high school students below her, Jackie was looking up and actually looking at her.\n\"Thank you for looking for me\" Lily said\n\"Thank you for finally seeing me\" Jackie said\nAnd another kiss was shared under the yellow lights." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Cannibal's Cookbook\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1058\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an old family secret surfacing generations later." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“This is so cool.”\nMy older sister and I were poring over my Gran’s old cookbook. Technically, it had belonged to our grandmother’s grandmother, but Gran had contributed so much over the years that the book was more hers than anyone else’s.\nJade and I had grabbed the musty book out from where Mom kept it hidden, at the very top of the bookshelf in the living room. The cookbook had only been ours for a few weeks, ever since Gran died. We’d been cleaning out her house for several days following the funeral when Mom found the cookbook in the very back of a cupboard containing clashy double-boilers and thunky frying pans. \n“No way,” she’d said, paging through it.\n“What?” I asked, sitting back on my heels.\nMom glanced fleetingly at me. “Nothing,” she muttered. “Just your Gran’s old cookbook.”\n“Oh, cool! Are we keeping it?”\n“I’m putting it in the car,” Mom answered backhandedly, and did so.\nOnce we got home from the day’s ordeal, Mom hid the book somewhere and wouldn’t tell us where it was. One day, while she was out grocery shopping, Jade and I scoured the house and eventually found it crammed between the top of the dusty living room bookshelf and the ceiling. She let me stand on her back, and we retrieved the family heirloom from where it was hidden. Now we were sitting cross-legged on the circular rug in the middle of the room, admiring the cover.\nIt was faded but beautiful, laced with small leather details. There was an intricate drawing of a Japanese cherry blossom tree on the front. I touched the pastel pink puffs reverently, tracing them. “I wonder why Mom didn’t want to show us this,” I mused.\n“She’s probably still mourning. I mean, we all are, but Gran was the most important person in Mom’s life, and, most likely, vice-versa. Too much pain to look at it right now.”\nI nodded. Jade always had insightful comments. Together, we flipped back the cover and began going through the pages. The paper was yellow and brittle, so we handled it carefully.\n“Look at this handwriting.” Everything was written using long, black, elegant thick strokes and what looked like a calligraphy pen. “It’s beautiful.”\n“This wouldn’t have been Gran, Lily,” Jade reminded me. “We’re just at the beginning, so this is our great-great-grandma’s handwriting.”\n“Oh, duh.” I smacked my forehead and laughed feebly. “Let’s skip to Gran’s part.”\n“No, I want to read the whole thing.”\nReluctantly I went along with her and tapped my knee impatiently. The recipes were for simple, rather generic foods, like salads, tempura, and even a lasagna. That one made me laugh. My great-grandmother, making lasagna? You learn something new every day.\nSeveral minutes into the recipes, even Jade grew a bit antsy. “You’re right, let’s go to Gran’s stuff,” she said, flipping past a page on homemade rye bread dough. She turned the paper delicately, scanning for a style of handwriting different than what we’d seen before.\nForty-seven pages in, I stopped her. “There,” I said, pointing. “I think that’s Gran.”\n“You’re right, good job.” \nI smiled--praise from Jade was rare--and leaned in closer to the book. “Clam chowder soup,” I read aloud. “Ingredients: fresh clams, butter, vegetable stock, onion, toes, potatoes--”\nI stopped and frowned at the cookbook. “Toes? What is that supposed to mean?”\nJade shrugged, but she was frowning along with me. “Maybe it’s just, like, an abbreviation of ‘potatoes,’ or something, but then she decided to write the whole word out instead?” \n“Uh...”\n“I know, I know,” Jade mumbled. “It’s a dumb explanation. But we’ll figure it out.” \nI began reading the instructions, curious as to what the “toes” might be.\n“Heat a large stockpot, add melted butter, garlic, and onion, add thyme, whisk in flour,” I murmured to myself, scanning the recipe. “Gradually add milk and vegetable stock until slightly thickened. Bring to a boil, add toes and clams, season with salt and pepper to taste.”\nConfused, I looked at the prepwork near the top of the page.\n“Peel and dice two large russet potatoes. Mince three cloves garlic. Dice one onion. Rinse one cup toes and medium dice. Roughly chop two tablespoons parsley.”\n“Are you… are you getting the toes part, at all?” I asked Jade. She was following along with the directions, murmuring them under her breath.\n“I have no idea,” she admitted, shrugging. “Maybe it’s some kind of inside joke, or something?”\nI shook my head. Gran wasn’t the joking type. “Let’s just move on,” I suggested, turning the page.\nThe next recipe: Gyoza, a type of dumpling Gran would make, occasionally, when we came over.\nThe ingredients: Unsalted pork, cabbage, garlic, ears, chives--\nEars?\nI pointed to it, but Jade had already seen. “Apparently the ‘ears’ are ground in with the pork,” Jade said. “What is this?”\n“Was Gran a cannibal?” I asked. We both laughed, but there was a hint of uncertainty in our tone. We continued to flip through the book, noting odd ingredients like “pinky” or “breast” or “gallbladder” mixed in with normal foods like sushi or stir-fry or meatloaf. We grew more and more silent the longer we went on.\nFinally, Jade reached for her back pocket and announced, “I’m calling Mom.” She pulled her phone out of her jeans, tapped Mom’s number, and put the call on speaker.\nA few dials in, Mom picked up. “I’m on my way back, honey. Traffic. Do you need something?”\n“Um, actually, Lily and I were wondering about this book.”\n“Book?”\n“Gran’s cookbook.”\nA fraction of a second of silence, then Mom swore.\nI raised my eyebrows in surprise. Mom had never cursed in front of her kids, or at all, for that matter.\n“Mom, Lily’s on speaker.”\n“Oh. Sorry, sweetie. Listen--”\nJade interrupted her. “What’s going on with all these wonky ingredients? ‘Knee’? What’s a knee?”\n“Um…”\n“Was Gran…” Jade trailed off and whispered to me, “Her food always tasted funny. Not bad, but different. It smelled weird.” Jade cleared her throat and went back to the call. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”\n“Well, you see, darling…”\nWe waited. I was biting my thumbnail, and Jade had her hands resting nervously on her knees. Mom’s breath sounded staticky through the phone.\n“Do you remember when your grandpa died?”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Napoleon\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1665\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone with a Midas touch: everything they touch turns to [fill in the blank]." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jeremiah had no intention of turning his dog into Napoleon.\nHe woke up one day and when Scotch Tape came to greet him in bed with a lick of the feet and a wag of the tail, Jeremiah gave him a pat on the head as he had always done, and the next thing he knew, there was a tiny tyrant standing before him.\n“Well, now you’ve done it,” said Napoleon, “Look at me. Just look at me. I’ve been dead for almost two hundred years, and you brought me back just to fetch a frisbee.”\nJeremiah assured Napoleon that he didn’t mean to resurrect him. He had no idea why patting Scotch Tape on the head had resulted in such a transmogrification. The ten-year-old was not a magician or even interested in magic. He also loved his dog very much, and he had very little interest in dead military commanders.\nNot knowing much about Napoleon, but recognizing him from a children’s book his grandfather had given him that centered around famous angry Frenchmen, Jeremiah brought Napoleon downstairs so that he could show his parents what had happened. His mother was making Belgian waffles, and from behind him, Jeremiah could hear Napoleon making a comment about those lousy Belgians and their lackluster waffles, but not wanting to absorb any discrimination, he simply focused on the task at hand.\nThe trouble was, as soon as he tugged on his mother’s sleeve, she turned into Napoleon as well. Turning around, she scowled at the boy.\n“Look what you’ve done,” said this other Napoleon, “I don’t even like waffles--let alone Belgian ones. Sit down and I’ll make you a French omelet. It’s time we had some real food in this house before I go off to war.”\nThe Napoleon that had once been Scotch Tape shook his head, but he sat down at the table, and put a napkin under his chin. Jeremiah didn’t understand. Did touching people now meant he was reviving Napoleon’s? Or were these beings still the beings they were before but trapped in some sort of Napoleon shell?\nWhile Jeremiah contemplated what to do about his two Napoleons, his father entered the house with some kind of stain on his tie.\n“Spilled coffee all over my--”\nBefore he could finish his complaint, he noticed the two historical icons standing in the kitchen. Jeremiah’s father slowly began to back away.\n“Jeremiah,” his father said, “Would you meet me out in the driveway, please?”\nThe boy went running towards his father hoping for a comforting embrace, but his father side-stepped him. He looked pained at having to dodge his son, but he motioned to the front door as though some kind of answer would be waiting on the other side.\nOut on the driveway, the April air seemed to want to heat up, but couldn’t quite get there. Across the street, the Muscatellos were packing up a moving van. Jeremiah realized that it was a good thing he hadn’t hugged his father, because then he might have turned him into--\n“Napoleon. You would have turned me into Napoleon.”\nWhen the boy asked his father how this had happened, his father leaned against the driver’s side door of his Nissan Rogue. There was a small dent where Jeremiah had banged into the car with his bike. His father had not been cross when that happened, chalking it up to the kinds of things that occur when you have a son, and how lucky he was to have such a good son, who never did anything wrong aside from riding his bike a little too fast and not eating all his peas when they were served each Tuesday and Thursday.\n“Jeremiah,” his father said, “I was worried this might happen.”\n“Worried what might happen?”\n“When you were born, the doctor did some tests on you, because you had this strange birthmark on your back that looked like Napoleon. We asked what it meant, but the doctor--I think his name was Roberto--he was being very cagey. Anyway, you seemed fine, so we took you home. A few days later we got a call from someone who sounded like Dr. Roberto, but identified himself as D.R.R. He told us that one day our child would wake up, and everyone he touched would turn into Napoleon. Not knowing much about history, we didn’t see the problem. Your mother always confused Napoleon with Charlie Chaplin, which doesn’t make much sense, but she always did associate disparate things. I knew who Napoleon was but he always seemed kind of cute to me. Your grandfather was familiar, and very concerned, which is why he bought you that book as a child and had you read it. He wanted you to be prepared for what might happen if and when the day arrived when your Napoleon syndrome would kick in.”\nAs his father was telling him this story, the mailman was walking down the street. A bee flew near his face, and he began to run to avoid the bee, because he always suspected he was allergic, even though he had no evidence to back that up. While running, he slammed right into young Jeremiah, and the moment he did, he turned into Napoleon.\n“Sacre bleu!” the mailman shouted, “Now I am Napoleon? And I still have so many letters to deliver. What a garçon irréfléchi! Wait, is Napoleon allergic to bees?”\nJeremiah and his father looked at each other, and then the mailman.\n“I don’t know,” said Jeremiah, “I think he might have suspected he was, but I doubt he had any evidence to back that up.”\nNapoleon the mailman walked away muttering to himself, and this is how Jeremiah learned that Napoleon was a mutterer, which is something they don’t usually teach you in history books. Jeremiah’s father ushered him into the house where Napoleon the Former Dog and Napoleon the Former Jeremiah’s Mom had found the board game Risk in the closet and were engaged in a heated game. Napoleon the Former Dog looked as though he might prevail, but Napoleon the Former Jeremiah’s Mom was giving him a run for his money.\nJeremiah’s father led the boy upstairs and had him get into bed. The boy had never changed out of his pajamas, so for a moment, he wondered if he could close his eyes, open them, and find out the entire thing was a dream. Only the dirt from the lawn at the bottom of his feet would prove otherwise. He couldn’t fathom living with Napoleon for a dog let alone Napoleon for a mother, and certainly not Napoleon as a mailman.\nAnd could he really go the rest of his life without touching another human being for fear that they might try invading Russia in the dead of winter?\n“Now listen,” said his father, “I know this morning was confusing. You’re going to have a lot of confusing mornings in your life. Some more than others. This will, hopefully, be the most confusing, but I can’t guarantee that. The good news is, you’re a kid, so you can just get back in bed and sleep until whatever this is wears off. It might take all day, but I’m sure it’ll go away with time. Just to test it out, I’ll have a few historians stop by this evening to see how you’re doing. One of them might even allow you to try turning them into Napoleon, and if you can’t, we know the worst is over.”\nJeremiah’s father patted a spot on the pillow near Jeremiah’s head, but was careful not to touch any part of his son since the worst was clearly not over.\n“Some days you wake up and nothing makes sense, Jeremiah,” he said, “And when you get older, you can’t go back to bed. You have to just press on and try to avoid connecting with anyone. Keep your head down. Power forward until things feel all right again. One morning I woke up, and every time I went to have a sip of coffee, it was Greek yogurt. I don’t know why. It only lasted one day, but I couldn’t go back to bed. I had to keep working, and I was so grumpy, because I couldn’t have any coffee, and I don’t like Greek yogurt all that much. This will pass though. This will all pass.”\nWith that, he patted the spot near Jeremiah’s head one more time, left his son’s bedroom, and closed the door behind him.\nNot sure what to make of anything his father had just said, Jeremiah tried to sleep, but when he began to dream, he could only have Napoleon dreams. It seemed that even touching an image in his mind was enough to transform it. A dream of him taking a test in school became a dream of him writing a letter to Josephine. A dream of him riding his bike became a dream of him riding a horse into battle. A dream of him playing soccer became a dream of Napoleon playing soccer and losing the game, because Napoleon had no idea how to play soccer.\nWhen the dreams became too much, Jeremiah opened his eyes and saw that moonlight was streaming through his windows. His father had forgotten to close the curtains before leaving him. He went to the window, and saw that the moon was hovering right above the house where the Muscatellos live. Without thinking, Jeremiah touched the glass that separated him from the moon, and, to his surprise, the moon became Napoleon.\n“C’est bon, Jeremiah,” said the Napoleon Moon, one of the kinder Napoleons, “Go back to bed. Le meilleur remède pour le corps est un esprit calme.”\nThe best cure for the body is a quiet mind.\nJeremiah got back into bed, and Napoleon dimmed his moonlight a little, but just a little. He wanted the boy to know he was here, but that he would be gone in the morning." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Similarities Between Me and E. coli\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1090\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about transformation." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The lab instructor claps to get our attention. “If you’ve read your lab manuals, you know that today we’re performing transformations.”\n\n***\n\nAccording to biologists, transformation is the act of introducing foreign DNA into bacteria.\n\nI am a biologist.\n\nAt least until I get into med school.\n\n***\n\nStep 1 in a transformation is to retrieve the competent bacterial cells from the -80oC freezer and thaw them on ice. “Competent” here means that our E. coli cells have been treated with calcium chloride to make them pliant and more likely to uptake foreign DNA.\n\n***\n\nAccording to college essay consultants, the experience of immigrant children is a cliché.\n\nI am a cliché.\n\nBecause I am one of many children lucky enough to have an extraordinary father who braved an ocean, a language, and a society. Whereas I am too cowardly to even go against the wishes of my father. And I am too guilty for contemplating such an act in the first place.\n\nYou do not repay sacrifice with demands for more.\n\n***\n\nStep 2 in a transformation is to add one microliter of the DNA containing your gene of interest to the tube of thawed E. coli cells. Step 3 is to incubate the tube of cells and DNA on ice for thirty minutes.\n\n***\n\nAccording to everyone, my cousin has always been the smart one in the family.\n\nI wholeheartedly agree.\n\n“Your cousin already knew imaginary numbers by 5th grade. You can’t even deal with real numbers!”\n\n“And how is your child doing? Mine just won the debate competition at state level, and I’m so proud.”\n\n“Your cousin was president of three school clubs and had a 4.0 GPA!”\n\n“You should try a little harder, hmm? Feel free to ask my child for advice.”\n\n“Your cousin was accepted to Harvard Med School! You haven’t even finished your college applications!”\n\n“Your father said you’re attending a state school, congratulations! At least the tuition will be cheaper – but of course, my child won a full ride to MIT.”\n\nIt is good that I have an older cousin and not a younger one. Otherwise, these comparisons would be even more embarrassing. Both for me and for my father.\n\nSometimes, it is hard not to feel resentful.\n\n***\n\nStep 4 in a transformation is to heat shock the cells in a 42oC water bath for 30 seconds. The heat shock makes the bacterial membrane more permeable, allowing the bacteria to take up the foreign DNA. This step is time-sensitive. Too much heat shock, and your cells will die.\n\n***\n\nAccording to my father, being a doctor yourself is the only way to avoid being duped by doctors, which is why I must be a doctor.\n\nI am not a doctor.\n\nYet.\n\nBut I have sat in enough doctors’ offices to know that what he says is true. To know that some doctors are condescending, most are stressed, and all are just plain busy. To know that immigrant patients are already at a disadvantage because of the linguistic and cultural barriers. To know that, when you walk out of the office at the end of the visit, you often never fully understand what’s going on.\n\nMy father never walks out of the O.R.\n\n***\n\nStep 5 in a transformation is to incubate the cells on ice for 2 minutes. This allows the cells to recover from the heat shock.\n\n***\n\nAccording to the pre-medical advising office’s incoming freshmen presentation, shadowing is an important part of an application to med school.\n\nI take meticulous notes.\n\nAfter many Google searches and cold emails and almost taking the wrong bus (my father was able to board a plane for the first time alone), I show up at the local hospital to shadow a surgeon.\n\nI nearly don’t go in. (Did my father hesitate coming off the plane?)\n\nBut I do.\n\nOnly, as I follow the surgeon on his rounds, against my will I unearth a feeling I’ve long suspected myself of having.\n\nI hate this.\n\nBecause in every patient’s face I see an opportunity for disaster. I see questions that I cannot answer, that the doctor cannot answer (though he must give a verbal reply), that no one can answer, because we are not God, we are not Destiny, we are not the Fates who so callously cut our puppet strings. I see failure haunting every examination room, and it haunts me.\n\nDad, I don't think I can do this.\n\n***\n\nStep 6 in a transformation is to add 400 microliters of SOC medium to the cells. Step 7 is to incubate the cells at 37oC for 30 minutes while shaking at 225-250 rpm. This allows the bacterial culture to grow and produce antibiotic resistance proteins.\n\n***\n\nAccording to my roommate, the children’s hospital is seeking volunteers, and wouldn’t it be great and convenient if we could go together?\n\nI fill out the form online.\n\nVolunteering is an important part of an application to med school, after all.\n\nAnd in the children’s hospital, I find more reasons to be guilty. I am healthy. I can walk. The only deadly thing in my future is the all-nighter I’m planning to pull for my exam. I am not them, and yet I am still complaining.\n\nI would walk away immediately from this emotional downpour if it were not for one thing.\n\nThey have no expectations.\n\nSo I stay.\n\nAnd I keep staying.\n\n***\n\nStep 8 in a transformation is to spread the mixture of cells on LB agar plates with the appropriate antibiotic and then incubate the plates at 37oC overnight. If your transformation has been successful, you will see colonies on your plates the next day.\n\n***\n\nThe lab instructor claps again at the end of class. “Once you’ve plated your transformations, place them in the incubator behind me, and then clean up your benches before you go. I’ll email you guys the pictures of the plates tomorrow, and lab reports are due next week!”\n\nI turn in my labeled plate and pack up to leave.\n\nIn my backpack, I carry my father’s expired passport and a Kaplan’s set of MCAT prep books that I bought from my cousin. I carry my father’s passport because it is one of the few photographs of him that I have. The MCAT prep books – well, they’re self-explanatory.\n\nI hope to go into pediatrics.\n\n***\n\nAccording to biologists, transformation is the act of introducing foreign DNA into bacteria.\n\nDad was a biologist.\n\nSo I was always meant to transform." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: come back to california\n\nGenre: asian-american\n\nWord Count: 1787\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that ends with a character asking a question." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jack sighed as he sat down at his desk with fresh new lined papers. His wooden chair creaked as he leaned forward to get in position. He took the cap off his pen and stared down at the blank sheets before writing.\n\n \nDear Gregory, he wrote. Then he sat up and rubbed his face.\n\n \nHonestly, this was the hardest part. Knowing what to say. Jack didn’t know what to say, he never did, hence a million crumpled papers around his room with poorly written letters to Gregory that he’s never sent or even looked at again.\n\n \nIt’s been about a year now… I haven’t heard from you in a while. Just wondering about you.\n\n \nJack crossed out that last line. Then he just went ahead and crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it behind him. He grabbed a new paper and began writing.\n\n \nDear Gregory, he wrote.\n\n \nJack shook his head and looked up. It doesn’t help that he was the one that left it off bad with Gregory in the first place. So he’s definitely the pathetic one when it comes to him writing this letter that it’s taken him months to write. He won’t admit that he’s sorry. But he’s come to terms that he’s most definitely the reason Gregory hasn’t talked to him since he’d left. Hasn’t written. Hasn’t called.\n\n \nThe beach is empty, and the skies are grey. Ever since you left me, there hasn’t been a sunny day.\n\n \nOkay, way too cheesy. Jack tore the paper in half and crumpled the halves together, and tossed them. He took out a new paper.\n\n \nHey, Gregory, he wrote.\n\n \nDespite immediately cringing at his last letter that he just threw away, it was absolutely true. Jack feels like the southern Californian sun stopped shining. Like Gregory was the sun. And now he’s gone. And so is the sun. Jack mindlessly drew a little picture of Gregory, pen sunrays coming out of the figures’ head. He smiled, staring down at it. He’d never show that to Gregory. He only stared at it a minute more and pushed it to the side before staring at a blank lined paper.\n\n \nHe put his pen down on the paper. Dear Gregory, he wrote. It’s a funny story. I was the one who took your shirt. Surely Gregory would’ve forgotten about that one by now, Jack thought, with a small grin playing his lips. I hid it from you so that I could keep it for myself since you took everything else of yours. Jack’s smile disappeared, the memory not as fond as it seemed. He continued to write. I’ve tried my best to move on. I can’t.\n\n \nHe sounds pathetic again. Jack crumpled the paper into a ball and pulled a new sheet of paper towards him. Hey Gregory, he wrote. My friends keep asking about you. I guess I’ve been wondering about you too.\n\n \nStupid, stupid, stupid! Why is this so hard to write! Jack angrily pushed all his things off his desk. Then he rubbed his face. God, he wouldn’t have to be doing this if it weren’t for him. Jack leaned back in the wooden chair, and put his hands on his head, closing his eyes.\n\n ***\n \n“Have you seen my white shirt with the black writing on the side?” Gregory stood in the doorway to Jack’s room. “I looked for it in my room, but I can’t seem to find it. I need it to finish my packing.” Jack looked up from the television.\n\n\n\n“Why don’t you look better?” He narrowed his eyes at Gregory with a menacing look.\n\n \nGregory balled his hands into fists, not saying another word, and leaving. Jack rolled his eyes and got back to the show he was watching.\n\n \nJack knew he was being horrible to Gregory. He beats himself up everyday for acting like that to him. He remembers about that very same night when Gregory finally said something about it. Jack was at the kitchen table and Gregory was making some food for himself. The kitchen window was open to let in the humid summer breeze, the air in the kitchen stayed tense.\n\n \n“What’s your problem?” Gregory asked, suddenly. “You won’t talk to me. And when you do, it’s nothing very nice.”\n\n \n“Nothing,” Jack said grumpily, keeping his eyes fixated on the magazine he flipped through.\n\n “That’s bull,”\n\n\n\n“Well it’s nothing you would care about anyway,”\n\n\n\n“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Just tell me what’s going on.”\n\n \nJack finally looked up at Gregory, who was leaning against the counter with a frustrated expression.\n\n\n“I can’t believe you’re leaving me to move thousands of miles away for god knows how long.” He said. Gregory visibly inhaled. His mouth twitched.\n\n\n\n“I cannot believe you’d put this off on me. You know I’ve been wanting this. And when I finally get my big break, you are so unsupportive.” he said. “You’ve known about me moving for months!” he shouted.\n\n \n“Yeah, well you’ve known exactly how I’ve felt about you for years.” Jack replied. Gregory seemed taken back.\n\n\n\n“Is… is that what this is about?” He asked quietly, “I thought we agreed that we were putting our dreams before each other.”\n\n \nThey did agree. The two agreed years ago, when they had met at community college and fell in love, that they’d put themselves before each other’s relationship. Jack had plans of being a big time writer and poet while Gregory had plans of being a professional dancer. They were very big dreams with much intent to make them a reality. They didn’t want a relationship to hold them back. This is the reason they only remained friends, and never engaged in any sort of romantic relationship, despite their mutual confessions to each other.\n\n \n“Things change.” Jack said. “And now I hate you for leaving me.” Gregory stomped one foot angrly. His mouth quivered again.\n\n\n\n“You--you are so selfish, Jack,” then he stomped off out of the kitchen and down the hall. Jack heard Gregory’s bedroom door slam shut, making him wince.\n\n \nLater, Jack turned off all the lights in the house. He passed by Gregory’s room, which was silent. He just went to his own room and went to bed for the night.\n\n \nHe couldn’t fall asleep. He stared up at the ceiling fan, or he turned over to face the window. He was so horrible for acting the way that he did. And on the last night that his friend was here.\n\n \nThe door creaked open in the midst of the silence. There was shuffling, and the bed dipped down under the weight of someone new. Jack scooted just slightly as Gregory lied down and wrapped his arms around him.\n\n \nThere was silence again. Jack continued to stare at the darkness, and Gregory was just laying on his side, with his face pushed to Jack’s chest. Neither could sleep. They just lied still in those little hours they had together, in silence.\n\n \nJack had a million things to say. He had mean things to say and he had sad things and even pleads to try and make Gregory stay, even though he knew it was too late. It was too late. So he didn’t even bother. His mind scrambled, and his eyes pricked with tears. He blinked those away as he heard a sigh come from Gregory.\n\n \nGregory turned over to look at the alarm clock next to the bed.\n\n \n“I gotta be at the airport in an hour,” he commented, quietly, his voice a bit hoarse. He pushed himself off Jack’s bed and stood up. “Aren’t you gonna come drop me off?” There was a small pause.\n\n\n\n“No,”\n\n \nJack felt bad, because he did want to help his friend with his luggage and make sure he got on the right plane to New York. But he was so hurt. He thought that it was better this way. Even if it meant being a coward. Gregory held the door open.\n\n\n\n“So this is where I leave you then?” he asked. Jack could only see the whites of his glassy eyes.\n\n \n“Now you know how I feel,”\n\n \nThere was a sniff. Jack turned towards the window so he could ignore Gregory crying.\n\n \n“You’re not going to even say goodbye?”\n\n \n“No,”\n\n \nThere was a shuffle, and the door shut quietly. Jack blinked as he heard a few struggles out in the hallway. The front door of the home shut. That shut made Jack’s heart tear into pieces. He heard the cab zoom off into the dark early morning.\n\n \nJack reached under his pillow and pulled out a white shirt with black writing. He turned onto his side, and buried his face into it as he started sobbing. It smelled like Gregory. And it overwhelmed Jack. He was so mean and stupid to treat someone like that. Someone he loved and just let go.\n\n ***\n\n \nJack opened his eyes and looked over at his open closet. The shirt was still there. Some nights, Jack can’t sleep without that shirt. Some nights he sleeps with his new roommate so that he doesn't have to think about the shirt.\n\n \nThe man picked up his pens and blank lined papers and set them gently back onto the table. Dear Gregory, he began to write. How do you sleep?\n\n \nDo you sleep well? I don’t. I haven’t been able to sleep properly since you left. Tell me that you can’t sleep because you’re thinking of me too.\n\n \nJack crossed out the last sentence, and just crumpled the paper. He threw it, and grabbed a new paper. He looked at the clock on his nightstand. He’d been sitting there for hours. Just like he had been last night and the night before. And literally a lot of the nights for the past couple of months. He hated the feeling so much.\n\n \nGregory, he wrote.\n\n \nI’m sorry, okay? I’m really, really sorry. Please come back to California.\n\n \nDear Gregory, he wrote.\n\n \nI’m just trying to say I miss you.\n\n \nHe looked down at his writing for a bit. Then he was startled by the phone ringing from the kitchen. Jack sighed.\n\n \n“Bobby, can you get that?” he shouted. He waited for an answer. There was no answer. Bobby probably wasn’t home from school yet despite how late it was. He’s always in the library studying.\n\n \nJack got up from his chair and went to his door and opened it, the ringing phone more loud and prominent this time. He went up to it and took it off the hook.\n\n\n\n“Hello?”\n\n\n\n“Hey, Jack,”\n\n\n\nHis heart immediately stopped, as his eyes watered. The voice; so clear, so familiar, and unforgettable.\n\n \n“Gregory?” he asked, “Is that you?”" } ]

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

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: No more laundry.\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1672\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a murder story where the murder weapon is the knife used to carve a pumpkin." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It's a mortuary fact that dead bodies should not be buried without a banana. Most of the dead people around our town drink too much coffee and spout their mouths out in public, then they just die, die, and the explosive parts of their personality gather energy.\n\nFor example, Hilda Benderhole used to have the most terrible intergestion about the way my dog urinated all over her flowers. We all know that flowers need the dogs, especially in a drought. When Hilda died, her husband wouldn't even use those flowers for her gravesite. Bad Muju.\n\nWell, Hilda rang the bell a few days later. (Our town still puts bell wire in the caskets because we had that issue with the last Mayor). Hilda rang and rang the bell, which is now electronic and requires the AAA batteries laid down in mismatched polarities. The batteries resemble Charlie Chocolate's grandparents who all shared one bed, face to feet, so that they never got the Senior version of Frisky.\n\nHilda is buzzing that bell for hours and hours. The bellwire goes to the Police because they are paid to care. Only our Police were being loaned out to neighboring Salinas because they actually use them while the people of Purdy do not.\n\nWe all have weapons at all times because we call them tools. We call guns 'food makers' , knives are 'food carvers', box blade knives are 'food openers' etc. etc. We cannot steal from one another since that incident with the church plate and the fingers that came off with lopers. Our town doesn't believe in bail, defense lawyers or most of the Last Constitution. We like the 1215 Magna Carta version that was easier to read.\n\nNext, Hilda rang her husband. After two days of waiting, Ol' Joe Benderhole was out at the local coffeehouse, showing his farmer tan to the ladies and asking for extra whip cream on his fancy Euro-trash coffee. Man needed some intimacy after forty years with Hilda, we get it. But why does Ol' Joe Benderhole have to ask for extra whip cream on the coffee? He licks it slow as he talks, hoping that someone likes his technique. The man is disgusting. My kids are always watching.\n\nThe circuit from Hilda's coffin went to the Police, then her husband, and finally the church. Our church doesn't exactly meet daily, (unless you want to stab your spouse in their sleep or something). We _might_ have a potluck on a wednesday because there is one homeless guy in town and he's too proud to take our leftovers. This inspires my children to say \"Ham-oit doesn't eat them and so why should we?\"\n\nI tap their knuckles with a wooden spoon and say: \"Spaghetti taste better on the second day!\"\n\nEveryone _knows_ that, except Ham-oit who has no refrigerator.\n\nHilda is ringing her bell during the Daily Show, and then the Tonight Show, and then the Late-Late-Show. She hasn't figured out that people need down time. The times of the day when they just zone out. This is the reason that door-to-door salesmen fail in our town. We are all very busy now that entertainment is streaming. We might even wet the couch if the plot is thick enough.\n\nDoo-To-Door Upholstery cleaners do very well in our town. Jimmy is a former convict and we trust that we can leave the house and let him clean all our urine soaked sofas. He can even go clean around my wife's jewelery in the master bedroom. He can see where the family does its business. He is mostly cleaning around our town's hound dogs. A properly trained dog can put eighty pounds of affection on Jimmy as soon as he puts the wrong thing in his cleaning jumpsuit. But Jimmy's Convict Carpet & Upholstery Service doesn't have to ring the doorbell. He doesn't have to knock because he is so busy that everyone meets his appointments faithfully.\n\nAfter several days of not eating, ringing her stupid bell like we were her servants, Hilda is probably fishing around for some water. The Soledad Prison officials tell us that people can withstand solitary confinement for a nearly a week before they get some really psychotic dreams. The Boy Scouts say that you only get three days without water.\n\nWe listen to the Boy Scouts more than the prison and always put in a brass carafe that was used for the monthly Last Supper, the um... communion thing (a pyx). We usually buy another brass pyx on Amazon after a death. We used to just burry people dry but there was that situation with the Steven's boy, who had become a Buddhist. He didn't tell anyone he was a Buddhist, but we read his facebook post after death, had to exhume the kid, add 4 items to the casket to go with the 4 elements of the Earth, rebury the kid, and get a Buddhist Master from the city.\n\nIt was too complicated for most of us but we like to be 'Thorough.' That's how the Boy Scouts got to earn community badges by filling brass carafes from the Last Supper, tossing them into the coffins with a lid, and then they had to string up the bells.\n\nOne of the kids going for his electronics badge had the clever idea to only let the bells ring in one place at a time. If Hilda had been buzzing \"I'M ALIVE, I\"M ALIVE\" all night to all 200 families, I think we coule have just cut the wires and let us all get some sleep. Some people should stay dead like that.\n\nInstead, I wsa trying to avoid cleaning the master bedroom. Even as a grown-arse-man the thought of spending hours to dust, vacuum, windows, hospital corners, fold clothes (My Lord, I'll just take those single use painter overalls of plastic). Except my kid is an environmentalist so I have to fold clothes for hours.\n\nYeah. I'll take a second job and get an Oh-Pare (Aupair, whateva) because you can run them at the federal wage and only let them out 2 weekends each months. It's like old school slaving for people that arrive from France.\n\nAnyways, the red bar in the garage was blinking. I could see it from the second story master-bedroom-window because the other direction had laundry. \"Oh my. That looks tantalizing.\"\n\nA person needs an emergency excuse to get out of laundry with my wife. Dead People? Dead neighbor Hilda Benderhole was enough. For I am a man of caring.\n\nDrove down to our cemetery, past the guard at the Solid Waste Landfill which is the only legal place our county allows dead people to remain. Showed the guard my shovel so I didn't have to weigh in and weigh out. It makes funeral processions very long. Especially if there is a person taking his wood scraps in a trailer but he hasn't covered his load; amateur. The funeral backs up all the way into highway 1 sometimes.\n\nI'm trying to remember which plot is Hilda Benderhole, born in 1959, beloved person to someone, dead this day without children. The icon on her headstone is a flower. That's insane since we didn't give her any flowers because she said my dog deflowered her prcious flowers.\n\nI take the pickaxe out of the truck. Hilda was a mean person and so we just put concrete over most of her body. Used the cheap six hundred dollar pine box because \"the rental coffin\" that is like a Cadillac of Aluminum at twelve thousand dollars and has a trap door on the bottom -- It wasn't natural enough for Mr. Benderhole.\n\nWe left the proper air gaps, which are a county regulation. Left the carafe of water, the Scouts set up the wire, and the mortician forgot to put a banana in her bum. Joe Benderhole was too cheap to pay for the banana. I suddenly realized that as I was sledging away on the sides of the tomb so that I didn't hit Hilda in the face directly. If anyone needed the banana, it was Hilda, because that woman must have woke up with a some terse words, and besides, even the homeless need to eat.\n\nSo I got a little air hole picked away. Because whoever 'touched it last' is responsible. (That's a real law in the trades. It's not just for kids anymore). I pecked the air hole so gently after getting half the sides done. It was a carefully timed event because the sound of that woman's voice makes me angry.\n\nI said, \"Hold your tongue for a few minutes. You don't want to distract me. This is neighbor Tommy. \"\n\nBy her silence, she must have understood that there were residual feelings that must have came back to life when i found out she wasn't dead. Instead, she pushed a small knife through the air hole. It was that kind of knife that a person gets at the Dollar Fifty store. The kind that used to cost a dollar, before China and The Fed got together give people a bad day; inflation.\n\nI didn't want to touch the thing. It was evidence. Evidence that Joe Benderhole was drinking his whip cream coffee too fast. He should have stabbed her deeper. \"No one likes a half ass, Joe!\"\n\nHilda, oh (sweet) Hildegard, the dearly departed, she wiggled that pumpkin carver knife over and over, obvious to anyone at the dump/graveyard that she wanted it out of her coffin/crypt. She wanted it into the hands of someone that should bring her justice.\n\nI looked at my puppy dog that liked Hilda's Flowers so much. I let him come over to where I was working (because I whistled and he came) and then I put a little beef jerky from the pocket so he would stay in one place.\n\nI said \"deficate. DEF-I_CATE!\" but the hound just looked like I was ordering him to do something that my wife would yell about." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Over These Still Rising Waters\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1863\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character or a narrator saying, “Don’t you remember?”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Don’t you remember?” his wife — his wife! — says, giving him a purely curious look despite the scorn that Alex knows he deserves. Briana stands at the window nearest to him, its glass having long become miniscule shards on the dusty warehouse floor. The sun’s light gives her large afro a blossoming halo, her dark skin glowing with gold undertones. She’s a vibrant painting, a masterpiece made flesh even with the travel-worn black clothes she wears. \n“I don’t,” he responds and looks down at his ragged sneakers, they were practically falling apart on his feet. “but it sounds fun. I’m glad Nairobi is the place we picked for vacation. I’ve always wanted to go to Kenya.” He fidgets in his damp chair, wincing at the feeling of pooling water beneath his jeans. \n“Is there anything you do remember? Like our new house or how you got that scar?” she points at the jagged line that runs from his left eyebrow to his cheek. “Or even . . . our honeymoon?” Briana’s voice shakes, her speech hesitant. It's like a punch to his gut. \nAlex clenches his fist where they rest in his lap and racks his mind for anything that would wipe that look of hopeful desperation from Briana’s face. But he found none. He had no memories of the last seven years, of his wife and their three children, or of the way the world ended. There is nothing in his head beyond his college graduation. \nWhen he says as such to Briana, her quiet “okay” is as heart-breaking as her tear-filled eyes had been the first time he’d woken up in that hospital. Alex still remembered her sobs as he ran from her, terrified of his own shadow and everything that crossed him. That fear skyrocketed once he’d burst from the hospital’s entrance doors and had immediately been besieged by the waterlogged undead. It was hell, but his wife had saved him. \nAnd since then, all he seemed to do was hurt her. \nBriana turns back to the window, staring out at the city with a distant look in her eye. Her full lips are pressed together tightly and she takes slow, measured breaths. Her posture is stiff and she’s trying not to cry. \nAlex swallows, stands, and makes his way to her side. The smell of chlorophyll and rusting metal grows stronger as he stops behind her. His hand hovers over her shoulders, wanting desperately to touch, to pull her into his embrace. But he doesn’t. He drops his hand knowing he isn’t the man she’d grown to love. Not yet. \n“I’m sorry,” he whispers, watching every small twitch of her face. “I’m sorry I can’t be him.”\nBriana glances up from the corner of her eye, a sad smile on those soft lips. “You are him. You’re my husband now and forever. Even if you don’t remember loving me, you haven’t left. That counts for something, doesn’t it?” \nHe smiles back just as sad, just as hopeful. “Yeah.”\nShe turns away from him again and Alex follows her line of sight to the city below. He frowns. The water level had risen drastically last night. Submerged now were the rooftops of every building unfortunate enough to not have more than five stories. The stop sign outside of the warehouse was completely submerged, its red paint dying the water around it a pale red. The scene is still though. His newspaper lay where he’d dropped it the day before, a few inches below the water and frozen as if in ice. He could still see in great detail the place where he’d tried to tear it in anger. \nFar, far below him in the horrifyingly clear sea, Alex could see the concrete streets. And the bodies. Faces stiff with horror, arms raised as if to shield their faces, legs poised to run, clothes torn, blood hanging frozen where it had bled from abused flesh. He could see it all. The waters swallowed everything but hid nothing. It's dead quiet as Alex takes in the underside of the car that sits under the window; weeds and tree branches stuck to its large wheels. If he leaned out a little, he could skim his finger across the water from where he stood. \nAlex let out a shaky breath, unease growing. “Maybe we should leave a bit earlier than planned,” he suggested. Briana nods, eyes sharp. \nWhen the sun set and the rain started again, those bodies beneath them would rise to the surface and walk solidly on their graves. They would talk, and sing, and play together like they were alive, but when they saw the living, they would become beasts; laughter ringing eerily from torn, rotting mouths. \n“Yeah, I know. The dead are getting more active too. Last night,” Briana bites her lip and frowns, “ they were climbing things. One of them even jumped on the stop sign outside. If we move any slower, we’ll miss Port Nevaeh and the children.” His wife turns from the window and makes her way to the back of the room, gathering their sleeping bags and equipment and stuffing them back into their backpacks. Alex follows her and helps, watching her from the corner of his eye as he turns off the portable heater and puts it away. There’s a question on the tip of his tongue. \nWill she cry if I remind her that I don’t know my own children’s names?\nBriana stands and zips her backpack, her mouth upturned. “It will be alright. You may not remember them but they still love you. When you meet them, you’ll see that. And maybe you’ll recall some things too.” \nAlex nods and stands, putting on his backpack as he says, “What are their names?”\nBriana pauses, biting her lip hard. He leans forward, frown deepening as he gently pulls her lip out from her teeth. “I’m sorry, did I upset you? I shouldn’t have asked that.”\nHis wife smiles and steps back, widening the distance between them. “No no, I’m just being silly. You have amnesia so it’s to be expected you don’t know their names.” Her voice is shaking again. She folds her arms under her chest, almost hugging herself. “First there’s Nadia, who just turned thirteen last week. She’s our little painter. Then there's Willow; she’s ten and is just as in love with soccer as you are. And lastly there's our youngest, Marshall. He’s five, likes to touch everything, and wants to steal the sun when he grows up.” \nBriana stares at the ground as she speaks, fondness seeping into her tone. She gives the first truly happy smile he’d seen. Alex’s heart hurts at the sight of her because despite her love for what they have built in the past seven years, he feels no recollection at the name of his children. And he hates it. There should be something, a spark of long-held adoration or the memory of childish laughter. Instead all there was, was a vague recollection of his graduation night. \nIt was raining, Alex remembered as he thought back, and it had been doing so for three days straight.\n At the beginning of their journey when his wife told him that the apocalypse had only started six months ago, Alex had been confused. He remembered the way rainwater had burst through the high-class restaurant windows in a large wave, soaking his graduation afterparty and ruining the food. There had been screaming, crying, and sirens wailing in the distance. He had hit his head on one of the tables and fallen to the hardwood floor with a loud, wet thud. He had thought he was dying, only to wake up in a hospital room seven years older with a wife who had traveled across the now sunken America to find him—leaving the safety of her city-ship to find him even after everyone else had declared him a lost cause.\nAmazement warms him as he smiles back at Briana. “I don’t remember anything, but I’m sure I’ll feel something once I see them again.” Alex doesn’t know if that was true or not, but what he does know is that he didn’t want his wife to be upset. \nHis Briana, beautiful and brave and everything he could have dreamed of, grins back at him with sparkling eyes. “I know you will,” she says, cheer in her soft voice. “I have faith.”\nThen she turns and walks to their small powerboat. It's docked in a corner where the brick has completely fallen away, leaving a makeshift doorway. As Briana loads their things on the boat, Alex takes one last glance back at the warehouse. It was a decrepit thing that had served them well, though tall and looking ready to topple over at any moment. For the past week, they had switched between here, an abandoned high school, and the towering mall downtown. But now the latter places were submerged and he knew that tonight's storm would soon swallow the former. He turned away and climbed into the cockpit, sitting down in the old leather driver’s seat with a huff. \nAlex stares out at the calm waters. “We’ll go all the way this time, right?” he asks. \nBriana appears beside him, still smiling. “Port Nevaeh departs Thursday, so we have three days to get down to Mississippi from here. So yes, straight on till morning.” \nHe hums in response. In a few days he would see all that he’d forgotten. His Nadia, his Willow, and his Marshall on that great ship he’d been so excited about after hearing it was being built. He’d look them in the eye and pretend that he felt something for them, and then hope that they’d be just as generous as their mother. His stomach churns as he brings out the key and turns on the boat, the engine rumbling to life. Briana, still watching him, places a delicate hand atop his own. \n“Don’t worry. You’ll remember something.\n“But what if I don’t? What if I can’t ever get those memories back? What will you do if I can’t love you like I used to?” Alex winces the moment those words left his mouth. Briana's expression turns downcast and punishes him for his brash tongue, her eyes just barely avoiding tearing up. “Sorry,” he says with a grimace, about to pull away.\nShe stops him and twists so they face each other in their seats, interlacing their hands. Her knees brushed against his as she stared into his eyes. “Even still, I’ll love you. As long as you have me, you don’t have to worry about being alone.” Briana gives him a grin wild with mischief, “We will be here till death do us part.” \nAmusement chases away some of the worry drilling at him and Alex manages a chuckle. He squeezes her hand, breathing in the joy that radiates from his wife. “Till death do us part,” he repeats, his own smile growing as wild as hers. \nAs their boat pulls off and the warehouse steadily shrinks behind them, Alex can only think of one thing. \nI have a crush on my wife!" } ]

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

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Christmas in July\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 3018\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Althea woke up and remembered it was Christmas.\nShe pushed off the blankets that were feeling exceedingly heavier with each passing morning, and placed her feet down on the warm, wooden floors.\n“Warm floors,” she said to herself, “I’ll never get over warm floors.”\nWhen she was a little girl, there were things promised from the future and things that couldn’t even be imagined. Althea was still waiting on the things promised, but the unimaginable had arrived time and again, and each time, she couldn’t believe how much energy people expended on erasing minor inconveniences while the greater problems of the world were left unsolved.\nA few months earlier, Althea had celebrated her eighty-fourth birthday, but since it was Christmas, a fuss was not made. People on the street wished her well, and the staff at the hotel presented her with a cake when she came downstairs to start her day, but that was all. The holidays were assertive. They did not allow for sharing.\nShe had lived in this hotel since she was sixty-five. After retiring from the robotics company she’d founded in the early 80’s, she was determined to relax for a change. Her life had not included marriage or children, because work filled every moment with chaos and technology. Althea had made herself rich coming up in a world where men held the purse strings. She had been given every award on the planet when she’d decided to retire. Magazines featured her prominently and the question posed again and again was--\nWhat will you do now?\nThe answer, she knew, was die. Even though sixty-five wasn’t old, it also wasn’t young. Althea knew that most people in her family lived long lives, but who was to say she wouldn’t be an anomaly? She’d had a health scare when she was thirty and then again when she was forty. Both were handled quickly, and she hadn’t had any issues since aside from the usual wear and tear. She was what her parents would have called “spry.” There wasn’t much exercise going on, but she could still climb a flight of stairs without complaining and if she had to pick something up off the floor, she didn’t require assistance. The bar was lowered a little more with each passing year, but part of her enjoyed that. She liked subverting expectations. It was what had allowed her to move through her industry like an octopus in the deep.\nEven when she’d made her first big windfall after a successful product launch, she had kept her living conditions simple. A two-story farmhouse out on an albeit sizable plot of land right outside of Cambria, California, a little town that enjoyed antique stores and loaded salads. It wasn’t until the day after her retirement party that she called in a contractor to talk about building something a little more…intriguing.\n“You did a decent job with these plans,” he said, looking over what Althea had been drawing up for the past year and apparently forgetting that she has over thirty patents, including one for a mechanical kidney, “But I don’t get what this is? Is it some kind of…amusement park?”\nThat inquiry reminded her that she needed to have people signing NDAs moving forward. The building began almost immediately. Long life or not, there wasn’t any point in wasting time. Althea tried to keep the construction team small, but it was a large project, and there was no way around that. A few of her close friends, some of whom were also retired, assisted with the more unusual elements of the undertaking. She managed to deconstruct it so that everybody knew what piece they were working on, but without being able to get a sense of the big picture. Normally, that was not how Althea liked things. When she ran her company, she had always wanted everybody invested in the overall vision, but this was unlike anything she had ever done. It required much more secrecy.\nIt wasn’t that she was concerned people would fear for her sanity. Who cares if people think you’re not in your right mind after a certain age as long as they don’t try putting you away? No, it was her legacy she was thinking about, especially since it would be all she’d be leaving behind. She’d worked hard to earn her place in the history books, and she didn’t want to wind up spoken of like Howard Hughes--the genius who went off the deep end and tarnished all his best accomplishments with some upsetting eccentricities.\nIt took nearly two years to complete the project even when Althea paid extra to have work happening around the clock. The closer it got to completion, the thinner her patience ran. When it was finally finished, only the lead contractor and a few of the tech specialists were there to see it all come to life. One of them whispered in her ear and asked what she was thinking as she stood there on a train platform looking out onto a beautiful town covered in snow.\n“Merry Christmas,” Althea said, “Merry Christmas.”\n* * * * * * *\nIt probably had something to do with growing up in California. As a little girl, Althea never got to have that kind of traditional Christmas one sees in storybooks. There was never any snow, and because she grew up poor, there were never many presents either. Her family lived on a farm similar to the one she was living on now, although they worked theirs--and hard. By the time two of her brothers were teenagers, they looked old enough to start their own families. The only enrichment or creativity to speak of was a battered copy of “A Christmas Carol” that some traveling library had given to Althea as it was passing by her house. Her brothers made fun of her for accepting the book since it was the middle of summer, but she was transfixed by the old man on the cover sitting in an armchair, holding a candle, while a ghost hovered above him and snow fell past his window.\nThere was so much in that illustration that Althea had never seen--an armchair, a ghost, but most of all, snow.\nShe used the book to teach herself how to read along with some help from her mother, who would use the farm equipment catalogue and whatever else she could find. She’d read it over and over regardless of the time of year, but the first Christmas Eve after receiving it, she had the honor of reading some of it out loud to her family before bed. Her brothers, who were not known to behave when their sister was the center of attention, sat rapt in front of her, and in that moment, she thought she might become something of an actress.\n“Very nice, Althea,” said her father when she had finished the first chapter, “Very nice indeed.”\nAlthea was the last to leave the farm, and when she did, she swore her next life would be in New England. She dreamt of finding a little place that put wreaths on its doors every December with carolers and a giant Christmas tree in the town square.\nWhat her life would be once she got there was anyone’s guess. Her fantasy of being an actress disappeared over time when she realized that speaking in front of large groups of people would be out of the question. She didn’t have the bravado for it. She thought about being a writer, but the mere suggestion of it nearly caused her parents to disown her. She supposed she would save up some money working as a secretary in Los Angeles until she had enough to travel east. Once she was there, it wouldn’t matter what she did.\nShe’d be home.\n* * * * * *\nHer first robot was an accident. In the fifties, robotics was being pioneered far across the pond in Bristol. In California, Althea found herself working for an engineer who drank too much in a rotting studio in Chatsworth. The money was decent, because her boss, Mr. Vershun, came from a family full of oil money, but he was more of a tinkerer than a proper engineer, although he certainly had a grand imagination. He had aspirations to break into a world only science fiction had showcased up until then.\n“Robotics,” he told Althea the day he hired her, “We’re in the robotics business, you and me.”\nSome secretaries end up marrying the men they work for, but Althea became more like Vershun’s mother. She’d pick up after him, see that he ate enough, and even threatened him when he pulled an all-nighter. Despite his passion, he had no proclivity for tech, and it turned out, some things are closer to art than they are to science when it comes to being adept at them. There are prodigies in music and prodigies in creating robots. Mr. Wilfred Vershun was no such prodigy.\nAlthea, however, was.\nAfter organizing all of her employer’s files, poring over his submissions to journals, and transcribing all his thoughts, somehow the intricacies of his obsession became etched into her consciousness. Once there, she found she could move those details around as she liked, and soon, on nights when Vershun had passed out at his desk, she became the tinkerer. She began to build, and fairly quickly, she realized she might not be heading east after all.\nIt wasn’t that her interest wouldn’t travel with her, but in Los Angeles, she had an entire studio at her disposal with only minor interference from Vershun, who was slowly drinking himself to death no matter how much Althea objected. That studio became the birthplace of what would one day be her company. Had she been a man, it might not have taken decades to come to fruition, but Althea was steadfast. She knew she’d been given some kind of gift, and she would see it through to the end. Once she had, she would use any currency that came from it to purchase the life she wanted in that perfect town with its carolers and Christmas tree.\nJust as some novels never get written and some paintings are never painted, Althea’s dream of a Christmas town in New England began to move further and further out of her grasp not because of failure, but because of success. Once the company was up and running, it couldn’t be easily moved. Money made was put back into the coffers, and there was never any extra for so much as a long weekend in Vermont, let alone a house there.\nWhen she’d made her first million, she decided enough was enough. It was time to live out her dreams. She’d earned it. She’d more than earned it. After some scouting, she found the perfect little town on the border of Massachusetts and New Hampshire. Before jumping into anything, she decided to rent a room at the hotel inn and experience a holiday season there. With her company in its slow season due to the holidays, she could get away for a few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas provided she was back by the first of the year. If all went well, she’d start creating a bicoastal life for herself as she transitioned into a full-time New Englander.\nThat was the plan anyway.\nYears of polishing a dream had made it hard to look at once the light hit. When Althea arrived, the town was very pretty and very quaint, but it didn’t live up to the image she had painted in her head. It was not the Dickensian England portrayed in A Christmas Carol (all the better, honestly, when you consider the social conditions of the time). There were wreaths on doors, but not every door. There were carolers, but they only performed once while she was there, and one of them was slightly off-key. The tree in the town square was decorated, but Althea wanted it to be taller. She wanted it to reach up nearly to the sky.\nShe knew she was being unreasonable, but what kind of dream is reasonable? Especially when it’s the only one you have.\nThe robots had become her entire life, but if suddenly they went away, she wouldn’t care. Not as long as she could have that big armchair with the snow falling outside. She’d even allow a few ghosts to haunt her provided she could wake up on Christmas morning, throw open the shutters, and shout down to a boy below about buying her a goose.\nOn the plane ride home, she thought about whether or not she should try visiting England the following year, but she decided that if it turned out to be as disappointing as well, her heart might not be able to take it.\nNo, the only solution was to create exactly what she wanted. Just like she had built the company from scratch, Althea would have to build her own kind of Christmas.\nIt would only take her a few decades.\n* * * * * * *\n“Good morning, Althea,” said Gerard at the front desk, “Merry Christmas.”\n“Merry Christmas, Gerard,” she responded with a smile, “How’s your arm doing?”\nAs if to answer her, a spark jumped out from just above his elbow.\n“I’ll take a look at that after breakfast,” she said, and made her way out the door.\nIt snowed everyday around 9am. It would continue snowing straight into the evening, but would stop sometime after midnight, long after Althea had gone to sleep.\nShe didn’t always stay at the hotel. Sometimes she’d take the train (which was more of a shuttle) back up to the farmhouse. There, she’d open mail, throw expired items out of her fridge, and act like a normal person for a bit before the boredom nearly made her keel over. Her time in the village (as she called it) began to overtake her time spent in what some would consider the “real world.” In that way, it really was like she’d stepped into a dream. Stepping out soon began to feel foolish. Why spend all that money and time on something and not fully embrace it?\nEvery cog in the operation had been thought out by her. From the solar panels that powered it to the delivery entrance for when large items needed to be restocked, it was all her. It was the closest thing she’d ever have to a child.\nOf course, it was really more like twenty children.\nThere was the hotel--all five stories of it--the bookstore, several restaurants, the gazebo, and the town square that featured a Christmas tree reaching all the way up to the sky. The sky itself was fiber optic. Althea wanted no part of the outside world to touch this place, not even the stars or the fresh air. By containing it, she felt as though she could control time itself. Even the weather was under her command. Whenever she wanted to liven things up, she’d plan a small blizzard and tuck herself into the armchair in her hotel room to read the first chapter of A Christmas Carol out loud to herself while thinking about a family that had left years ago. The last was her middle brother who died in a car accident the year she turned sixty. Longevity might live in the genes, but tragedy lurks on the road.\nShe used her brother’s likeness when designing the android who worked at the hot chocolate shoppe since he always did like chocolate. Using photos of her family, she could recreate them all over town. Her mother was the mayor, her father owned the bookstore, and even Gerard was based on her great-grandfather.\nTheir programming allowed them to develop their own personalities within reason, but they all followed one strict guideline--\nThey must always know that it was Christmas.\nAnd it was always Christmas.\nEach morning was Christmas morning and each night was Christmas Eve.\nAlthea kept track of what day it really was in the outside world, but within the compound, as she began to think of it, it was only Christmas.\n* * * * * *\nThat day, after having breakfast and fixing Gerard’s arm, she walked to the center of town for the daily tree lighting. All around her were people who weren’t people. There were adults, children, and even some who looked to be almost as old as she was, but none of them would ever age or get sick or die.\nA small child that was modeled after a sister that had passed away from the flu when Althea was five ran up to her and wished her a Merry Christmas.\nAlthea smiled, reached into her pocket, pulled out a candy cane, and handed it to the little girl. They did this everyday, but everyday Althea found it charming. She always made sure to have the candy cane on hand, and if she remembered correctly, the little girl was programmed to leave the tree lighting, go straight to the hotel, and leave it in the jar on the front desk where Althea would retrieve it the following morning.\nIt wasn’t even real.\nVery little here was.\nAnd Althea didn’t mind at all.\nWhen the countdown to the lighting began, she looked around and saw a beautiful wreath on every door. There were carolers in front of the tree singing “O Come All Ye Faithful” in perfect harmony. The air was not fresh, but it smelled of pine and gingerbread.\nOutside, she knew it was late July. Either the 20th or the 21st. She would make a trip up to the farmhouse in early August, but that might be her last of the year. She was far too happy here.\nBesides, with her gone, who would give the little girl her candy cane?\nWho would fix Gerard’s arm if it began to spark?\nAnd who would all those ghosts haunt in the middle of the night while the snow fell, and fell, and fell?" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Beyond the Canvas\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1433\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Through the years, buildings have changed in design, with less care for intricacies most have adopted modern features of minimalism and futurism, this is not to say they lack in receiving admiration but something about those who stood decades before exuded grandness that one is simply unable to forget. Amongst most fine buildings of this nature was the museum in its ancient glory. History ran across its corridors, plastered itself against its walls and spread throughout its rooms adding more than just the enchanting exterior, within was otherworldly.\n As days passed, crowds appreciated it all from the heavy mahogany doors to each intimately placed brick that protected the valuable artifacts inside, and those artifacts would steal the remainder of each viewer’s breath. Beyond historians’ trinkets and their depictions sculpted in statues were paintings that held stories on their canvas speaking to those who could hear such nonverbal language. In the gallery section, paintings brought life catching all eyes, especially their newest edition, Love’s Dancer. An exquisitely crafted piece of a beautiful Bajan girl posed flamboyantly, arms lifted above her head as her hips were shown to be gyrating, beads adorned her body with a floral-patterned blouse tied tightly and a flowing skirt falling on her waist brushing bare feet. Her story was moving, a clear explanation for the longing in her eyes. She was painted with an abstract festival behind her in shades of rich gold and royal blue. Love's Dancer showed a woman who searches for love as she dances around the world hoping to find a partner to share her moves. Many chased but failed to learn love’s dance and understand her passion none felt her fire, the burning desire to dance the night away and until she found the one, she would dance alone, even on the most festive of days.\n This painting graced the walls of the gallery, taking its place beside other masterpieces, one being “The Warrior Kovu” A realism painting of An intimidating, robust black man with locks falling to his waist as he sat caressing his spare between his legs, His tattered clothing exposed his powerful arms detailed with every vein and every battle scar and his prized one, a scar over his right eye in true lion style to meet his eyes though oil painted they stared straight to the souls of any that gazed. This piece was immaculate a true embodiment of a Black warrior. It could be said as these paintings faced each other it was as if their eyes were connected.\n The sun set on the museum casting golden hues over the people leaving and as the day darkened the moonlight would wake the life within its walls.\n Loves dancer stretched freeing herself from her frozen pose.\n“Wow! That was a long day.” She moaned, twisting her body from the stiffness. Looking around she watched in awe as various portraits left their positions and statues leapt off their pedestals. She had never been in a museum before, to her she felt like the people that came to see her.\n The crashing waves in the landscape portraits made her feel peaceful like those of flowers in the fields, some pieces were of beautiful people, laughing with others as they marvelled at who had the better brush strokes. Statues complimented the dancer as they strolled by while others questioned her accent.\n“I’m from Barbados” she would say trying to speak for them to best understand.\nGasps rose from the others at her response but one of them replied differently.\n“And just where is this place you speak of lady?” A voice deep enough to make their frames tremble boomed from across the room.\nAt that moment, their eyes met once again, and though she had moved to take in her surroundings his eyes never left her. She lost her breath for a moment then said.\n“It is an island in the Caribbean.”\n“Oh?”\n“Yes and where are you meant to be from?”\n“No one knows.”\nThe dancer got Chills from this answer.\n“Mysterious. What is your story?”\nHis head lifted slightly, eyes narrowing analyzing her, the most gorgeous being he’s ever seen.\n“I am a warrior, my Lady”.\nEscaping his gaze her eyes fell on his background which was littered with the residue of war.\n“I have fought all my life to the point of standing undefeated now I sit here with the memories of all I’ve lost and the strength I’ve gained.”\nHis speech was slow for her to hang onto every word.\n“I see. Have you a name?”\n“It is Kovu. For the scar on my eye”\n“It is nice to meet you, though I wasn’t given a name just Love’s Dancer.”\nThinking for a moment the warrior said, “I shall call you Zara, it means radiance.”\n“Where did you get this name? It is beautiful”\n“It is a part of my story; I just can’t remember why?”\n“Well, Zara it is, guess that means I am now part of your story.”\nHis hardened face softened with a smile for a moment.\n“I saw that warrior” the dancer blushed. And from that, his smile couldn’t fade as quickly as before.\n Conversations between these pieces flowed effortlessly until the sun rose, warning them to return to their positions for the gallery opening. Frozen in place their eyes remained fixed gazing within each other. The hours felt like days before they could simply hear the other's voice for that was all they could do from their frames.\n This became their routine, wonderful nights of burning infatuation held by the sadness of their distance so close yet a painting's prison was their canvas. The dreaded realization that she could never tend to his scars, and he could never hold her to sway to her song was agony.\nWeeks of this could break the hearts of even the stone statues who had none.\n Another sunrise for them to pose for viewing, it was to be another long day. True artists could see the small changes in their eyes even their body language spoke of desire and sadness. A woman whose features reflected Loves Dancer; gently placed her finger to stroke the dancer's cheek.\n“Hey! No touching the art!” A stern guard yelled.\n“Oh! I’m sorry I'm the Artist that painted her.”\n“Oh, I hadn’t realized it was you welcome back Miss”\n“Thank you, Zara is fine no need for formalities” The artist smiled.\nFrom behind her a tall, dark gentleman with long beautiful locs turned to her and asked.\n“Your name is Zara?”\nShe turned to meet his gaze and was stunned by his handsomeness.\n“Yes. It is why do you ask?”\n His eyes softened as he responded.\n, “Your name means radiance, that was the name of a friend very close to me, she died when we went to war.”\n“Oh, I never knew that thank you for the meaning, I am so sorry. Is war how you got that scar over your eye?”\nHe looked down at her nodding to her question. Zara looked at his face.\n“I've seen you before.”\nThe man stepped aside to reveal the painting of a warrior behind him.”\n“This is my piece, “The Warrior Kovu”. In war no one wins, we all lose something, to be undefeated is seen as glorious yes but what is it when you lose everything for that title? What is glorious about scars and memories of loss?”\nZara felt his pain as her own from those words, reaching out she touched him so gently he flinched slightly, this told her so much. She held his hand and guided him over to her painting.\n“This is my piece, Loves Dancer.”\nThe man smiled, staring at her painting.\n“I admire this piece every time I come here. You are exceptionally talented, and your brush strokes are flawless.”\nZara smiled sweetly “Coming from such a great artist I’m honoured as yours is my favourite in the gallery, I am in awe at the mindfulness to detail and the warrior's story.”\n“Why thank you, my dear, I also find it interesting our pieces appear to be looking at each other”\nZara studied the paintings facing. The way they seemed to be connected made her warm inside. The stranger held Zara's hand and kissed it softly.\n“My name is Joshua; I would like to take you to dinner and get to know you if that is okay.”\n“I would love that, Joshua.”\nAs they left the gallery hand in hand, their paintings smiled. The beginning of a love story painted on separate canvas would live beyond the frames." } ]

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

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: \"Unfolding Destiny\" : A Journey of Resilience and Empowerment\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1037\n\nPrompt:\n\nA crumpled piece of paper holding an unexpected message is carried by the wind. Where did it come from, and where is it going?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Adanna's journey began in the vibrant tapestry of an African setting, in a rural Community called 'Nwokenwe' meaning 'Males Own'. The name implies that males own properties, Lands,including the Women whom they married.It was a Community where unfortunately, societal expectations wove a restrictive narrative for women. Raised in an environment where prevailing beliefs dictated that a woman's destiny and certificates inevitably led to the confines of the kitchen, Adanna faced the headwinds of stereotypes from a young age of 19.\nGrowing up, her dreams faced resistance from a society entrenched in gender roles. However, even as the winds of traditions of Nwokenwe Community threatened to stifle her aspirations, Adanna carried within her, the seeds of defiance. In the face of societal norms, she yearned to challenge the status quo and redefined the narrative for herself.\nAs Adanna matured, the crumpled piece of paper, representing her dreams, became a silent rebellion against the limitations imposed upon her. The winds of change whispered the need to break free from stereotypes, promoting gender equality, and providing opportunities for every woman, regardless of marital status, to become what they aspired to be.\nAdanna's journey took a decisive turn when she started planning to pursue her Masters in Gender,Media and Culture at the University of West Minister, United Kingdom.\n Despite societal pressure to conform to traditional roles, she embarked on a path less traveled, fueled by the winds of her own aspirations. It was a bold move that echoed the winds of change sweeping through her life.\nHowever, destiny had its own plans, and in the midst of pursuing her dreams, Adanna found herself entwined in the threads of marriage.The winds of life, now carrying the weight of responsibilities, compelled her to put her aspirations on hold. Yet, Adanna's spirit remained unbroken. Like a resilient tree bending but not breaking in the storm, she adapted to the changing winds.\nMarriage brought its' own set of challenges, especially when intertwined with a narcissistic partner. The winds of adversity howled, but Adanna stood firm, using her experiences to mold her character and strengthen her resolve. In the crucible of challenges, she discovered the power within her to withstand the tempests of life.\nThe unexpected message carried by the wind, represented by a CRUMPLED NOTE, became a turning point. It was a reminder that dreams, though momentarily set aside, could be revisited. Adanna's narrative, interwoven with the winds of resilience, bore witness to the transformative journey of self-discovery and purpose.\n A chapter then suddenly appeared, starring through her stressed face, marked by the sudden removal of her children from school, a tempest that threatened to plunge Adanna into the depths of despair. However, from the storm emerged a phoenix of determination. Creating a makeshift classroom in her sitting room, Adanna utilized the winds of creativity to provide her children with an education that surpassed the confines of traditional learning.\n The winds of destiny, once carrying doubts, now propelled Adanna's children to emerge as the Overall Best in academics and character upon their return to school, and also her two Kids' winning of Silver and Gold Medals Certificates at the Queen's Annual Commonwealth Prize Competition in 2021,2022 and 2023 respectively. This triumph over adversity became a testament to Adanna's resilience and her ability to turn challenges into stepping stones.\n Her journey continued as the crumpled piece of paper, now laden with the echoes of success, revealed its' origin in a low-income neighborhood where societal expectations dared not dream. Adanna's pursuit of her dreams, despite the skepticism surrounding her, became a beacon of hope for others in similar circumstances.\nAs she stepped into the realm of fulfillment, Adanna became an advocate for breaking free from stereotypes, promoting gender equality, and ensuring that every woman, irrespective of her marital status, had the opportunity to chart her own destiny. Her story, an intricate tapestry woven by the winds of change, echoed not only her personal triumphs but also a call for a paradigm shift in societal perspectives.\n In the grand symphony of Adanna's life, the crumpled piece of paper, once carried by the winds of trials, now soared triumphantly. It became a symbol of the power that resides within a destined woman, determined to overcome every challenge on her path to success. Adanna's narrative wasn't just a story; it was a manifesto, a testament to the resilience, determination, and unwavering spirit of a woman who dared to dream against the prevailing winds of tradition.\n In the twilight of her journey, Adanna found herself in the last lap of achieving her dreams, navigating the final stretch with a determination forged in the crucible of challenges. The winds of change, once tempestuous, now gently whispered tales of triumph as she approached the finish line.\n Adanna's story, like a well-worn but resilient piece of paper, carried the imprints of her unwavering will and determination. Her metamorphosis from a woman whose dreams were momentarily set aside to one on the brink of realizing them echoed through the corridors of Nwokenwe Community and resonated with countless others facing similar struggles worldwide.\n The crumpled piece of paper, once a silent messenger, borne by the winds of life, now held a message crafted not only by destiny but also by Adanna's relentless spirit. As she neared the culmination of her journey, the message she bore was one of inspiration, empowerment, and the indomitable strength of the human will.\n In the tapestry of Nwokenwe Community and beyond, Adanna's story became a beacon, illuminating the path for those navigating their own turbulent winds. Through her experiences, she delivered a powerful message—a testament to the extraordinary possibilities that unfold when one dares to unfold the crumpled dreams, determined to reshape destiny.\n In the end, the crumpled piece of paper, once carried by the winds of trials, soared triumphantly, leaving behind a legacy etched in the hearts of those who dared to dream against the prevailing winds of tradition. Adanna, on the verge of realizing her dreams, like the WONDERS OF WIND, powerfully stood as a living testament to the unstoppable force that emerges when a woman's Will and determination unfurl their wings, destined to deliver hope to communities like Nwokenwe and beyond.\nOriginal True Life Story.\nBy Kelechi Duru." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Goldilocks Returns\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2025\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone getting lost, but discovering something they didn’t expect along the way." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I need a second.\n\nI really had no intention of, you know, returning to this house. So many bad memories here. So much trauma. Is it okay if I just sit for a second? If I remember correctly, they only had the two chairs. Well, technically, they had three chairs. \n\nAnd I, an innocent little girl of fifteen, sat in one of the three chairs, and immediately felt as though I was being set upon by the fabric. Certain people recounting my story have said that it was too soft, that first chair, but it wasn’t just that it was soft, it was that I have a sensitivity to very cheap fabric, and this chair was covered in very cheap fabric, because, as we all know, bears do not invest in their furniture. So I sat down, and just--immediately--felt as though my skin was going to crawl off me. I jumped out of that chair and into this other one, which was--It had a kind of brutalist architecture feeling to it. So cold. So unwelcoming to me--a guest. An invited guest? No. But I believe if your house is not a safe space then you should make that clear with a sign on your door in the event that a girl walking through the forest decides she wants to come in. If I had known what would befall me and proceed to haunt me for the rest of my life, I can assure you I would have kept right on walking until I reached that lovely gingerbread house further down the path.\n\nNo, no, I walked in here, and sat down on a chair that repulsed me to my very core and then sat in this horrible wooden contraption that was like sitting on the place where a man’s soul should be. Finally, I sat down on a chair that looked like it would be the best fit for me, and what happened? It broke apart. Cheap construction, because, again, bears don’t believe in well-made household necessities.\n\nWhen that chair broke, a little piece of my childhood broke with it. The impact of me hitting a strange, wooden floor--one that I doubt had been swept for quite some time based on the dust accumulating all over the rest of the house--that feeling has never left me. I still feel aches and pains every time I try to do the simplest thing like run a marathon or put a new roof on my house all by myself, because I won’t pay a contractor, because any podcast will tell you that they’re all murderers. I should have sued for that injury alone, but I didn’t. I did not. Because I do understand that maybe some people, including some people who might wind up on a jury, would feel that if I had never come into the house in the first place, I wouldn’t have sat down on an unstable chair that was not labeled as being dangerous and fallen down causing grievous, lifelong injury to myself.\n\nAnd you know what I would say to people who say that I have to take some responsibility in all of that?\n\nI would say ‘You are victim blaming.’\n\nLittle, tiny, sweet, naive, precious fifteen-year-old girls go wandering through forests all the time. They find empty houses that bears live in all the time. They go into those houses and break things. That’s what children do. Are you saying we should castigate each and every single child that commits breaking and entering? Are you saying we should prohibit children from being alone in the forest without adult supervision? How on earth was I going to bully, I mean, play with, little Gretel if I couldn’t follow her down the path?\n\nKids are going to act like kids, and we need to make sure that every inch of this kingdom is safe for kids to explore and interact with and sit on and eat.\n\nYes, I said eat, because--and this part of the story gets mixed up sometimes, but--I did not have the porridge first. Some have said the smell of porridge is what brought me into the house. Not true. I have refined taste buds. Porridge alone would not cause me to walk into a residence thereby taking my own life into my hands. I may have been innocent, but I was not stupid. No, what brought me in here was my belief that Gretel was hiding in here and I wanted to bully, I mean, harmlessly tease her in a sisterly way for this new haircut her stepmother had given her. When I didn’t find her, and, instead, I found these shoddy chairs, and nearly died from a structural collapse, then, yes, I had to eat something to calm my nerves.\n\nPorridge was the only thing available, because bears are not known for their culinary prowess. There were three bowls sitting out on the table.\n\n(By the way, I don’t know if you’ve been watching the local news lately, but apparently three is a symbol often associated with Satanic rituals. Well, six is, and three is divisible by six. I just find that interesting considering how many three’s there were all over this house.)\n\nI tried the first bowl despite my aversion to germs and my many food allergies. It was freezing. Why these bears left in the middle of lunch and didn’t put the food back in the fridge is beyond me, but I assume it’s because they’re barely civilized. Oh, barely. Ha. God, I’m so funny. I do things like that all the time. My husband is always telling me I’m a riot and that I should do stand-up and write a book, but my gosh, who has the time. I’m thirty now, not fifteen. No more wandering through forests and tormenting--I mean, goofing around with Gretel.\n\nSo the first bowl is cold. The second bowl? Scalding hot. Don’t ask me how the second bowl managed to stay so warm despite the temperature of the first bowl. It’s probably all the Satanism. Bear voodoo and whatnot. My prized palette was nearly burned off after every bone in my body was nearly broken from the chair falling apart. I grabbed the third bowl just hoping it would contain something that wouldn’t poison me, and, luckily for me, it was just right.\n\nThat being said, “just right” is not “delicious” and I only inhaled the small amount of porridge left in the bowl, because I was so famished from stress and the full-on assault I had suffered at the hands of this ghastly house of horrors.\n\nWhen the porridge was finished, I was exhausted I knew I couldn’t make it back out the door and down the path back to my adorable home that I share with my two parents who are still married and neither one is dead unlike Gretel’s mother, who died because she didn’t love Gretel enough. That’s what we used to say back when I was a child. Whether it’s true or not that parents die if they don’t love their children enough isn’t for me to say, but it’s something other people say, and so it must be at least partly true.\n\nAnyway, both my parents were alive, but I couldn’t get to them without recharging my body and my spirit first. Self-care was important to me even before I was all grown up. I went upstairs and, shocker, what did I find?\n\nThree beds.\n\nSame as the chairs this time. The first bed was nothing but tawdry fabric most likely purchased at some bear market where everything is 20% off and won’t last for more than a year. Ten seconds in that bed and I was already breaking out in hives. The second bed was slightly above a prisoner’s cot in terms of comfort. Later in life, I’d need something unforgiving to soothe the back spasms I started having after I escaped from this place, but at the time, it was nothing that would help induce sleep.\n\nThe third bed was suitable enough and I quickly passed out, which was a miracle considering how hot it was in the upstairs bedroom.\n\n(By the way, the child sleeping in the same room as the parents? I’m not saying what I’m thinking, but I’m sure you can guess what I’d be saying if I was saying anything.)\n\nNow, imagine everything I’ve just been through, and there I am, in a strange house, trying to get some sleep to minimize my emotional and physical pain, when I open my eyes, and see three bears standing in front of me.\n\nI thought I was going to be eaten.\nI thought I was going to be mauled.\nI thought my poor parents, both of whom were, unlike Gretel’s parents, alive, were going to lose their only daughter.\n\nThe next thing you know, I had summoned up all my strength, jumped out of bed, run down those rickety stairs right over there (getting more than one splinter in the process, because I loved running through the forest barefoot, what with being a juvenile, angelic fifteen-year-old girl), and dashed straight home where I told the entire story to my father, who ran to get the sheriff so that no other little girl would suffer the same fate I did by wandering into what appeared to be a home that would gladly accept her presence.\n\nAnd yes, I may have tossed around the word “kidnapped” once or twice. It may not have been exactly true, but it’s how I felt. And my feelings are valid. And children must be protected. And bears are evil. Most of them. The majority of them. And that porridge was unseasoned.\n\nIt was all so traumatic.\n\nOf course, the bears weren’t here when the sheriff appeared, which is exactly how innocent creatures act, right? I’m not saying this was all their fault, but I’m saying after I fled, they did the same, and so what does that say about them? If they were so innocent, why would they leave their home and not face the music?\n\nJust asking questions, that’s all I’m doing.\n\nI’ve spent most of my life trying to forget that agonizing day. After I did all those interviews, and spoke with the kingdom’s three most popular magazines, and played myself in the movie version of the story, and authored two books on the whole ordeal, I was ready to put it behind me.\n\nThen, here I was, on my way to market, suddenly lost in the forest, despite how many times I’ve made this journey, because that’s how the forest is, and here you are, a reporter and a photographer, saying something about some tipster informing you that perhaps you might find me near this infamous house on today of all days, the fifteenth anniversary of the tragedy, and lo and behold, you want to interview me, and I’m forced to go back into the veritable torture chamber I had no intention of ever entering again.\n\nWhy couldn’t I have gotten lost on that day I was chasing--I mean, following after--Gretel? Why couldn’t I have found any other house? The gingerbread one or the one that has that pig in it who thinks he’s so smart just because he knows you’re supposed to build with brick and not clay and hay. Why did I--an infant of a girl one week away from her sixteenth birthday--have to get lost and find this house?\n\nI hope you’re writing all that down. If not, I wrote it myself and I’ve prepared copies for you back at my home. Well, actually, my husband is copying it all down, but I’m sure he’s done by now, even though he can be a bit of a slowpoke.\n\nOh, and I made some porridge for you as well.\n\nA little wink-wink of a treat that I was sure you’d appreciate.\n\nBe sure to mention that detail in whatever article you write about this. You want to get all the facts down exactly as they happened.\n\nWhen you’re talking about something this important, it’s crucial that you get every detail just 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: Kita in Color\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 2318\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an artist whose work has magical properties." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The sun was low in the sky, giving off a faint yellow light when they saw the Village. Kita and her ward had only taken a few steps past the gates, but already there was an ominous weight hanging in the air. The streets were nowhere near empty, but there was a curious stillness that went beyond the lack of population, like a blanket had been draped over the town and been tucked in so tight that it muffled all sound.\n\"I need a bed. A real bed, one fit for an evil overlord.\" Glenda complained, stabbing the silence around them sharply with his griping. Kita tried to block him and the unfortunate state of her hair out and studied the few villagers around them. They didn't seem all that wary of two strangers coming to their town, though Kita normally got at least a few second glances once they caught sight of her dark skin. In fact, the villagers seemed more concerned about a quiet artist who sat in the center of town.\nHe was a small man, no taller than Kita’s waist, with beady eyes and a long beard that hung down over his tunic. He smiled pleasantly, nodded at those who passed by, yet no one would make eye contact and even changed course to avoid getting close to him. The people bustled and hurried past without looking in his direction, as if they were afraid of what he might do. \n\"Here, we'll ask him!\" Glenda went stomping through the middle of the square without looking around for so much as a second. A few villagers gasped and hurried along faster as the buffoon approached the artist.\nThe artist himself looked up, took in Glenda's ridiculous appearance, and smiled. \"Aren't you colorful today?\"\nIt wasn't an unfriendly statement, but Glenda bristled all the same and ran a self conscious hand through his garish hair. He pointed gruffly at Kita, whose own hair was just as bright, but in a more fashionable manner: fewer polka dots, and all the same blueish color scheme. \"This is all her doing.\"\nWith that confession, the painter turned his attention to Kita. His gaze was invasive and chilling, and far too calm as he took in the way the light caught on her travel-weary curls. \"Well done, miss. Would you like a painting?\"\nKita held up a hand to stop Glenda as he opened his mouth again. \"Actually, I'd like some cake. And maybe a place to spend the night. Can you point us in the right direction?\"\nThe painter nodded, and turned back to his canvas. \"I can, if you'll buy a painting. Hard times, and all that.\"\n\"Hard times.\" She repeated casually. Nobody was buying this man's paintings. If the paintings were his talent, it could be he just didn't have any other skills to offer. With a life like that, of course he would take advantage of tourists however he could. If painting was not his talent, then this man was more dangerous than he appeared.\nKita studied the man for a beat, then yielded to her empathy. \"Sure, I'll buy a painting.\"\nThe artist smiled and turned back to the canvas. \"Blessings. I'm nearly done with this one.\"As the pair watched, the artist put the finishing touches on the canvas that bore a landscape with a woman in the foreground. The woman looked uncannily like Kita, but she was depicted as a figure of destruction. Her carefree curls were braided tightly to her scalp and fell down her back and the expression on the painting was one of curiosity and calm, belying the chaos of the rest of the scene. Instead of giving and changing colors as the real Kita did, it looked like she was sapping the color from the landscape.\n\"Interesting,\" She mused. \"You painted me like a villain. It's Glenda who's the villain by the way. I'm just his babysitter.\"\nShe glanced at Glenda as she said this, and noted that despite his bright green skin, he looked shockingly pale. Before she could ask what his problem was, the artist chuckled and waved a small board back and forth in front of the painting to dry it faster. \"Oh no, he's not with you at this point in your future.\"\n\"What does that mean?\" Glenda's voice cracked as he asked the question, sounding genuinely shaken by the man's painting. Kita had forgotten her momentary concern over Glenda’s pallor and returned to examining the painting, taking in the dark surroundings, her bright blue hair almost glowing as she sucked the color from the rest of the canvas, leaving the area in a sad gray theme even as buildings and people crumpled around her.\n\"Oh could be anything really,\" The artist told Glenda calmly, \"Maybe at this point you've simply gone to the loo or something.\"\n\"The-- the loo? You expect me to believe that? I won't--\"\n\"Shut up, Glenda, I like it.\" Silence finally fell as the two men looked at Kita, the artist with gratitude and Glenda with disbelief.\n\"You do?\" Their sudden synchronous question launched at her from two fronts, and she nodded.\n\"Yeah, okay. I like the painting. And I do have some coin, but my talent lies in color.\" She lifted the canvas, careful to touch only the edges and not entertain even the whisper of a thought about changing a single stroke. \"I can buy this canvas from you with money, or trade it for turning any of your paints into a color you're missing.\"\n\"I will sell it to you today, colorful one.\" The artist said with a smile, \"and perhaps I will trade in the future.\"\nShe paid the man, and he dutifully pointed the pair to an inn that offered food. He didn't guarantee any cake, but it was a dry place to sleep after camping in the marshes.\nAs Kita and her ward walked towards the inn, Glenda’s pallor was still chalky and he was visibly shaken. \"What's wrong with you? You've been acting strange ever since the artist showed us that painting,\" Kita said, eyeing him curiously.\nHe hesitated before replying, \"It's nothing. I just don't trust that painter.\"\nShe snorted. \"He's a seer who can paint. And a talented one at that. But just because he painted something doesn't mean it'll come true.\"\n\"Oh,\" Glenda muttered. \"So you promise not to suck the color out of my kingdom while I'm in the bathroom?\"\nKita stopped suddenly, catching her boot on a loose stone, and turned to him. \"That's your kingdom in the painting?\"\nGlenda hesitated before answering, \"Yes, it is. But that's not what bothers me. It's the fact that he was able to paint it so accurately. It's almost as if he's seen it before.\" His voice trailed off as he looked away, his eyes focused on something in the distance.\nKita followed his gaze and saw the front of the village's inn. It looked like the run-down establishment had seen better days. The paint on the walls was faded and chipped, and the sign hanging above the door creaked in the wind, but the building itself was still standing and it wasn't a tree in the swamp. All the same, Kita’s fingers twitched with the sudden impulse to brighten up the facade.\n\"Come on,\" she said instead, grabbing Glenda's arm and pulling him towards the inn. \"Let's get some food and rest. Stop worrying about your little hamlet, I have no intention of taking it over.\"\nGlenda let out a huff of relief as they went in and Kita waved to the elderly woman at the front counter.\n\"Hello there, children. You've come a long way from home.\"\nGlenda gasped and stepped back. \"Another one!\"\nKita’s eyes rolled and she shook her head. \"Sorry about him, we just bought a painting from--\"\n\"Ah, is Thomas still out there? He's my husband, you know.\"\nKita nodded, trying not to stare at Glenda as he fidgeted with his gloves. The woman didn't seem to notice, too busy staring at Kita with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. In an attempt to be polite, Kita said nothing and bore the itchy study of her brown skin silently. They were far from home, in the kind of small village people were born and died in. It was likely this old woman had never seen somebody who wasn’t pale and flushed, like Glenda was naturally.\n\"Well,\" the woman said, breaking the silence. \"What can I get for you two? Do you want to buy any pots?\"\n\"Any... no, I don't think we need any pots, ma'am. Food if you have it, and a room, please.\" Kita replied. Now that the subject of pots had been brought up, Kita noticed the shelf behind the counter lined with various sized pots. They had similar shapes and colors, and as far as anyone could tell from only a glance, they didn't tell the future.\n\"I also have cake.\"\nKita perked up at that. Glenda had lost the last of the cake Kita had so carefully packed in the swamp. It wouldn’t take much to convince her to kill for some, if it was the right flavor. \"Cake does sound amazing, actually. Can we have some of that too?\" she asked with rigid politeness, her mouth already watering at the thought of sweet, sugary goodness.\nThe old woman nodded and bustled away, returning a few moments later with a small plate piled high with cake. \"This is your favorite kind, is it not? The kind that you always crave but it never fills you. Not since--\"\n\"Okay.\" Kita said quickly, a little sharper than she meant to. She winced and fixed her tone. \"I'm sorry. Yes, the cake looks delicious. You're psychic, but you don't need to go advertising anybody's lives.\"\nThe woman nodded. \"Of course, dear. The room I'll give for free for one night, because of the painting you bought from my husband. How would you like to pay for the cake?\"\nKita gave her the same deal she gave the painter outside. The woman looked at the shelves behind her, and picked one of the clay pots off of the shelf and brought it down. \"I'm afraid the glaze on this didn't come out quite right. It's meant to be blue, like...\" She glanced at Kita’s hair, then thought better of it and looked around the room, then pointed. \"Ah, blue like that flower over there!\"\nKita stepped over and studied the flower. It was a deep and dark blue, highlighted with small streaks of navy that gave it depth and life. She went back over to the woman. \"I can do that, no problem.\"\nShe ran her fingers over the pot, but instead of it turning a vibrant and lively blue, the dark, shiny paint suddenly seemed to melt off the pot towards her fingertips, leaving behind an empty gray color.\nGlenda let out a loud, dramatic gasp. \"It's happening!\" he wailed.\nKita closed her eyes against his idiocy and apologized for him again. \"That... I usually get the color right the first time. I’m just a little worn out from traveling.\" The woman nodded patiently and Kita let out a slow breath, brushing the pot with her fingers again and this time seeing it bloom with rich, dark blues.\nKita handed the pot back to the woman and she put it back on the shelf, then returned with two keys that she set beside the cake. \"Here are your rooms. Feel free to ring down for any more cake or dinner.\"\n\"Thank you.\" Kita turned and grabbed Glenda by the collar, yanking him toward the stairs before he could act like a pompous spoiled kid. \"We won't need anything. Isn't that right, Glenda? Carry the painting.\"\nGlenda opened his mouth, probably to complain that he was being made to walk the way an unruly pet would, but that was a battle neither of them were in the mood to fight. He shut his mouth and followed Kita dutifully up the stairs.\n\"Here's your key. Don't make trouble for the psychic spouses while we're here. It doesn't take a psychic to know that it wouldn't end well for us.\" Kita threw one of the brass keys in Glenda's direction and walked towards her own door.\n\"Wait.\" Glenda said, reaching out to her. \"Can you... what about my... color?\"\nKita turned back to him with a glare. “And what about my life before you came and made a nuisance of yourself?” Glenda pursed his lips in resignation but brightened when Kita sighed. She reached up and poked him in the forehead, turning his skin back to the boring pale white color it was before and then tugged on his hair rougher than she needed to. Most of it turned back to the natural black she met him with, except for the tip that had met direct contact with her fingers. That bit was a lifeless gray color.\n\"There. Happy?\" She asked, rolling her eyes to avoid acknowledging the mistake. Glenda nodded eagerly with a glimmer of relief in his eyes. He finally went into his room and passed the painting over to Kita before she went into hers. Once she was alone, she set the canvas and cake down on the nightstand and looked at her hands. The black that should have been on Glenda's hair had bled instead into her nails. Kita rubbed at the darkened fingers until the black color seeped into her skin and it all looked normal again.\n\"We need to get out of this village.\" She mumbled, stubbornly ignoring the small rush of power flowing in her hands after they took color instead of giving it. A pathetic and tired curl fell over her forehead and Kita twisted it gingerly, her gaze falling to the painting. “But braids aren’t a bad idea.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Getty Y'up\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1923\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during polar night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "For a hundred thousand million years, the people of Inuvik Canada have patiently endured the black of winter and been forced to love each other. They take census of all their blessings and give each other precious nicknames. \nPeter Amos is also called Peter-the-Drunk because the people of Inuvik can't believe he’s so happy. I once showed them our basket of recyclables and asked who was depleting the borscht wine while pointing in a whisper and nodding that it was probably the hippie \nSitting on the top of the world, one could throw a football to three different continents. The sun hides for 28 days because the creator of the Earth went away slumming and he left this planet bending backwards waiting for a second dance. \nWhile it’s true that nothing good last forever we can still try to prolong the serenity known by our ancestors. We had tranquil games of Russian Roulette last for days; sometimes hours. \nFor 28 days in the dark, the families of Inuvik make posters and cure beluga jerky. They prepare for the forty nine or so tourist which will fill the town coffers with paper money that wasn't shipped over from Ottawa. The families have survived generation upon generation by joining snow tunnels and holding raffles. When the raffle/human-sacrifice game ends they practice native singing. When the throats are dry from singing they take out long needles and sew kuspuks \nIt's a tradition of metamorphosis and renewal. A tradition of sacrifice that allows the people to believe that they have earned their place at the top of the world. \nExcept, Peter-the-Drunk has been found to be dancing on the bunkers between storms. He laughs as he fights the howling wind and places tiki lanterns where there should be guide poles. He unrolls a large plastic tarp which is meant to protect the sea plane. Peter-the-Drunk spreads out this tarp all over the snow with some boards he stole from the lavatories meant to separate the boy’s stalls from the girls’.\nWe have only heard rumors of what is up there. Some say that Peter T.D. has made a plastic pier, distributed the weight by inflated reindeer organs He has a bucket of silt he dried over the summer. He pours the bucket which he dried back in June using a concave mirror. He spills out precious sand. The sand which should be used to avoid slipping on the boardwalk in March. Everyone sprains their ankles in March.\nHe uses powder coconut milk, the neighbor’s vodka and has the audacity to ask for a straw. Some say the man has fashioned little umbrellas from toothpicks and cray paper. They say he has figured out a way to run conduit and wire. They say that Peter is half naked in the polar night, lounging upon a Chase Chair under the glow of a UV bulb, that he is trying to entice our young people to think of January as a season of some great romance!\nPeter Amos probably suffers from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome because he dances weird. He probably should have been left on the tundra between census counts. There are stories of she-wolves who would have helped the boy to a meal but the laws are ever changing and we need a real mortician to tell the government that he’s traveled off. \nNow all the young people are climbing the ladders, giggling, Dare I say GIDDY in the town’s darkest hour. They play reggae music between the storms and gyrate their hips. They try to kiss each other and become tongue locked in the frost because one teenager is always hiding a breath mint. That’s all it takes to be tongue tied. \nI try to wake the elders. The matriarchs who once believed in selective breeding and four weeks of advent. Mrs. Tanqueret says that the ice caves will collapse under the shake of the limbo line. Mr. Macay believes that we will have to restart the generators with purified walrus blubber once the petro gives out and all the children have gotten drunk, smoked their fatties and demanded more polar parties. \nAt these times we surround Widow Amos who once sent her son to California as a student. She sent him out with our caribou pelts, she sent him with our finest recipes for musk ox soup and instructions for proper goiter rubs… but what did it count for? They sent the boy back with bad ideas, uncut hair and tan lines. We all knew, because I told them, “That child is addicted to the light!”\nImmediately all those under thirty or forty wanted to try long hair. Some made “extensions” out of beaver trim and fastened them to their heads with our precious Bobby Clips. We had to come up with a town rule that no one would have their California Hair too close to the fire in August. That is, “No dancing, prancing or circling the flames if you want to wear extensions.”\nHe also came back with a can of hairspray. I think I mentioned that he suffers from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and the sugars are necessarily found in womb bourne pockets of his brain. Peter let everyone use his Sex Hat hair hardener which was pressurized in a long purple can. It used to be called hair spray before the federal ban. The Sex Hat was like an angry genie in a bottle until someone pressed the white tip down. The Genie came out and promised spikes and bangs and all manner of updo which would not fit into a tobalog, a fur trapper hat.\nSilly? No. We all like silly. This was an offense so great that we didn't offer Narwhal for Hannakah this year. We couldn't string any Christmas lights because Bob Marley was blasting out of the Peavey Sound “woofers” and the circuit breaker heats up like a whore each second Wednesday eve. \nThere were people suffering from dry lung and couldn't get their CPAP devices to pressurize their naval cavities. We had to go to sleep like puppies in a pile always with someone snoring at seven in the evening, waking up at three in the morning or sometimes two. Their drum circle playing Bobby Mcferrin songs. Their boisterous games of snow snorkeling, where someone hid our large fishing lures below the top. I swear they didn't find them all in their snorkeling. Can you imagine how small our spring fish bake will be without the proper lures?\nOk. Maybe Peter got my wife to leave our bed after 22 days of the blackout conditions. I’m not saying she is attracted to the smell of burning skunk, the way that the Top Side people can hand roll chimichangas in a blizzard – I'm just saying that we have to do something soon or no one is going to keep a very good wife. \nAlso, I think Peter is dealing crystal ICE now. Reggae is obviously a gateway genre to voodoo music. Voodoo becomes Haitian hipster and everyone knows that the sounds of the Caribbean will lead the youth of Inuvik all the way to Cuban Gangsta Rap! I saw a special on this when I flew to Yellowknife and watched the BBC on the motel television.\nI did not take all of small shampoo bottles at the Motel 6 but left some for the next stranded traveler with marmalade gel in their hair. It turns out that marmalade is not the best hair product if it is not removed in a fortnight. This is also the reason my head looks like the Japanese islands. There’s a patch so far south, beneath the right ear, that I now refer to it as Oki-No-wa.\nMambula, my precious wife, my companion by right of wrestling the ancient chief,.my woman by Inuit Takanski Tradition, my guide into the spiritual realm and process administrator for the Northwest Territory Clerk. — I don't think Mambula is coming back down. It’s a hell of a sight to see a three hundred pound woman in a fluorescent thong. I fear that if she tans in the darkness for too long that the mounties will call in an air strike because the Chinese Espionage balloons reflect like that. The old tales of exterestrial life reflect like that. There are plankton in the seas of Lod Angeles that reflect like that!\nShe might be deported. \nShe maybe… already under their Rastafarian spell, believing that people stay warm by hugging tight instead of working so hard that the core body temperature is impervious. My Mambula is a fabulous hugger. We cannot wait till the northern light. \nAlso… it is my fault that we have produced no children. She knows that I have a bent uvula. I have been trying for years to catch her an orphans when I travel but orphans are scarce in the northern latitudes because everyone has thousands of acres to pass down.\nSometimes I wish I didn't care so much about sane living and Dark Day traditions. I mean, it’s fun to fumble around on Thursday's Lights Out after the meal we call dinner party. To go and hug a stranger, to become one with the night who knows no color or height. You can just mumble in the cave and hide your voice print. There are fellows who say that the Thursday Light has defiantly repaired their familial relations because everyone gets grumpy in close company. \nNow it’s literally two days, just another 47 hours before the Inuvik Sunset Festival is set to begin. We have all the fireworks made from buckshot, the shards of oxidized iron filings taped into our cardboard toilet paper holders. We have made fuses from kite string and fat. There’s no reason to blast “Who Let The Dogs Out” by the Bahu Men. People shouldn't celebrate early because…\n… tt’s tradition.\n“Tradition is a guide and not a jailer,” wrote William Somerset Maugham. \nI know because I used the Citizen Band radio to alert the Americans that the Russians were coming. I alerted the Chinese that British drugs were arriving in Inuvik for those beautiful Opium Dens which ran out of product the last time Mao cleaned house. Is exporting evil to communist still a crime? I forget. \nIn two days we will have a great party on the top of the world. The conditions are right for the aurora borealis. Energized particles traveling at 50 million miles an hour, violently clashing against the magnetic field of the Earth. They all want to destroy our little.piece of planet, just like Peter. \nBecause it was Peter-the-Drunk who gave everyone hairspray. It was Peter-the-Punk who said it was nice to be like everyone down there at the bottom. \nWell, he got his wish. I just seen what happens when a dime size ozone hole expands. It’s like slapping someone's cheeks when they are full of water. It's like the end of the artic, the end of king penguins slipping down blue glaciers. It is the end of tourist without mylar coats, the end of the Roman Goddess of Dawn (Aurora) blowing her emerald light show. I don't even think we can get British Columbia to send us some Molson for the things which Peter started have a nasty way of making everyone sober. \nBig hair!\nFluorocarbons are the genie’s trade.\nI got your big hair in the cubby of my pocket. I swear he can use it to make more extensions if he’ll just return my wife. \nI’m so lonely up here." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Caterpilly to Butterflight\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1179\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone facing their greatest fear." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "From Caterpilly to Butterflight\nMetathesiophobia: The fear of change.\n“God sure did make you a caterpillar, but don’t you think He created you to also become a butterfly?”\nThose were the words that little Caterpilly echoed in her mind over and over again as she sat at breakfast with Momma, Daddy, and her little brother Zip. Her Grandma Flutter said those words to her not just once, but a few times, months ago. Her grandma always seemed to know what to say, but Caterpilly almost never liked hearing it right then. \nThe first time she heard these words, Caterpilly was upset. Caterpilly wasn’t upset because she didn’t have wings yet; she was upset because she didn’t want to get wings! She liked being a caterpillar, and she knew how much work it’d be to transform into a butterfly.\nJust as she was about to get a pretend umbrella out because of the pity party she was throwing for herself, Grandma Flutter slowly flew overhead to sit down to have breakfast at their leaf table. “Little Caterpilly, God sure did make you a caterpillar, but don’t you think He created you to also become a butterfly?”\nCaterpilly said nothing, but she thought about everything. She thought about what Grandma Flutter said, and Grandma said it many times that week because this was the week… the week Caterpilly was going to become a butterfly!\nJust like her momma taught her, Caterpilly made her cocoon. She nestled herself inside until she couldn’t see Grandma Flutter, brother Zip, or Momma and Daddy anymore. She almost thought it was nice to be on her own to get this over with. But after a while, almost as if someone tapped her on the shoulder, she started to repeat the words her daddy taught her…\n“Push left, push right, and with all your might, and before you know it, you’ll take flight. Push left, push right, and with all your might, and before you know it, you’ll take flight.”\n…and he was right! Before she knew it, she pushed out of that cocoon and looked left and looked right, and she saw her brand-new wings! It was beautiful! All she could think of was Grandma Flutter, and her words from earlier.\nCaterpilly wanted to get to her family so fast that when she tried to fly, she fell to the ground. But she quickly flew back up and flew straight to where her family gathered most… but the leaf table was empty.\nThey were under a huge sunflower, all facing away from Caterpilly. At first, she felt a little annoyed because she just did the single most important thing ever and they weren’t paying attention. As she flew closer, she saw Momma’s face, and she was crying. Oblivious, she started to say “this is a happy thing, me turning into…”\nShe stopped abruptly as she noticed little Zip bumping against Momma’s side as if he didn’t see her crying. Daddy just hovered there without a smile on his face. Caterpilly saw Grandma Flutter asleep.\n“Be quiet or you’ll wake Grandma Flutter!” Caterpilly felt angry and yelled at Zip. Momma cried even louder and flew quickly to Caterpilly, and gave her butterfly kisses. The Caterpilly realized… Grandma wasn’t going to wake up.\nThen Momma said…\n“It was so beautiful and so sad. We all wanted to watch you transform, especially Grandma Flutter. So we all turned to your cocoon and waited until you pushed out. And just as you pushed out of that cocoon, we turned to see Grandma’s face, but she fell asleep and we couldn’t wake her. But she told us yesterday something very important, because she knew you’d leave your cocoon soon… she said ‘when Caterpilly gets her wings and takes flight, her name should be changed from Caterpilly to Butterflight.’ So that’s your new name… if that’s okay with you, dear?”\nWithout any words, Caterpilly’s wet eyes blinked out a couple big tears as she nodded to Momma in agreement.\nCaterpilly - well, Butterflight - hovered effortlessly with her new wings and went to Grandma Flutter to give her butterfly kisses. When she did, some neighborhood ladybugs grabbed Grandma Flutter on the leaf she laid on and flew her up to where all bugs go when this happens: to the other side of that sunflower, where all kinds of flowers grow. Butterflight flew up as high as she could until she reached a cloud and saw the flower field below her and she said, “Goodbye Grandma Flutter. I love you so much.”\nThen she flew back down to her family below because she knew she’d have to help brother Zip transform into a butterfly soon, just as God helped her to do through her family - especially through Grandma Flutter.\n***\n7 MONTHS LATER\n“Zip, take it easy. You can’t rush these things. You might be taking longer than me learning to fly, but you did the hard part yourself!”\nIt had been about a week since Zip transformed. Butterflight did give him the tips she was given, but she knew Momma and Daddy let her share them with Zip more for bonding reasons. It wasn’t like she came up with those tips herself.\nGrandma came to mind all the time. The day before Zip got into his cocoon, the words “God created you to become a butterfly” slipped out of Butterflight, and she smiled knowing she had that ingrained into her mind long before it meant anything to her, and now she could keep it going. Of course, she missed her grandma, but she knew her legacy was in them.\nNow if only she could get Zip to learn how to fly…\n***\nABOUT THE STORY\nWhile I wrote this years ago for some kiddos I cared for at a Christian preschool in 2015, this story didn't come to life until much more recently. It was shared here on Reedsy with a handful of minor grammatical adjustments and additions in the body, but for the most part remains the same. I wanted to maintain the integrity of how I wrote it in a stage of my life where my writing wasn't as polished and developed as it is becoming now.\nJust like in biblical stories, people's names got changed and usually during pivotal moments in their lives. It seemed fitting Caterpilly's name would change to Butterflight during her pivotal moment, and at the request of her Matriarchal figure, no less.\nHopefully this story can touch on hard life lessons such as fearing change, grief, and even learning about who you are and what you can overcome. For children, this is foundational and difficult at times. This story might help dampen the sting of those big feelings.\nThe major difference in the ending is I've added a continuation to satisfy word count parameters with the new Butterflight helping Zip prepare for flight after his transformation.\nYou can see the original ending in my less glamorous grammar glory in the link below. I’ll eventually make sure the StoryJumper version has my Reedsy adjustments.\nhttps://www.storyjumper.com/book/read/30173656/From-Caterpilly-to-Butterflight" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: New Year and New Lies\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1021\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list of New Year's resolutions." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "New Year and New Lies\nEvery year, I list resolutions on New Year's Eve. Usually, I only try five, hoping to manage all, but I break at least one within a month. I know it's not just me. Living up to the resolutions we set is tricky. My list is always the same:\n1. Save at least $1000\n2. Lose at least 15 lbs.\n3. Get organized\n4. Call friends and family when they pop into my mind\n5. Be Productive\nLast year, 2022, I accomplished #5 because I joined Reedsy and was determined to write at least one weekly story. This year, I managed to do #2, only because I was ill and unable to eat as usual. It's hard to eat when you can't breathe. I spent three weeks in the hospital battling mucus plugs. I was in the Medical Intensive Care Unit (MICU) for nineteen of those twenty-three days. Twice, they tried to move me to a step-down unit, but I was admitted to the MICU three times and became the first patient discharged home from an Intensive Care Unit without being on hospice; I'm not dying yet!\nSo, I'm looking forward to 2024…\nThe resolutions are the same:\n1. Save at least $1000\n2. Lose at least 15 lbs.\n3. Get organized\n4. Call friends and family when they pop into my mind\n5. Be Productive\nI know that I need a plan to achieve this list, so to save $1000 this year, I need to remember what they taught in this housing class back in the '90s:\nA: Write down a budget\nB: Write out my goals\nC: Pay me first\nD: Be honest with yourself and cut out frivolous spending\nTo save $1000 a year, I need to put $83.33/month into savings. So, a more reasonable amount to aim for is $500, which means $41.66/mo., especially since I promised my grandson his age per month in his savings account.\nNumber two should change to maintain weight loss or to lower my A1C, which I found is higher than expected.\nGetting organized is the one I will struggle with this year. My children complain that I have too much stuff. They may have a point, but it's not their money going towards my shoe collection. Yeah, I hear you saying, why does a quadriplegic need fifty pairs of tennis shoes or dress shoes? Since I was ten and allowed to choose what I wore to school, I have expressed myself through my outfits. My mother used to laugh at me when we shopped for school clothes. I would build my wardrobe from shoes up. The problems we had would occur when I would change my mind and rework the choices if I spotted some different must-have shoes someone had abandoned elsewhere in the store. Maybe that is why one of my first jobs was in Roses department store's women's shoes. (Oops, I still stray off track when thinking about my shopping habits.)\nNumber four is one that many people neglect until it is sometimes too late. We never mean to be an unavailable friend who isn't reachable, but life happens, and then you realize you have not talked to your family members or your best friend when you receive the news that someone died. Life will keep us busy. Now that I am paralyzed, I understand why Grandma used to get upset with me for not visiting more after I got old enough to drive.\nThis year, I haven't given much thought to resolutions because I landed in the hospital the day before Thanksgiving until December 14th. I have only been trying to recover. I guess the only resolutions I need this year are:\n1. Stay healthy\n2. Don't stress over things I can't control\n3. Work on pleasing no one but God\n4. Create a realistic budget\n5. Do only what is possible to be happy\nMy wish for 2024 is that my family will be safe, happy, and pleased with their every decision. I hope that everyone does the job that they are best suited for. I pray for the strength to say NO and stick with my first answer. I guess I am adopting a new attitude. I'm friendly, and others will exploit my inability to say No and my generosity. I have always had trouble saying NO. Some people figured I would agree to almost anything when I fell asleep. Being on the opposite schedule was more challenging than the world when I worked the night shift.\nNow that I have twenty-five years in the rearview mirror, I need a new one since my life-changing car accident in 98…\nWhen I plan a day, I don't even brush my teeth in front of the vanity because of the mirror. It's a mind thing, I know. I used to get inspiration from the image peering back at me. These days, I see the loss of\n1. My job\n2. My vivacious attitude\n3. My earning potential\nMy get-up-and-go has gotten up and gone! Maybe I didn't recover from the first NOs from a potential landlord and was given when I attempted to return to work in '99. I applied for an overqualified position, but the interviewer couldn't hear or see past my wheelchair. That killed my spirit, but I have since realized:\n1. That those that couldn't understand the gift they were getting were the Nos\n2. Closed minds and hearts don't look for a reason to say YES\n3. I would not have been happy working in a hostile environment\nNow that I have been writing this week's assignment, I know that my resolutions should fit my life as it is now.\n1. Maybe I should ask God for the wisdom to know my limitations. \n2. Understand why other people are the way they are\n3. Know my strengths\n4. Do whatever makes me happy\nSteve Harvey said something once that I now understand… \"Do what you like and never work a day in your life.\" I listened\nI love to write and don't have a paying gig, but I am HAPPY!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Empress\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2746\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story during a full moon night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They waited for the thunderstorm to pass under the eves of an old mausoleum. The thing was built to look like some sort of Greek temple or maybe a miniature government building. It had a dome on the roof. There was even a little porch with smaller versions of the columns at the Parthenon. \nFrank and Lisa got under the porch roof to shelter from the sudden rain. The rain came in from the gulf and it lasted for hours, drenching the New Orleans cemetery. Occasionally, lightening flashed and thunder cracked and rumbled loudly. The sun went down while they sat there. They watched the rain. They watched the full moon as it traveled upward from the horizon, casting a pale glow into the dark and heavy clouds. There wasn’t any hurry to go anywhere. Frank even slept for a short time. \n“When you’re dead broke with no place to call home, a dry porch on an old grave is like the Ritz Hotel.” Frank had said. \nThe rain lessened but was still coming down in a miserable drizzle when Frank awakened from his nap. He paced back and forth a few times on the little porch. Each time he had to step over Lisa’s legs. She got up too, expecting that Frank would be ready to move on, rain or not. He stopped pacing and pointed above the door.\n“Lisa, look at this.”\n“What? What is it?”\n“There’s words carved above the door. I remember reading this in college.”\nLisa stood next to him and read the words out load “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”\n“That was in some old-time play or poem or something.” He said. “I can’t remember.”\n“It’s from Dante’s Inferno. It’s was on the gates of hell.”\nFrank tried the door. It wasn’t locked. It swung stiffly on heavy bolt hinges and creaked from rust and long years of neglect. It had sagged in its frame and now it scrapped against the floor. Frank put his shoulder against the door and shoved hard, using his legs. The door moved another two inches and stopped.\n“Frank, let’s go.” Lisa said.\n“Nah. Rich people.”\n“So, what?”\nFrank stopped trying to push the door. He stood there looking at her for long moments. “Rich people might want some of their precious stuff, jewelry and whatnot, buried with them in their fancy little death-mansion. I knew you were stupid when we got married. I married you anyway. That makes me stupid too, I guess.”\n“I’m not stupid. You’re the one who got us in this mess.”\nThe old argument between them was never settled. Frank took one too many risks in his business. He played too much poker and lost too much money. He made some mistakes and had some bad breaks and he felt like she would never let him forget that.\n“Don’t start in on me now, Lisa. Give me a hand.” \nFrank leaned on the door again. She saw the look in Frank’s eyes and she knew he would never stop. She might as well help him. She added her effort to his and the door moved another few inches.\nFrank rubbed his shaggy beard thoughtfully. “I bet you could squeeze through, as skinny as you are.”\n“Nope. I don’t wanna go in there by myself. Who puts a warning like that on their own tomb? It’s weird. It creeps me out.”\n“It’s fine. I’ll be right here. Go in and pull from that side and I will push from this side. If we can get it to open a just bit more, I can get in there with you.”\nLisa knew that when Frank got like this there was no talking him out of it. He would argue with her relentlessly and, eventually, she would give in. She decided to avoid all that and just do what he asked.\nFrank’s plan worked. The door opened just enough. He had to suck in his gut and wriggle around some but, he managed to force his way in.\nOnce inside, they both turned to face into the space and were startled to see two people standing at the far end of the space, opposite of their position by the door. Frank let out a little yelp of fear and stretched his arm out protectively, in front of Lisa. She screamed in fright. Then they both realized that they were looking into a mirror.\nFrank walked over and looked at the mirror closely. It had a yellowish cast to it. “This isn’t glass. It’s some sort of polished metal.” \n“I think it’s a sheet of bronze. I remember reading that they used to make mirrors that way in Egypt, or maybe somewhere else, in ancient times.”\n“Yeah. I guess your useless history degree is finally paying off. Look at all the junk carved into the frame around the mirror.”\nShe ignored his remark about her degree. “They’re symbols of some kind. They look like ruins of some sort.”\n“Look at these.” Frank said. He was touching a small black disk which was mounted in a recessed hole in the stone frame around the mirror. “It’s like a black mirror.”\nLisa touched another one on the opposite side of the frame. “I think these are obsidian mirrors. They’re used in witchcraft. What was it I read about that?” Lisa stared off into space for moment trying to remember distant knowledge. “These are used as scrying mirrors and in black magic rituals. This is really weird Frank. Let’s get out of here.”\n“What’re the symbols below the mirrors?” Frank asked.\n“Step back from the frame and look. There are six mirrors on each side the frame. The symbols are zodiac signs.”\n“Zodiac?”\n“Yeah, you know, Aries, Capricorn, Sagittarius and so on. And you call me stupid? Come on, Frank let’s get out of here. I’m really getting creeped out.”\n“Why?”\n“Look at this place. Every inch of every wall is carved with ruins. Even the crypts have ruins on them. And these black mirrors are bizarre.”\n“So?” Frank asked.\n“Did you notice the words carved above the mirror?”\nFrank stepped back and looked up. He read the words out loud. “Oh, Luna! Empress Of The Night Sky! The stars pale in the power of your brightness.”\n“Now look down at the floor. That mirror is framed and there is a threshold stone. It’s like a doorway.”\nFrank looked down at the sill and read, “Nothing is hidden from the gaze of the Sky Empress when the she enters her high gate.”\n“If it’s a door, its a strange door. If you try to walk through it you get a nose bleed from smashing into that yellow mirror.”\n“Whoever these people were, they believed in witchcraft or black magic or something like that. Come on, Frank, let’s get out of this place. I don’t like it.”\n“They believed in bullshit. There’s nothing here but us and two people who died a long time ago.”\nThere were two stone crypts with heavy looking lids, one on each side of the mausoleum. The space was cramped. Frank and Lisa could stand shoulder-to-shoulder between the two crypts with only a few inches to spare.\nFrank ignored Lisa’s remarks and her desire to leave. He put his hand on one of the two crypts. “If we try hard and work together, we can probably work those lids off the crypts and have a look at what’s inside.” Frank said.\n“Why on earth would we want to do that? I’m Serious Frank, let’s get out of here. Now!”\n“I bet these rich people were laid to rest in here with their gold necklaces and rings. Look at the dates. They both died in the late 1800’s. Rich and probably loony too with all this occult crap. Who knows what they might have wanted in their tombs with them?”\nFrank pushed on the side of the crypt’s heavy lid, thinking it would slide sideways and give him access to the contents. It didn’t budge. He tried grasping the edge of it and pushing it up but, it was too heavy.\n“I need a pry bar.” Frank said.\n“I don’t have one of those. Let’s go now. Please.”\n“Yeah, I guess we should. We can comeback with something to pry these open.”\nWhen they went to the door, they found that it was closed.\nFrank looked at Lisa and asked, “Did you push the door shut?”\n“Of course not. Why would I have done that? Besides, I’ve been right next to you the whole time.”\nFrank grabbed the handle and hauled back on the door. It didn’t move. He put one foot on the wall and, using both hands on the handle, he leaned back, putting all of his weight into it. Lisa tried to add her weight to the effort. The door never moved.\n“Oh God, Frank! Now what are we gonna do?”\n“Calm down. Rest a minute. We’ll get it open. It’s just stuck.”\nAfter few minutes, they tried again. But the door was firmly closed and it refused to budge. Frank was sweating from the effort when they stopped again.\n“We have to get out of here. I can’t stay in here. I can’t.” Lisa was crying. Frank leaned back against one of the crypts. Lisa buried her face in his chest, her body was trembling. He held her and stroked her hair.\n“It’s alright. We’ll get it open.”\n“Why did you have to come in here? Why? The rain was almost gone. We could have left.”\n“I know. It’s alright. I love you, Lisa. I’ll get the door open. I promise I will.”\n“I love you, too.” Lisa said quietly. She nuzzled her face into his neck and her breathing evened out and her tears stopped.\nFrank looked up into the curved dome of the ceiling as he held her. He noticed that there was a skylight in the center of the dome. The rain was gone and the sky looked clear. The moon was centered in the round skylight, looking in at them. Why would anyone install a skylight into a grave? He looked around and saw nothing but deep shadows and softly glowing surfaces, illuminated by the light of the moon. The ruins and strange symbols, carved into every available surface, were cast in stark relief in the greyness of the stone.\nFrank didn’t know what made him say it but, as he looked up at the moon he said, “Oh, Luna.”\nLisa looked and saw where Frank was looking. She looked there too and said, “Empress Of The Night Sky!”\nThen they noticed the utter silence of the mausoleum. Fear gripped them as they clung to each other and stared at the moon framed in the skylight above.\nLisa said, “She enters her high gate.”\nThe silence was broken by a small sound like the snick of twig breaking or the sound of a mirror cracking. They both looked toward the mirror. They saw themselves reflected in the yellow surface of the bronze mirror. There was long a crack in its surface that went from the top all the way to floor. Two figures, a man and a woman, dressed in Victorian clothing, stepped into the view behind their reflections. \nNow the fear crystallized into terror. Startled, they both turned and looked to where the man and the woman should have been behind them. There was nobody there. The mausoleum was empty except for them.\nThey looked back at the mirror. The man and the woman were still there, behind their reflections. They stepped forward. Instinctively, Frank and Lisa, cringed away from them and stepped closer to the mirror. The couple each raised one their arms and pointed. They both said in unison, “Behold!”\nFrank and Lisa now saw that the mausoleum was gone from the reflection. They were both there and the man and woman were there but, the mausoleum was replaced by a gigantic throne room. Upon the throne was a huge female figure in pale gray robes that glowed with white light. She wore a crown of bleached bones and her eyes were large and dark.\nThe couple took another step towards Frank and Lisa. They moved away from the couple and were now just inches from the surface of bronze mirror.\nThe man and the woman reached forward and put their cold hands on Frank’s and Lisa’s backs and said, “Behold! Nothing is hidden from the gaze of the Sky Empress.”\nLisa and Frank looked into the black eyes of the Sky Empress. In those eyes they saw stars and nebulae and galaxies spinning wheeling into the infinite expanse of the universe. \nThey saw storm clouds and lashing rain. They saw huge waves on the high, open seas swallowing men in their puny ships. The saw good people and evil people, in equal measure, rise to power and fall again. They saw civilizations spring into existence only to crumble into dust. They saw warfare fought by men in the blackest of nights. They saw blood, flowing in black rivulets, on a thousand battlegrounds and in the light of a thousand moonlit nights. \nThey saw the sun eclipsed by Her over and over and again. They saw Her bearing witness to everything since the earliest moment of eternity past. They saw Her peering into the future. They saw Her knowing everything and they knew that She was more than merely Luna, Empress of the Night Sky. They did not understand how they knew. They just knew that She much, much more.\nThe strange couple said again, “Behold!”\nFrank and Lisa saw that their reflections were nude. They saw the pitiless effect of time and poverty on their ugly bodies. They saw ribs visible through thin shrouds of pale skin. Lisa saw her breasts flat and sagging with nipples pointing at the ground. Frank saw the dark bags under his eyes and the smallness of his shrunken manhood. They saw the mottled spots of age blooming on their faces and the wrinkles of decades appearing in their skin as it sagged under the force of gravity in mere moments. They saw their flesh drying and shrinking and then falling off in wispy, almost insubstantial shreds. \nThey saw the welcoming, small, almost kindly, smile on the visage of the Empress.\nThe couple behind them still had their hands into their backs. They shoved hard. Frank and Lisa felt themselves propelled forward. They felt the surface of the bronze mirror, cold and hard, for a the briefest moment, and then they felt no mirror at all. They stumbled into the throne room, and fell down to the floor.\nWhen they stood, they could no longer see their reflections. They looked up at the Empress on her throne and saw the stars in her eyes and they also saw understanding and, perhaps, love too. The Empress pointed behind Frank and Lisa. They turned and saw the strange couple through the surface of the now silver mirror. The couple turned and walked to the door of the mausoleum. The door swung open easily for them and they walked through it and were gone.\n###\nBoudreaux “Bud” Leblanc finished pouring gasoline into the push mower and put the gas can down. He stood up and raised the bottom of his t-shirt to his face, using it wipe the sweat from his brow. When he dropped the shirt he looked across the old cemetery and noticed that the doors of the largest mausoleum were standing open.\n“Damned kids! No respect for the dead. Why can’t they find some other place to hang out?” Bud said to himself as he walked over to look inside.\nThe walls of the of the mausoleum were smooth, white marble except for the blue spray painted graffiti that said “Pink Floyd Rules!” The place was a mess and it smelled moldy. Leaves had drifted in and there were crumpled beer cans and broken wine bottles. \n“Son of a bitch!” Bud said when he saw that the two crypts were desecrated. The lids had been shoved back One of them was cracked in half. Part of it was on the floor. He looked into the crypts. \nThey were both empty.\nHe heard a rustling in the leaves. He felt something brush against his pant legs and saw the swift motions of a dark shapes scurrying toward the sunlit door.\n“Rats!” he said “I hate rats.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 on the Red Planet\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1199\n\nPrompt:\n\nInclude in your story a scene about a family's last meal before a significant change." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Yemasi set the table for her Mother. She could tell her Mom was trying to hide her true feelings. Yemasi looked out the window at the red dust. They had been living on Mars all her life, which was sixteen years. \"After dinner, Can Omari come over? He has a new communicator to show me.\" Yemasi's Mother frowned at her. \"No, this is family time. You can see him \ntomorrow after.\" Her Mother didn't finish the sentence. \"Dad knows how to care for himself,\" Yemasi assured her Mom. As if on cue, her Father came through the front door. He had taken his bio-suit and decontaminated it. \"Sorry, I'm late. We had to go over the details.\" Yemasi watched as her parents kissed. Her Mom held on to her Dad longer than usual. \"It's okay.\" Her Dad whispered into her Mom's ear. They sat down at the table. \"Everything looks good.\" Her Dad said, smiling. Yemasi passed the eggplant and the pasta dish to her Dad. \"I picked the eggplant and the tomatoes for the sauce fresh from the garden today,\" Mom told him. \"That is why you are in charge of the growers here. You know you are the best at growing food.\" Mom smiled. They eat in silence. \" Will they have fresh vegetables on the rocket?\" Yemasi asked. \"No, everything will be freeze-dried and powdered beverages.\" He answered. \n\"That doesn't sound that good,\" Yemasi said. \"Exactly, it's not that bad. The pasta and green tea taste almost like your Mom's.\" Dad laughed. Yemasi would miss her Dad despite telling him two months ago that she hated him because he grounded her for sneaking out with Omari. She wished she had not said that to him. \"I wish we could come with you.\"\nYemasi said. \"You know it's not possible. You were born on Mars. You would have no immunity against all the germs on Earth.\" Her Dad told her.\n\"It's only for one year. It will go by fast.\" Mom got up from the table and ran into the bedroom in tears. Her Father ran after her. \"Malik, I don't want you to go. Earth is so savage. They still eat meat; they can't predict when earthquakes will happen, and the water is undrinkable.\" Malik held his Imani close to him. \"I have to get my parents. Every year, the ocean rises. The California coastal area is almost all the way underwater. Thank God that my parents live in Fresno.\" Imani looked up at her husband, her ebony eyes focused on his handsome dark brown face. \"What if you don't make it back? What will I do?\" Imani whispered. \"I went before and came back,\" Malik told his wife. She looked beautiful with short natural hair. Imani always wore long braids down her back, but he found her more attractive with short hair. He could see her eyes and brown-skinned face. \"Malik, that was before Yemasi was born. How is your body going to react on Earth?\" The atmosphere is polluted.\" \"We have unique suits that we will be wearing at all times, and our doctors have given us all of our vaccines,\" Malik told her. \nYemasi heard her Mom crying. Her Mom cried when she thought Yemasi was listening to her music in her room. Yemasi pretended she didn't hear her. Her parents walked back to the table. \"The food is cold,\" Yemasi said. \"I will reheat it.\" Her Mother said. \"No, I will do it.\" Dad got up and put the food in a heating bowl. It was ready in seconds. He served them. \"Yemasi, you watch out for your Mom while I'm gone. Don't be a lazy girl.\" Her Dad told her. \"Yes, father.\" Yemasi loved her Dad, but he was too strict. He was always on her about her appearance, grades, and Omar. She would have more freedom while he was gone. \"I'm hard on you because you are not fulfilling your full potential. You are brilliant, and I see you wasting time with that boy.\" Yemasi rolled her eyes.\n\" I saw the bio-suit that you designed. It is not as bulky as the one's we use and safer. I told my staff to make a prototype. I expect it will be in full use when I get back.\" Yemasi mouth dropped. She didn't know her Dad paid attention to anything she did. \"I know you can do so much more. I see you taking over for me if you stay focused.\" Yemasi looked at her Mom. She was smiling at her. \"Thank you, Father.\" They finished dinner, and then they ate fresh strawberries. \"How old is Granny and Papa?\" Yemasi asked. \"They are in eighty-three.\" Her Dad answered.\nPeople in their eighties were considered young in 2050. People live to One hundred and twenty if they can afford to get brain implants to prevent Alzheimer's and other age-related diseases. Yemasi grandparents were considered well-off. They got the best medical care. Her grandpa was a retired Astronaut. He piloted missions to the International Space Station, and Granny was a scientist. \"Why didn't they move to Mars when you and Mom did?\" She asked. Her Mom stopped eating and gave Yemasi a stern look. \"My Mom wanted to come, but my Dad thought staying on Earth and training pilots was more important than going to Mars. He always chose his career over family. Now, things are so wrong on Earth that they must leave.\" Her Dad told her bitterly.\nYemasi would start the pilot training program one year after graduating high school. \"It sounds excellent to be a pilot. Flying out there among the stars. Imagine what you would see.\" Yemasi said that enthusiastically. Yemasi's Dad frowned at her. \"Being a pilot is foolish. My Dad was testing out a new space Jet for the government and crashed and landed on the descent back to Earth. He broke, had a broken back, and was unconscious. He was in a coma for weeks. My Mother stopped eating and couldn't take care of me or my sister. I had to take care of both of us. I was twelve, and Candice was eight. When Dad came out of the coma, Mom started eating again. It was the worst time in my life.\" Her Dad told her. Yemasi didn't know why she decided to tell her Dad her plans. \"I'm going to be a pilot. I have already been accepted into the training program\". She could see the look of shock on her parent's face. \"No daughter of mine will ever be a pilot.\" Her Dad screamed. \"You can't stop me!\" Yemasi screamed back.\n\"It's my life.\" \"I just told you how my Father almost died. It's not safe!\" Her Dad told her. \"It's unsafe for you to go to Earth, but you are still going.\" Her Mother said as she stood up. Yemasi could see the fear in her Mom's eyes. \"Imani, they are my parents,\" Malik told her. He went and hugged her. Yemasi got up and wrapped her arms around both of them. \"I love you, Dad,\" Yemasi told him. \"I will take care of Mom until you come back. I promise.\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Friend or Foe\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1307\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story during a full moon night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Friend or Foe?\nExactly how does a home, once it turns back into a house, stay strong enough to still be standing long enough for a tree to grow through its ceiling? Is it happy for the tree’s company? Is the tree pulling it down, or holding it up? Is the cabin pulling the tree down?\n“You would think it would be enough that those kids came wandering through here in the middle of the night and fell through my floor. What were they thinking wandering around in here with nothing but moonlight to guide them. Thank goodness it was a full moon or who knows what might have happened,” House grumbled. \"Now I have a hole in my floor and…Squirrel! Can you please stop storing your nuts and seeds in my floorboards? Why are you trying to fill it with nuts?” The squirrel startled at the harsh voice and then ran back into a nearby tree to gather more. The house sighed, creaking as it did so. \"Foe, definitely foe.\"\nNot all of the nuts sprouted, but three or four did; some flower seeds too. “I have a dang bouquet sprouting from my bottom,” the house complained. “Well at least something looks nice around here. Guess I shouldn’t complain.\"\n“Hello down there,” he says from the rafters, “Are you friend or foe?” He chuckled to himself.\nThe house quivered when a child-like voice answered. “I think I’m a friend. At least, I want to be a friend. But, it gets mighty dark in here. Sometimes I’m afraid and I get lonely.”\n“Hey little fella. No reason to be afraid,” the house replied. “See that window over there, right behind you? Well it used to be a window. Now it's more of a broken pane of dirty glass. But I’m getting off track. A sunbeam comes to visit nearly every day. More through the break than the grimy pane, but see the little dust devils swirling? It almost lands right on you. I think if you stretch a little bit you could reach it.”\n“Uuuhhh! I can’t quite reach,” relied the little hickory sprout. “Not a problem for us,” came a chorus of boastful voices. “See how we stretch our long, slender stems into the swirling light? Some might even call us graceful the way we sway. The sunlight is so warm too. It is a tad cold here with the wind sweeping through that hole by the front door, House. Oh and we’re, Daisy. Some would say we’re wild Daisy,” the boast continued. The voice seemed to come from a bunch of spindly white blossoms sitting just south of Sprout.\n“Nice to meet you, Daisy,” grumbled House, “try not to crack my floor boards anymore than you already have.”\nA couple years went by and Daisy didn’t seem to grow much. They went away for quite a while when it got cold but had always come back when the sun shone through the window again and the floorboards began to warm. Then one year they just didn’t come back. \"Do you suppose they moved?” Hickory, who now preferred to be called Hick, asked House. “I suppose they did,” House replied. “Or maybe they went to live with that young lady who was wandering around here last summer. Remember, she plucked them off right in the middle of their stems and took them with her when she was done exploring. Maybe they stayed.”\n\"Well I know there is something kind of slimy down there now and something that tickles,” came Hick’s reply. “But they are kind of cool looking too. Don’t talk much. Maybe they sleep a lot. Two of my branches are leaning out the window now. There really isn’t much light in here anymore. Just that little bit of sun up high.”\nThat’s my roof you are talking about, boy,” House huffed. “Shingles blew off last fall and now the rain has started dripping through making the hole bigger and bigger. Gives me a headache just thinking about it.”\n“Don’t call me a boy,” came the angry answer. “I’m almost tall enough to touch that hole. I’m not a baby anymore. I’m growing more every day and I’m going places and up through there is my first stop. Someday I’ll bust right through that hole”\n“Friend or foe, Hick? Friend or foe?.” House commented resignedly.\nHouse was getting really old now. Very tattered and worn. Slats had fallen off his sides and someone had stolen his door. The frame no longer sat firm and straight. In fact House really didn’t think he would see Old Harvey again. His caretaker had been gone many seasons now. When Old Harvey had been here, things might have been dusty but there was no lack of laughter in House, who was then known as Home. He remembered Old Harvey playing the banjo but really missed the fiddle. Turkey in the Straw had been Home’s favorite, but Salty Dog and The Wabash Cannonball had been really good too. Home loved when the fiddle made the train whistle sound.\nThe grandchildren had giggled and jumped on the old iron bed, when they visited, making it squeak so much that they giggled some more. A couple of mouse families live there now. House was not sure if they were building a home or just tearing things apart. He didn’t ever ask, because he really didn’t want to know.\n“Hey, why so quiet? A new voice asked.\n“Who’s that?” asked Hick. “House, something is tickling my trunk again.”\n“Calm down. Now that you think you’re grown you shouldn’t be upset by a little tickling.” \n“I’m Fern,” came a very feminine voice. I love it here in the shade of your branches, Mr. Hick.” My other friends love it too, but they don’t talk much. Morrie, say hello. \n“I don‘t have time to talk.” a husky voice came that was also obviously female. “I’m busy eating. These roots are delicious.”\n“Stop that,” Hick shouted. “I am not for eating. Foe, House! Foe! Kick them out!”.\n“You know I can’t stop anyone from living here, Hick.. Just like you stretch your branches to the roof and window, these little ladies thrive in the darkness of that shade. But, Morrie, if you could eat on the floor instead of on Hick it would be much appreciated. My floors are made of pine. Surely you would like that better.\n“Ummm…no…pine tastes like, well it doesn’t taste good. I’m fine right here.” \n“Well they are small and wrinkly, Hick, perhaps they won’t stay long.”\n“Easy for you to say, House, they aren’t tearing you to pieces,” Hick replies dramatically.\nHouse replies, “may I remind you all where you live.” Hick looks around questioningly, but Fern nods her fronds. “Yeah, Hick, we live in House. And none of us even asked. In fact, I’m not even sure how I got here.” A faint chittering of squirrels was the closest thing to a reply any of them got.\nStill the years passed. House was quite old and bent now. Sir Hickory, for he never grew out of the dramatic, was quite the opposite. He had grown tall and strong, if a bit twisted. “House, he announced. You should look at the view from up here.” \n“I am the view from up there,” grumbled House. “Just look down.”\n“No, no, House. I mean up here. Look up.” House turned his gaze up. Leaves. Leaned a bit to the North. Leaves and blue. He hadn’t seen blue in a while. Just then a harsh wind blew through from the South. House heard a large crack and his top shifted significantly. Was he falling? “Sir Hickory, help!” he shouted. “I’m falling.” House swayed precariously.\n“Hold on,” Sir Hickory rumbled, steadying House and resting his rafters in his limbs. “Friend, House. Always your friend.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Brooksville\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1119\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a stranger coming to town and shaking up the order of things." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The town of Brooksville was a serene haven nestled amidst rolling hills and lush green meadows. Its residents, numbering just a few hundred, led peaceful lives, their routines following a predictable rhythm. Yet, as fate would have it, a stranger was about to arrive and shake up the order of things.\nOne sunny morning, the townsfolk noticed a figure in the distance, approaching with purpose. As the stranger drew nearer, they saw a young woman with a wild mane of golden curls cascading down her back. Her eyes shimmered with an indomitable spark, hinting at a spirit untamed by convention. She introduced herself as Luna, an explorer of the world, and she had come to Brooksville seeking a new adventure.\nNews of Luna's arrival spread like wildfire, igniting curiosity and whispers of speculation. The townsfolk gathered in the town square, eager to catch a glimpse of the enigmatic stranger who had stirred their tranquil existence. Luna's energy was contagious, and as she traversed the streets, a sense of anticipation crackled in the air.\nLuna wasted no time immersing herself in the fabric of Brooksville. She sought out the local baker, Mrs. Miller, whose confections had become lackluster due to her adherence to tradition. Luna suggested daring combinations of flavors and encouraged Mrs. Miller to experiment. The townsfolk, initially skeptical, found themselves enamored with the bold and delicious creations that emerged from the bakery.\nNext, Luna turned her attention to the aging bookstore owned by Mr. Thompson. The store had fallen into disarray, with dwindling patrons and dusty shelves. Luna saw potential in the forgotten stories and tattered pages. She organized book clubs, literary events, and even transformed a corner of the store into a cozy café where people could gather to discuss their newfound literary passions.\nAs Luna's influence grew, so did the resistance from those who feared change. The town council, a group of stern traditionalists, viewed her as a disruptive force, challenging the established order. They whispered warnings of chaos and upheaval, urging the townsfolk to reject Luna's ideas. But many had already glimpsed the magic she had woven into their lives and were unwilling to let it go.\nOne evening, tensions reached a boiling point. The council called for a town meeting, aiming to rid Brooksville of the stranger who threatened their tranquil existence. The meeting was held in the grand town hall, packed with both supporters and skeptics. The air crackled with anticipation as the council members and Luna stood before the crowd, ready to present their cases.\nAs the arguments flew back and forth, a hush fell over the room. It was an elderly man, Mr. Jenkins, a revered figure in the town, who spoke. His words were measured and wise, carrying the weight of experience. He acknowledged the council's concerns about tradition but also recognized the beauty and vitality that Luna had brought to Brooksville.\nMr. Jenkins proposed a compromise, a way for tradition and innovation to coexist harmoniously. The townsfolk listened intently as he spoke of preserving the cherished customs while embracing new ideas and perspectives. The council members, their hearts touched by his words, agreed to give Luna a chance.\nFrom that day forward, Brooksville blossomed into a vibrant tapestry of tradition and novelty. Luna's presence infused the town with a renewed zest for life. She organized art exhibitions, encouraged the townsfolk to explore their creative passions, and even initiated projects to revitalize neglected areas of the town.\nYears passed, and Brooksville thrived under the gentle sway of change. The once-skeptical townsfolk celebrated Luna's arrival as a turning point in their lives. Their days were filled with laughter, exploration, and a shared appreciation for the beauty of tradition intertwined with innovation.\nWhen Luna eventually bid farewell to Brooksville, the townsfolk gathered to honor her. They unveiled a mural, a testament to her transformative influence on their lives. As they stood before the vibrant masterpiece, they whispered words of gratitude, knowing that they would forever cherish the stranger who had arrived and shaken up the order of things, illuminating their lives with the magic of possibility.\nAfter Luna's departure, the spirit of change she had instilled in the townsfolk continued to thrive in Brooksville. The townspeople, inspired by their experiences with Luna, carried her teachings forward, embracing new ideas and nurturing their creative passions.\nThe bakery, once revitalized by Luna's suggestions, became a hub of culinary innovation. Mrs. Miller, now brimming with confidence, experimented with unique flavors, drawing customers from neighboring towns who marveled at her delectable creations. The bakery became renowned far and wide, putting Brooksville on the map as a culinary destination.\nThe bookstore, having undergone a renaissance under Luna's guidance, flourished as well. The cozy café corner became a beloved gathering place where book lovers gathered to discuss literature, exchange ideas, and form lasting friendships. People from all walks of life found solace and inspiration within the pages of books, and the bookstore became a cherished symbol of community and intellectual growth.\nBrooksville itself underwent a remarkable transformation. Inspired by Luna's initiatives, the townsfolk took it upon themselves to revitalize neglected areas. They established community gardens, breathing life into once-barren plots of land, and created a public art program that adorned the town with sculptures, murals, and installations. Brooksville became a haven for artists and creatives, drawing visitors from far and wide who sought the vibrant atmosphere and the sense of possibility that infused the town.\nThe town council, initially resistant to Luna's influence, gradually came to appreciate the positive changes that had taken place. They recognized the resilience of their community, capable of honoring traditions while embracing progress. The council members began working in harmony with the townsfolk, collaborating on initiatives that balanced the preservation of heritage with the pursuit of innovation.\nOver time, Brooksville became a symbol of resilience, adaptability, and the power of a single individual to ignite change. Luna's legacy lived on in the hearts and minds of the townspeople, reminding them that embracing the unfamiliar could lead to extraordinary transformations.\nYears later, when people spoke of the stranger who had come to town, they did so with reverence. Luna's name became a source of inspiration, passed down through generations as a reminder to challenge the status quo, pursue passions, and foster a spirit of open-mindedness. The story of Luna and Brooksville became folklore, a testament to the transformative power of one person's presence in a community and the lasting impact they can leave behind.\nAnd so, the town of Brooksville continued to evolve, its residents forever grateful to the stranger who had arrived and shaken up the order of things, igniting a flame that would burn brightly in their hearts for years to come." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Willow Rose\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1104\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story from the point of view of a “sasaeng” (an obsessive fan)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Willow looked more Ghost than Witch. Her wispy silver-blonde hair and pale features blended almost seamlessly into the pearl-white walls of the East Hollywood salon where she worked as a shampoo girl. Invisible until needed, no one noticed Willow when she emptied a dustpan of swept-up hair and nail clippings into the front pocket of her black smock. She would have been chased out with a broom. Willow smiled at the irony of the image, enjoying her inside joke. \nWillow didn’t belong in a salon, and she certainly didn’t belong in L.A. She belonged at home in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where the air always smells scrubbed clean, the late summer pawpaws are ripe for picking, and wildflowers can be woven into a perfect crown. \nHer sister sent her to California right after that boy went missing. The boy who had lured Willow to the shade of the sugar maple tree. Lizard-tongue darts everywhere all at once, his mouth wide and greedy, grip bruise tight as Willow struggled hard to get free. Her twists and whimpers added to his amusement, “Yawl’d only be purdy if yer eyes wuz bulloo. Naw wun wants you. ” He was laughing when the river suddenly swelled, rising high enough to snatch him from the bank. His terrified eyes and silent, gaping scream were the last Willow saw of him before he was swallowed whole, and with a satisfied gurgle, the river returned to normal.\nA week after he was gone, Willow was gone too. The boy in the river, Willow in L.A. All she had with her was a canning jar of cash, clean underwear, and a note in her sister’s scrawled handwriting tucked inside the pages of a worn book. “Promise me, Willow, promise me y’all be good.” Willow whispered her promise and hugged the book tight, fighting back the tears. It wasn’t her fault the river had taken him. Applying for the first job that seemed like something she could do, Willow interviewed at the salon. They were busy and asked her to start right away. The same day Willow was offered her first job in a new city, a black bunny appeared on her doorstep, pink nose twitching. Willow was happy for the familiar company, especially a bunny.\nAnnalisa was Willow's favorite customer, who came into the East Hollywood salon every week to see Stephan for a blowdry and Luna for a manicure. Willow would take as long as possible with Annalisa’s shampoo, sudsy, circular motions unlocking all of Annalisa’s musings. Willow saw all of Annalisa’s life; the grocery list left on the counter, her daughter’s ballet recital, the dreaded return call to her mother-in-law and former boss who keeps asking when she’ll return to work. Annalisa’s thoughts were the quiet side of the Ocoee for Willow’s thoughts to float on. \nAnnalisa’s scent reminded Willow of her mama; tangled hair, white floral, and delicate breezes. With a deep inhale, Willow could see her mama’s face and hear the hypnotic songs she sang when Willow was a little girl. Comforting sadness would wash over Willow, lapping waves on a summer day. Stephan’s hard tap on Willow’s shoulder, “Um, hello, space girl, back to planet Earth! I’m on a schedule.” always came too soon.\nWillow knew Annalisa liked her. She would always tip Willow with cash and a compliment, \n“You have magic fingers. Sei molto simpatica!” Walking the three-mile stretch from East Hollywood to Echo Park, humming a made-up tune, Willow would rub Annalisa’s twenty-dollar bill tip between her finger and thumb, spending it at her only stop, a corner grocer. Willow would buy cream for her tea, green tomatoes to coat in breadcrumbs to fry for supper, and cilantro for the bunny she named Raisin. \nStroking Raisin’s velvety fur, Willow would sip tea, the metal infuser stuffed with Annalisa’s hair clippings, nail slivers, cattail root, sumac, and nasturtium. Once finished, Willow would close her eyes, recite ancient words from memory, then settle in to watch Annalisa’s life in full color. Only the bunny knew Willow’s secrets. \nWillow knew she wasn’t supposed to use the tea more than a few times on the same person. The tea’s potency grew stronger with each new cup, not for Willow but for the people she watched. If she wasn’t careful, Annalisa would catch her in the act.\nAs months turned into a year, Willow grew bored watching the other clients and only tuned into her Annalisa. The other clients, fleetingly fascinating, were all the same trope - love triangles, weight gain and loss complaints, frivolous spending, bratty kids. It was only Annalisa, with her jet-black hair, smooth olive skin, and white teeth, who she wanted to watch repeatedly. Willow knew Annalisa was starting to feel her presence. Annalisa would suddenly stand up from kneeling in the garden; hand shovel gripped tight, green eyes large under a wide brim hat scanning the rows of poppies and penstemons. Or Annalisa would check all the security cameras in her gourmet kitchen, sauce bubbling on the stove, a sudden shudder of shoulders, arms folded around her body. But it was in Annalisa’s daughter’s bedroom that she saw Willow outside of the salon for the first time. A pale, hollow-eyed marionette doll without strings, suspended mid-air in the darkest corner. Face contorted into raw terror, Annalisa screamed. Willow vanished.\n“NO! NO! NO!.” Raisin scurried to a corner as the porcelain tea cup shattered on the ground. Panicked, heart racing, Willow scrambled across the room to the suitcase under the bed where she hid the grimoire. On her knees, flipping through the tattered pages, Willow found what she dreaded most, then curled into a ball on the floor. There was no way to reverse the curse; abusing the power of the tea had finally caught up with her.\nThe next morning Raisin was gone. Willow trudged to work, legs heavy, head hung low. “You’re late.” Stephan snapped, then turned to Luna asking, “Do you think Annalisa’s ok? She’s never no-showed! SHould I be worried?” Willow cleared her throat and spoke directly to Stephan for the first time, “She’s nevur comin’ back.” and then walked out. \nWillow kept walking for two-thousand three hundred miles—a ghost with red eyes and skin that glowed pale day and night. By the time she reached the river, the soles of her shoes were worn thin, her tongue thick in her mouth, skin dry and cracked. The rushing water was cold, ice-cold, up to her waist, chest, and neck. A light breeze rustled through the sugar maple trees, softly blowing Raisin’s velvety black fur, her sad eyes watching Willow from the grass." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Of All the Places\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1009\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone coming across their doppelganger." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Of All the Places\nI have been very aware that I was adopted since I was ten. The meanest boy on the school bus loved to torture me just because I was the bus driver's daughter. The following day, after being assigned to the front seat across from mine, Andrew boarded with a huge grudge and the boasting of his nastier mother. As the door closed, his mother screamed, \"You know what you must do.\" When the bus pulled from the stop, he shouted, \"She's not your mother. You're adopted. Your real mother didn't want you.\" My mother tried to defuse the laughter by saying, \"Don't pay attention to them; you're so special and loved that you have two sets of parents.\" The laughter may have died down, but the words still rattled around in my head and heart for years because children don't forget the things that will cut you the deepest.\nI didn't let my mother know that I wanted to find out about my birth family until I was a teenager. I always wanted another sister; after Gloria died, Mom wouldn't take the chance of losing me, or maybe she thought there would be too many questions. One year, she asked what I wanted for my birthday, and I requested my birth certificate, file, and adoption folder. When I said that, the look on her face was hurt. Slowly, a tear dripped from one eye and rolled down her cheek, and she turned to go into the house. Later that night, after I was in bed, I heard my father telling Mom, \"We knew the day would come when she would want to know why and if she could meet her. That doesn't mean she is unhappy; she is just curious. We must be ready for whatever questions she has for both sides.\" Mom stated she didn't want to see me hurt.\nI was the one who had not thought about it until I was smacked in the face with the idea of having more parents out there somewhere. Years passed, and then I was alone after she put me out for getting pregnant. It was when I wished for either mom to be there, but it wasn't until my second pregnancy that I was challenged with the questions.\nMy big sister from the program surprised me for my birthday. I thought we were going out to lunch until we hit the highway; I just sat back and enjoyed the ride and the conversation. Tilly B. was the only person in my immediate circle who didn't scold, judge, or offer her opinion about what I should do about my situation. She only said that she thought I could use a day to escape; she was right.\nWe ended up in Doswell, Virginia, at Kings Dominion for the day. Knowing how expensive food was inside the park, we first went to the McDonald's across the street. We arrived just as the change from breakfast to lunch happened around 10:45. We were the only customers in the store trying to decide what to order when the cashier said, \"I'll be with you in a minute.\" We responded without looking at her, saying, \"Take your time; we don't even know what we want yet.\"\nWhen she turned around, everyone's mouths dropped open; it was as if I was looking at my twin, doppelganger, or in a mirror. To be face-to-face with someone who looked like me was eerie but exciting. Was she my long-lost sister? Was she adopted also? Did mom keep her? I didn't ask any of those questions. Her name was Pam, according to her name tag. My sister found out that she was sixteen and moved to Richmond with her family a year earlier when the military transferred their father.\nThat encounter left me wondering for the first time if I had sisters or brothers somewhere. Did they know about me? Did they want to meet me? I called my mom the next day and told her about Pam, and that allowed us to talk about the conversation we should have had eight years back. She admitted that she feared I would want to meet my birth parents and want to go back to them. Again, afraid of the answers, I dismissed the thoughts.\nMy mother passed away in 1995, and at the funeral home, some distant cousin reminded me that I wasn't family, that I was adopted. Before my accident in 1998, I had just heard about DNA testing, but I didn't want anyone to think I looked them up because I needed their help. So, again, I dismissed any notion of searching for family.\n2016, my caregiver and my family members got tired of repeating this phrase: \"We don't know, she was adopted.\" When I finally woke up from a month-long coma, they gave me the Ancestry DNA test kit for Christmas. Fifty-something and still afraid of the answers, the kit sat on my dresser until the end of January. On her way home one Friday evening, Miss Peaches handed the test to my oldest son and said, \"Make sure you two get this done today.\"\nA month later, the results were available, and thirty-four days later, I received a message and the gift I had wanted all my life. I think you're my sister because of the number of matching alleles. We met within two weeks, and I found out that I have a little sister, eight years younger. She answered every question that I had wondered about over the years.\nI learned that I had so many things in common with our mother. I was also told that she wanted to keep me, but we had no help from the sperm donor, and my great-grandmother wasn't going to have another mouth to feed. I met our mother's best friend and my sister's godmother, who told me that my mother regretted having to put me up for adoption. Unfortunately, our mother passed away in 1982, the same year my first son was born." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Quicksand\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 2426\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two people living together who have opposing sleep cycles, and only cross paths at dawn and dusk." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She caught sight of him at dawn when the sun woke from its slumber. He for a brief moment saw her at dusk when the sun peered over the horizon, and the moon rose to take its place. Like passing trains in the midst of night they traveled separate journeys. Neither spoke much these days, buried by the silence, and the reluctance to resolve their troubles.\nPuppy love turned to malevolence quickly after the weights of life beared down and reality sank it's teeth deep into their teenage fantasy. Brenda and Damon, almost thirty, no longer relished the idea of being in love ensnared by a suck hole they called marriage.\nDamon arrived at dawn; Brenda left at dawn. Neither wanted to shatter the piercing silence of their arduous life. They couldn’t afford to speak to each other because they would have to confront their lack of intimacy, the miscarriage that kept Brenda bedridden for months, and, above all, Damon’s affair.\nDamon preferred the night shift, providing him with an excuse to sleep the day away and evade accountability for his transgressions. As a result, Brenda preferred the morning shift in order to avoid looking at him for long periods of time. After discovering his affair, being in the same room with him made her skin crawl. One day, everything that had worked for eight months collapsed; She spoke.\n“This isn’t working,” she said, sipping her aromatic coffee that Monday morning. She knew she had to confront him. She took a deep breath and said, “It’s over.”\nAs he entered and placed his lunchbox on the table, Damon pretended not to hear her. Surprised and relieved to hear her voice, he pretended to be oblivious.\n\"What?\" he frowned, his brows knitting together in a perplexed expression. The unexpected news hit him like a sudden gust of wind, leaving him momentarily disoriented.\nHe grasped the meaning behind her words, but admitting that he couldn't afford a divorce right now was a bitter pill to swallow. The job at the warehouse was unreliable, with the constant threat of layoffs. Adding to the financial imbalance, she, as a legal assistant, earned more than him, and he had recently splurged on a new truck.\n\"This... the quiet, the lack of intimacy—I just can't go on like this anymore,\" she sighed, frustration evident in her tone.\nHad she found someone else as well? Not Brenda—she was loyal to a fault. A whirlwind of thoughts raced through his mind. He yearned to ask questions, but emotions tangled his words. Anything he said at this moment would be tinged with the intensity of his feelings.\n“Why are you doing this?” Damn it, there it goes.\n“Damon, you know just as well as me that this hasn’t been healthy for either of us,” she tossed her cup in the sink and prepared to leave for work, not bothering to wash it.\n“Is this about the affair? I told you that was a one-time thing. I don’t even talk to her anymore,” he tried to explain, though it was all just lies. He was still entangled in the affair and had no intention of giving up the pleasure and comfort the other woman provided anytime soon.\n“We need to end this and move on, my mother said…”\nAfter that reference to her mother, he shut down, unwilling to entertain any more conversation. Clarice, her mother, had been overly involved in their marriage, and he couldn't help but feel she should foot the bill for the divorce. Brenda, being the empathetic daughter, always seemed compelled to follow her mother's wishes. He blamed Clarice for the miscarriage, attributing it to the stress caused by her influence and the superstitious beliefs she had implanted in Brenda's mind. He harbored a strong dislike for Clarice, convinced that her deceased husband's escape was a deliberate choice to get away from her.\n“Oh, your mother said? You know you’re a grown woman, right? Your mother should not have a say in our marriage,” he walked off into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.\nShe despised when he did that. It was precisely why she avoided these conversations with him. He never seemed mature enough to confront the blunt truth. Brenda followed him into the room, continuing to speak.\n“I’m leaving, that’s it. I’m packing up this weekend and going to stay with my mother in the country. It’s over, Damon.”\nAs she turned to walk away, her heels clacked against the linoleum floor. What happened next was beyond his control. He reached for the back of her jacket and pulled her back.\nBrenda raised an eyebrow, looking at him, unsure if he would respond with violence or perhaps a desperate kiss. To her surprise, he did neither; he simply released her. In that moment, he recognized he didn't deserve her, realizing he was destined to be alone, to grow old and face the final days by himself.\nThe pain he inflicted on her was tangible; he could feel it in the touch that had once held warmth. The light that had once glistened in her eyes, under the summer sun, was now extinguished. She had become an empty shell, drained by his lies and deceit. Brenda had yearned passionately to build a family with Damon and experience a love akin to her parents' enduring bond of 40 years.\nHowever, Damon fell short of being the man her father was. His peak in college still lingered in his self-image, holding onto the illusion of his teenage body. He was on the precipice of needing Weight Watchers, and, truth be told, she was no longer attracted to him.\n“I’ll start packing my things when I get off tonight.” That was all she said before disappearing through the front door. The urge to run after her and confess how much he needed her lingered, but the harsh reality that it was truly over had already settled in.\nHe sat on the side of the bed in his dusty uniform, staring into the abyss of his thoughts. Showering, sleeping, and gearing up for another 12-hour shift were the only things left on the agenda. He had lost his wife, and now, in the midst of this upheaval, he couldn’t afford to lose his job.\nBrenda couldn’t concentrate at work all day, the weight of realizing she had loved Damon for a decade, and only him, gnawing at her. How could he betray her like that after she had unwaveringly stayed faithful to him? He nullified their vows when he lay down with that tramp. She endured the loss of their baby, and instead of finding solace in him, he sought refuge elsewhere.\nHe didn’t care about her; his actions were purely selfish. It was time for her to be equally self-centered and prioritize her own well-being. During those months of grief, she lay there, in tears drowning out the world, mourning the loss of that small part of him she'd lost. He never once entered that room to console her, too absorbed in his own little game, occupied with someone else, fitting his piece into another puzzle.\nThe truth of the matter remained that he didn't know how to comfort her. His distraction came in the form of a five foot four caramel skinned coworker who eagerly took up the chance to seduce him. He accepted, and without regret continued even after Brenda found out. Brenda's boss looked into her eyes and sensed that something was profoundly wrong.\n“Are you okay, Bren?” Reynaldo had a look of concern spread across his face.\n\"Oh yes, I've completed the dissertation for the Bonner Oil case. I'll make sure to place it on your desk, Mr. Fields,\" she said, attempting to hide the strain behind a smile.\nHe settled on the corner of her desk, placing his coffee cup down.\n\"Call me Reynaldo, Bren; you’ve been part of this office for almost a year now. What's going on with you today?\" he said, leaning in.\nShe attempted to halt it, but events unfolded rapidly. Tears streamed down her face, and she found herself enveloped in his embrace, shedding tears without restraint.\n\"Hey, easy now; do you need to leave?\" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.\n\"No, it’s just... well, Damon and I are separating,\" she said, wiping away mascara.\nReynaldo lacked the details, but he sensed the significance of Brenda confiding in him. Brenda, with her long peanut butter brown legs and an hourglass figure, had caught Reynaldo's eye more than once. Office rumors painted her husband as a loser; she deserved better.\n\"How about we get out of here? I’ll buy you lunch,\" he suggested with a smile.\nHandsome and seemingly impervious to dentist envy, Reynaldo's perfect smile made Brenda hesitate to decline.\n\"I’d like that,\" she replied, her voice taking on a low, somewhat sensual tone.\n\"Great, grab your things, meet me at my car,\" he smiled.\nBrenda found herself in her boss’s Porsche, the wind tousling her hair as they drove with the top down. The scent of his Armani cologne wafted through the air, casting a spell. She had never regarded Reynaldo as more than a boss, but now, sitting there in his sunglasses, he looked undeniably appealing.\nDesiring him, she felt entitled to this one indulgence. She was determined to have him, even if it meant making it the last thing she did. Revenge, some might call it, but she was savoring her just desserts. After all, who didn't like dessert?\nBrenda didn’t return home until late that night. What started as lunch with Reynaldo morphed into drinks after work. Damon, who had never bothered to check on her before, now called her twelve times.\nShe didn’t answer. Recalling how he had ignored her pleas during his affair, Brenda hummed a tune from the restaurant, reminiscing about the charming Reynaldo. He was a breath of fresh air, pulling out chairs and opening doors, a stark contrast to Damon's neglect.\nWrapped in Reynaldo's fur-lined coat, Brenda hadn’t felt this way in ages. At the end of the night he'd kissed her and she let him. The house was dark when she arrived, and Damon, disheveled, awaited her in the doorway.\nShe pretended to appraise him before casually walking toward the kitchen for a glass of water. As she turned to see Damon standing behind her, rage burning in his eyes, she couldn't help but laugh at his ridiculous expression.\n\"Where have you been?\" he demanded, furrowing his brows.\n\"Don't worry about it,\" she laughed, heading to the room.\n\"What do you mean, 'don't worry about it'?\" he followed her, reversing their usual dynamic.\n\"Just what I said, don't worry about it. I'm here now. Aren’t you supposed to be headed to work?\" she asked with a smirk.\n\"I called in,\" he replied, plopping on the bed.\nShe walked off towards the bathroom, leaving her shoes in the hallway, an act she would never usually tolerate in her meticulous tidiness. Tonight, she didn't care. Living carefree, thoughts of Reynaldo danced in her head. Although he was her boss, he made her feel things she had never felt with Damon.\n\"You're acting really strange,\" Damon observed as she flounced around on her tiptoes, floating through the house.\nTired of his constant questioning, all she wanted was for him to go to work and leave her to her fantasies.\n\"It’s called happiness, Damon. You know, that’s when a woman feels beautiful and loved. Happiness,\" she scoffed.\nTrying to enter the bathroom, he surprised her by standing in the doorway, glaring at her with a look of hatred.\n\"Happiness, huh? What’s got you so happy?\" he squinted at her, rubbing his chin.\n\"Oh my God, Damon, can’t I just be in a good mood?\" she tried to push past him.\nHe grabbed her shoulders and shook her.\n\"Are you cheating on me?\" he bit his lip so hard that blood left the surface, making his lip white.\n\"What? Let me go. What is wrong with you?\" Damon couldn’t accept the idea of her with another man. She belonged to him, no matter his transgressions; He wouldn’t allow her to do the things he did.\nBrenda tried to squirm from his grip but found his hand around her throat, squeezing. Even without evidence of wrongdoing, Damon's actions were relentless. He couldn't endure the same treatment he subjected her to for months.\n\"Damon, you're hurting me,\" she whispered through gasps for air.\nIn this intense moment, Damon's grip tightened, fueled by a possessive desperation. \"Is it one of those fancy pants lawyers?\" he demanded, squeezing even harder. Brenda, engulfed in darkness, struggled to respond. Shocked and overwhelmed, she yearned to fight back, to kick or scream, but the reality of the unfolding nightmare paralyzed her.\nFinally regaining some sense, Damon released his hold. Brenda crumpled to the ground, tears streaming down her face. The weight of his actions crashed over Damon with a crushing force, a realization that struck him like a relentless barrage of heavy bricks, each one laden with the gravity of his deeds.\nBrenda, his college sweetheart, and the pillar of support during his most challenging moments, standing by him with unwavering loyalty, didn't deserve this. She played a pivotal role in helping him secure the job at the warehouse, a gesture that held profound significance in their shared history.\n\"You know what? You’re right, it’s over. I’ll leave,\" he declared, turning away. For once, Brenda didn't stop him. In that poignant moment, both acknowledged that what they once shared had disintegrated. Their entrenched codependency and the resistance to embrace change, rooted in the comfort of familiarity, finally led them to a breaking point.\nDamon packed, and Brenda wiped away her tears. Uncertain of his destination, Damon couldn’t stay there any longer. He despised the person he became, and Brenda shared that sentiment. The problem wasn't her; it was him. Though imperfect she, loved him through thick and thin. The inappropriate involvement with Reynaldo was her misstep, and she knew it. Knowing Damon tormented himself with jealousy provided an odd comfort.\nThat fateful night, Damon departed, and the shadows of unfamiliarity cloaked them once again. The specter of divorce loomed ominously, but, as per their usual dance, neither yielded. They desperately clung to the fragments of a bygone connection, acutely aware that the tapestry of their past could never be rewoven. Long before Brenda sought her vindication, Damon had fractured her heart irreparably. Their bond resembled quicksand, each sinking deeper, powerless to rescue the other." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Strangle the Wrangle\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1148\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the line “my lips are sealed.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Have you heard of Wrangles, and their wretched ways? You most likely haven't, because their very existence has been kept a hushed secret for thousands of years.\nBut that ends today. Wrangles are creatures of the mind - they do not exist in our physical realm, you can only meet them in your thoughts.\nWrangles are responsible for millions of petty arguments, countless fits of rage and even a bloody handful of wars.\nYou see, Wrangles are spindly, seething demons with elbows so sharp that even the wind gasps when it sees them.\nWrangles crawl on all fours with bulbous heads and long limbs, grunting and gasping, their long nails torturously scraping the floor.\nWrangles only exist in your mind's eye, they're invisible otherwise. But, it's their dark power that makes them so dangerous.\nWrangles enter our minds when we feel particularly lost or upset, and they slink around, licking every corner of our mind.\nYou see, everyone's mind can be described as a glass palace. Inside are thousands of rooms, all filled with pictures, decorations and ornaments that represent our memories.\nSome rooms are dusty and forgotten, with even the doorknob having rolled away out of boredom long ago.\nOther rooms are dark and dungy, full of memories you'd rather forget, in the forms of rusty chains that once held you captive.\nSome mind palace's are equipped with furnaces, where people toss happy memories if they wish to reform who they are.\nMost politicians have dedicated an entire floor to their furnaces, burning their childhood memories to help sedate them when pursuing power.\nBut back to the Wrangle. They slither around, licking the walls, picture frames, ornaments and trinkets, infecting your memories with anger.\nSometimes, it'll find a juicy memory where you felt slighted, and gorge itself, drenching it in saliva and muttering darkly to itself.\nEver been driving and randomly felt a pang of anger for someone who annoyed you many years ago? Yeah, that's a Wrangle at work.\nWrangles seethe and gasp, snort and snicker as they vandalise your mind palace.\nThe worst part? When they're done they run around chaotically, relieving themselves wherever they see fit, leaving an odorous smell wherever their crusty feet patter.\nSometimes Wrangles become so comfortable, they just live in a person's mind forever. People who spew hate, spit venom or are perpetually angry, most likely have a Wrangle running amok through their mind, gnashing its teeth like a rabies infested dog.\nFor you and I reader, Wrangles leave when they sense a loved one reaching out to talk.\nThe mere act of saying 'is everything alright?' makes the positive memories in your mind palace glow, and this light burns the skin off the wrangle, sending it scarpering away.\nHowever, for those who want to take a more direct approach with their Wrangles, there is something else you can do.\nWhat I'm about to tell you is dangerous, requires years of training and isn't to be attempted lightly.\nPromise you won't rush into trying this?\nWell, that was the most half-hearted promise I've ever seen reader, but I'll tell you anyway.\nYou need to sit somewhere quiet, close your eyes and enter your own mind palace.\nDon't worry, you know what it looks like. Don't try too hard, just let your thoughts float you down the river of remembrance, until your mind palace comes into focus.\nWalk in, take a stroll into different rooms if you want.\nSteady your breathing, you need to remain calm. Don't get too caught up in old memories or nostalgia from yester-year. That's not what we're here for.\nInstead, walk slowly into the centre of the mind palace, and sit down.\nNow breathe deeply, and wait. Listen to some calming music if it helps.\nSit in the middle of your mind palace, and don't try to think, judge, act or plan. Just...be.\nEventually, you'll be so still that your presence won't be noticed by Wrangles who break in.\nYou'll notice angry or resentful thoughts float around you...that's just the scent of Wrangles nearby, spitting on your memories and urinating in the sacred halls of your mind palace.\nDon't move. Don't tense a single muscle, for they'll notice you.\nAllow the angry memories to float around you, but do not interact with them.\nIt'll be difficult the first few times. Asking someone to not interact with an angry memory is like putting a slice of soft chocolate cake into your mouth and saying 'now, don't chew.'\nEventually, the Wrangle will come pattering through the hall and approach you.\nIt'll approach timidly, like a child, but its eyes will betray a devilish glint. It'll think you're just another object in the mind palace, because you're sitting so still.\nLet it approach. As it does, you'll recall many things that make you so, so deeply angry.\nDon't interact with the memory. Just observe it, like a detached stranger watching a thunderstorm.\nThe Wrangle will begin to lick your face, giggling gutturally to itself, gasping at the new shiny trinket it can ruin.\nOkay reader, now is the time to act.\nBe sudden, be swift!\nReach out and grab the Wrangle by its throat.\nStrangle the Wrangle!\nIt'll hiss and gasp and thrash around, but hold tight. Its skin will feel cold and crusty, and its elbows might even cut you, but just persist reader.\nNow you have the Wrangle in your grip, look into its eyes. Feel the anger pouring out of its eyes and observe it.\nGrip even tighter, and gaze at the Wrangle with a quiet fury. Now it's your turn to be angry, to show the Wrangle you're furious at its actions.\nIt'll beg in a deep, croaky voice. It'll make all sorts of false promises to get free from your grip.\n'I'll never lick your memories again! My lips are sealed!' it'll plead.\nThe Wrangle by nature is a coward, so eventually it'll begin crying and wailing to the heavens.\nLet it go, reader. Don't kill it, for if a Wrangle dies it explodes immediately, drenching everyone in its excrement.\nLet it run out the door of your mind palace, and sit with yourself.\nYou see, reader, anger is a healthy emotion, when understood. But, allowing anger to drive our emotions is like wielding a sword and holding it by the blade side.\nOnce the Wrangle has gone, accept the anger you feel, but also allow it to dissipate, for most angry thoughts don't need a place in your mind palace.\nSome do, some are vitally important, but most can be discarded like last week's pizza.\nAnd that's the truth reader, about the Wrangles and how you can catch them.\nSo the next time you feel a wave of anger wash over you and you feel terribly irritable, sit down with yourself.\nTake a moment, observe your thoughts.\nBe still.\nAnd strangle the Wrangle!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Caroline Crawly\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1003\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character is known as the town gossip. One day, it comes back to bite them." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They were too busy, the women of the town, to notice me when they gathered at the diner, Miss Lolly’s. Every Sunday, it was the church ladies, melty pink mints in their purses, lips pressed tight to hold back curses as their self-appointed leader, Ms. Amy Sprechen, a woman of no personal reflection, would share what no one else dares. Ms. Amy’s limited view of everything new allowed her to stay in the past, the power of her perfect hair and hourglass figure built to last. Ms. Amy’s husband, Mr. Ben, owned the bank, a dress shop, and a lunch counter deli, unoriginally named Mom & Pop. In matching short skirts and tops, the sales girls would supply Ms. Amy with all the juicy gossip, then lick their chops, anxious for approval, sucking up Ms. Amy’s breadcrumbs like little hoovers. No children, Ms. Amy grew her own flock, which wasn’t hard to do with eyes so big and Little Bo Peep locks. Her looks alone could convince anyone to cross a line, and for Ms. Amy, that worked out just fine. She enjoyed local celebrity status, gathering crowds under Miss Lolly’s outdoor arbor and blooming lattice. My roots ran deeper than hers, but Ms. Amy had a draw like no other, so over me, no one hovered.\nBook club on Wednesday, Ms. Amy, instead of her house, had her mother, who looked half-shrew, half-mouse, drive her to and from Lolly’s, Ms. Amy sucking down wine to find jolly. She employed her mother for these things out of pity, the poor woman with her parlor skin and life so shitty. She was once married to a man, Amy’s father, tall, broad, and tan. His eyes were the color of the sea, lips wet with other women’s curiosity. He died when Amy was thirteen; the crash that took his life had his wife happy, wiping her eyes, tears streaming to hide grateful surprise. The town wept for the loss of their movie-star handsome; what did it matter if he held other women’s hearts for ransom? He had been a man born to stray, forgiven easily on every Sunday. Ms. Amy was her father in female form, sea glass in an ocean of so much need, the small town of Bentley with its version of greed. Just like when he was alive, on her father’s coattails, Ms. Amy did thrive. \nFor all she thought she knew, Ms. Amy couldn’t tell a shrub from a tree, a cat from a small dog, or a piglet from a wild hog. She only enjoyed the sport of gossip, ponies, and how to con a phony. But all the shallow bliss slipped away the day Ms. Amy decided to stray, plucking a red slip-skin fruit from the diner’s outdoor vine, waving away the server who told her the grapes were only for Miss Lolly to harvest for Easter wine. \n“What nonsense!” Ms, Amy huffed. “What does it matter if I eat a few? It makes no difference to me; why should it to you?” \nWith that, the server slunk away, knowing it was best not to stay. Ms. Amy’s tongue was as sharp as her razor-cut bob, always apple crisp; next to Ms. Amy, everyone’s a slob. \nSummer into fall, Ms. Amy plucked Lolly’s grapes, popping them in her mouth like candy, the stain of sweet juice pointed out politely by a woman named Mandy. \n“Don’t forget to brush your teeth, even after nature’s sweets!”\nMouth scarlett, eyes narrowed, Ms. Amy snapped, “What did you just say?!” in her hand, ready to toss, a half-caf, no whip, 120 degrees without a please, latte.\nRealizing her mistake, Mandy cowered, tucked her tail, and ran home to shower, sweat beading along to her sobs bleating. \nOnce Mandy was gone, Ms. Amy talked on, speaking of nothing while huffing and puffing. The more she talked, the redder she got. Her face was round, so adding color is all it would take for her to look like a grape. The other women began to notice and peeked around, squirming in their chairs, their queen turned magenta clown. \nNoticing their movement, Ms. Amy frowned, ‘What is wrong with y’all? Pay attention! I’m belle of this fucking ball!”\nBut the force of Ms. Amy was wearing off fast; in their seats, they couldn’t last. One by one, the town ladies sprang from their seats, lies filtering through chiclet white teeth. \nHands on hips, Ms. Amy, shouted, “Get a grip! I’m not fucking done! I want MY FUN!”\nIt didn’t work; they only saw Ms. Amy’s jerk. As each one excused themself, Ms. Amy became more undone. It wasn’t until she changed her finger-wagging direction that Ms. Amy caught sight of her reflection. With a loud gasp, she clutched the clasp of her pearls, gifted as a little girl. Hands to her face, Ms. Amy ran from Lolly’s as if in a race. Her speed and panic propelled her fast and, like her father before her, causing a crash. The driver, her mother, hadn’t seen her coming, too busy ruminating over a new lover's honey. As soon as she hit the brakes, her daughter was against the windshield, smashed like a baker’s bad cake—or big grape. \nShocked and awed by the sight, the whole town stopped and dropped, dead in their tracks, hardly able to comprehend Ms. Amy’s end. Everyone that is except for me and Miss Lolly. Gently stroking one of my broad green leaves, Miss Lolly whistled through her teeth, “Another mess I don’t have to clean up. Darlin, let me get you a cup.”\nWater for me, wine for her, Ms. Lolly started to purr. Something she only did when the mood was ripe with the loss of a no-good life. With a sly smile, Miss Lolly decided to sit for a while under my shade where she had it made. \n“Oh, Caroline, my sweet crawly vine, if it didn’t mean I’d be wrapped movement along a trellis, of your powers, I’d be jealous.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sweet And Sour\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 2246\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who finds guidance in an unlikely place." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Any more words of wisdom?”\n“Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.”\n“You come up with that, yourself?”\n“It’s Shakespeare.”\n“When have you read any Shakespeare?”\n“It says it on this small piece of paper, quoting Shakespeare.”\n“I thought you only read stuff when it’s got pictures in it.”\n“I’ll have you know that we are living in the new age of literary enlightenment.”\n“What, reading comics?”\n“They’re starting to be referred to as graphic novels, now.”\n“More commonly known as children’s books.”\n“They come with a rating, Tom. So, they ain’t for kids. Anyways, I only read the ones with Parental Advisory ratings.”\n“And what did they say?”\n“Who?”\n“Your parents.”\n“I don’t get it.”\n“Stick to looking at the pictures, Eric.”\n“They’ve got words in them, too.”\n“What, like See Jane, see Jane’s dog, Spot. See Spot run?”\n“More adult than that, Tom.”\n“Like, See Spot shit?”\n“That’s not adult.”\n“Give me an example, then.”\n“Well, the one I’m currently reading is about this bloke that has twenty-four hours to kill one of the world’s most famous villains, Doctor Octopus.”\n“I rest my case… Now, can we please tackle my problem?”\nTom Daly and Eric Watkins – friends since boyhood, sat opposite each other in Cookie’s Cantonese Canteen tucked into a nook along a small Soho alleyway in London. Recently released from prison for a botched bank heist that Eric had incompetently planned, Tom had arranged a meeting with his hapless chum to discuss a serious matter needing a delicate understanding and guidance with. Void of anyone he considered a trusted confidante, Tom’s desperation led him to invite Eric for a Chinese to get a second opinion.\n“Look mate,” Eric offered some words of wisdom. “One bad chapter doesn’t mean your story’s over.”\n“Where’d you get that from?”\n“Inside one of these fortune cookies our waiter left on the plate with the bill. You need guidance, so I thought that message fits the moment.”\n“I was hoping for something a bit more inspiring from you.”\n“It’s me, Tom. Eric, remember? This is what you get.”\n“Well, this bad chapter is turning into a book, Eric. Ever since the stag night when I bumped into my supposed future in-laws for the first time, wearing glittered eyebrows and an inflatable penis strapped to my waist.”\n“Yeah, that was a pretty good stag party. Funny bumping into them, weren’t it.”\n“If you recall, they were having dinner in their hotel restaurant. The same hotel you booked me, you, and the rest of the groomsmen into the night before the wedding.”\n“Pure coincidence, mate.”\n“Coincidence is not something that is normally associated with you… mate. This was a pure Eric Watkins fuck-up.”\n“I didn’t know they were there when we shoved you through the restaurant door, then ran off. We thought it would be a laugh.”\n“Who’s we, Eric?”\n“Well, me. The other two were just muscle. I was the brains.”\n“You handcuffed my hands to a leather garter with my pants around my ankles.”\n“I did wonder why Deb’s step-mum kept winking at you at the registry office… and the reception… and why she insisted on dancing with you all night… clutching your bum.”\n“It took all my strength to peel her off me.”\n“You must have made a good impression, though.”\n“She kept asking was there anything she could blow up for me.”\n“Like what? Oh, you don’t mean…”\n“The inflatable, yes.”\n“Hungry little minx, in’t she. Not a bad looker for her age, as well.”\n“Eric,” Tom’s voice pitched into the approach of a rhetorical question. “Who was it that introduced me to my fleeting bride?”\n“I did, Tom.”\n“How did you come to know her?”\n“Smelly Steve.”\n“The pimp?”\n“I’ll ‘ave you know he’s one of Soho’s few legitimate businessmen.”\n“Do you know how Steve got his nickname?”\n“Cause, he smells?”\n“Cause someone else once told him he did, so Steve slashed off the tip of their nose, then asked them to repeat what they said.”\n“What did they say?”\nTom paused, allowing Eric to visualise the story. Seeing how Eric had lost focus on the matter at hand, Tom attempted to steer him back on track.\n“Never mind… So, Deb was a…”\n“What’s Deb doin’ in that story…? Oh, he said nothing, in case he lost a bit more of his honker. I get it. Yes, Deb was a lady of leisure.”\n“You hooked me up with a Prozzie that tricked me into marrying her, saying she was up the duff with my kid, because she thought I had a hidden stash of cash and gold from that idiotic bank holiday failure?”\n“Well mate, pardon me for being Cupid. Cause, on that first night, you both looked like you was getting on like a house on fire.”\n“A house that she eventually lit the match to, leaving me sleeping upstairs unawares.”\n“Lucky, I came ‘round early that morning.”\n“Yes. By the way, you never told me how you got in?”\n“I had a key.”\n“You had a key to my house?”\n“Yeah, well, while you was banged up, I used to sleep there.”\n“You what!?”\n“Hold on for a sec. I wasn’t dossing. As payment, I kept it clean and tidy. Put the fire out, didn’t I.”\n“Yes, I do thank you for that. You know, from the off, it was like she knew me inside out. Why do you think that was, Eric?”\n“I might ‘ave let her in on your personality traits. She was very insistent on getting to know you better.”\n“Yes, and she also knew that my upbringing would do the right thing by her, if she told me I was going to be a dad.”\n“And you did, mate. I was there the night of the supposed conception.”\n“With her stand-in parents - in the next room.”\n“She said they had to come along as chaperones.”\n“To listen to us in the bedroom?”\n“They brought ear plugs, custard creams, and some polite conversation. I had to talk loud for them to hear me – which was a good thing, because you two were making a hell of a noise.”\n“Did I tell you that I found out that Roger wasn’t her real dad?”\n“That explains the skin tone difference, dunnit.”\n“Apparently, her mum left her dad, then her dad hooked up with Deb’s future stepmother, who then dumped him after a month. So then, she takes in Roger the Lodger, who paid the rent without any cash exchanging hands – if you know what I mean.”\n“Nod’s as good as a wink, mate.”\n“To a blind bat, yes. That meant the whole wedding witness signing palaver was all a sham. They weren’t her real parents.”\n“No wonder Deb’s step-mum was all over you at the wedding. I think she was sizing you up as Roger’s younger replacement.”\n“Well, she certainly got her measuring tape out. She was like Squiddly Diddly but with more tentacles.”\n“Yeah, we was all watching what she was doing to you on the dance floor, and taking bets if she was going to go in on a full-frontal assault.”\n“Where were the real parents?”\n“Smelly Steve said that her dad moved back to Ireland, and her mum ran off with a Lithuanian sailor who built his own two-person submarine. Steve said, as an attempt at entering the Guinness Book of World Records, they set sail one morning to cross the English Channel underwater and were never heard from again.”\n“What happened?”\n“The boat sank.”\n“Submarines do that, Eric.”\n“Yeah, but this one never resurfaced.”\n“Oh.”\n“I hope they’ve got enough air to last until rescue.”\n“Rescue? When did this happen?”\n“Three weeks ago.”\n“You Pillock! They wouldn’t have had three weeks’ worth of air in a small thing like that.”\n“No. But apparently – when interviewed by the BBC while standing on the cliffs of Dover, Deb’s real dad said her mum had enough hot air in her to last a lifetime… He then threw a commemorative wreath over the cliff, reciting some bible verse about casting their sins into the depths of the sea below.”\n“Move on, Eric. What about my dilemma?”\n“Pardon my insensitivity, mate, but I think Deb’s mum’s dilemma is much more serious.”\nTom leaned forward, beckoning Eric to come closer – like he wanted a quiet clandestine word in his ear. Then, without warning, Tom’s own right hand crossed the table dividing them and slapped Eric to attention, snapping him back into focus.\n“What was that for?”\n“For getting that added time put onto my sentence by stupidly sending me a postcard of the prison from the outside with an arrow drawn on it, pointing at my cell window - causing the screws to think I was planning an escape.”\n“But you already slapped me for that.”\n“Then that was for being just plain fucking stupid.”\n“Oh, fair enough. You know, mate. I sometimes think our relationship is a bit like this leftover sweet and sour pork on the table.”\n“Yeah, how’s that?”\n“Well, I’m the sweet one and you’re definitely the sour one.”\n“Do you blame me, Eric? The blunders I’ve followed you into beggars belief.”\n“It says here in this extra fortune cookie that, When you can’t find the sunshine, be the sunshine.”\n“What’s your point?”\n“Well, Tom. It means that you’re a grumpy git.”\n“Yeah, well you would be too, if you had my problem.”\n“We’ve been sitting here for three quarters of an hour, drinking beer, eating fried rice, moo-shoo pork, sweet and sour pork, spring rolls, and you still haven’t told me what is going on with you.”\n“I’ve got an itch.”\n“What kind of itch?”\n“The kind of itch that sticks to your pubes.”\n“You mean…”\n“Yeah, Deb.”\n“Well, that’s a long-term problem from a short-term marriage.”\n“We weren’t really married.”\n“How do you know?”\n“I found out that the registrar was just a bouncer on Smelly Steve’s payroll.”\n“Crafty little… but a good actor, all the same.”\n“Yeah. Someone blabbed about some non-existent buried treasure from the bank heist. Who could that have been, Eric?”\n“I may have told a little white lie to gain favour.”\n“What favour did you require from a pimp? No, don’t answer that.”\nA sudden realisation flashed into Tom’s head, causing him to probe further.\n“On second thought, do answer that. Who specifically, did you get favour with?”\nEric flashed a nervous smile at his friend, then quickly downed a sweet and sour ball of pork.\n“Erm, I can tell you how not to get rid of ‘em.”\n“Rid of what? Oh no. You and…”\n“Don’t get upset at me, Tom. It was before you met her.”\n“How long before?”\n“A few days.”\n“Oh, that’s alright, then. I thought you were going to say, A FEW FUCKING DAYS?”\n“That’s how I knew she’d be fun for you when you got out.”\n“You let me go ahead and get married to someone you boinked a few days before you introduced me to her?”\n“You seemed happy.”\n“I hadn’t had a woman in nearly two years. I’d have been happy humping a stuffed toy!”\n“I didn’t want to spoil it for you.”\n“And the crabs were what? A wedding present?”\n“She gave them to me, Tom. In fact, I think she gave them to most of the wedding guests on her side of the room.”\n“That’s at least eight people!”\n“Plus, Smelly Steve.”\n“And when were you going to tell me all of this?”\n“It slipped my mind.”\n“Do you want another slap?”\n“I’m sorry, okay?”\n“Fuck! I need a solution. How do I get rid of my…”\n“Pubic lice? Well, don’t rub toothpaste down there. It fucking burns.”\n“Why did you use toothpaste?”\n“It had peppermint in it, and I read that peppermint suffocates them. Nearly suffocated my todger, as well.”\n“So,” Tom slowly and deliberately asked. “How.. did.. you.. end.. up.. getting.. rid.. of.. them?”\n“Easy! I shaved all me hair off, took a bath, then rubbed calamine lotion over the area. I then took all my clothes to the launderette and washed them thoroughly.”\n“And that’s what you recommend?”\n“It worked for me.”\n“What did you use to shave with?”\n“I broke into Paddy the Turk’s barber shop and borrowed his electric shears.”\n“Borrowed?”\n“Yeah, I put them back. I mean, Paddy’s been cutting my hair for years, so it was out of respect that I returned them. In hindsight, I reckon’ that if you broke into the local chemist and nicked a bottle of that hair removal stuff… Nair, it’s called. That should do the job.”\n“Yeah?”\n“Yeah. I read that you just dab it on, let it set, then pull it off quickly like a plaster on a cut finger that’s healed.”\nAs Tom contemplated Eric’s seemingly experienced advice, Eric hungrily eyed up the leftovers on the table.\n“Are you gonna’ eat that last sweet and sour piece?”\n“Nah, mate. Help yourself. Least I can do for your advice. You might as well have my fortune cookie, too.”\n“Ta, geezer!”\nEric washed down the cookie with the remains of his beer, then read the small piece of paper extracted from the inside of the tasty treat.\n“That’s a good one.”\n“What’s it say?”\n“You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”\n“Got that right, don’t it, Eric.”\n“Yeah, mate. I’ve always thought that about meself…”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Tale of Love that Encompasses, Time\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2328\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the phrase “Maybe in another life.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I have never believed in time travel or traveling into the future or the past, but I do believe it is possible. I have read so many fiction books on the subject, HG Wells’ classic,’ The time machine’ is my favourite. But I could never imagine that such a thing could happen in real life; well, here is a tale, my friends and I wonder if you’d like to believe it or not but all I will say is that it is true. I will concede it could have been a hallucination but that is something induced by ancient Hindu tomes. the Puranas.\nI remember driving to the city of Mumbai through the Western Ghats, a mountain range. It was the monsoon season, and it was likely to rain anytime, and I was expecting it. My expectations were confirmed when the dark clouds in the sky darkened further, and raindrops began to beat on the earth, as rain fell it created a dull pattern, and very soon the visibility was reduced to zero.\n I wanted to stop but decided to drive a little more distance to a small temple of Lord Krishna by the side of the hill which I had visited so many times in my earlier drives. I have now entered the Ghats Mountain range and I’m slowly making my way forward with my fog lights on. By instinct, I knew that the temple was close by, but I could not immediately see it as it was shrouded in mist and fog but very soon it became visible. I will witness the beautiful small temple of Lord Krishna. it was normally looked after by an old priest who I have got to know and would spend time talking to him over a cup of tea that he would prepare. As the temple loomed before me, I hoped he would prepare a hot cup of tea for me.\nI stopped before the temple and looked inside but due to the thick fog, I could not make out anything. The rain continues falling and the distant mountains are not visible as the thick fog has enveloped the entire area. I decide to make a dash for the temple instead of sitting in my SUV. I get out of my car and head towards the temple which is a few feet away. I made it to the temple in about 10 seconds, remove my shoes, and go inside. I am now relatively safe from the rain and outside I can hear the thunder crashing as it reverberates in the mountains.\nI looked around but could not see the priest and I called out his name. There was no response and I wondered where the priest had gone. I pay my obeisance to the deity and simultaneously close my eyes. I do not know how long I kept my eyes closed but it must be at least a minute or maybe even more when a slight cough caught my attention and I open my eyes. In the semi-darkness, I was taken aback to see a lovely young woman emerge from behind the statue of the Lord. She smiled at me and said,” I know you are looking for Ramprasad the priest, but he has gone for some job, and I will prepare you a cup of tea. I have a feeling you desperately need one.”\nI did not reply but I just sat down cross-legged on the stone floor signalling my assent. She returned from the small room behind the deity with a cup of tea and give it to me the weather has now turned cold, and the rain continued to fall outside. I looked out of the temple and could not see anything as the entire area was shrouded in fog. She held the cup in her hand, and I gratefully took the cup from her. As I took the car from her my hand touched her finger. I like felt a strange sensation and I could now see the girl more clearly. I was taken aback by her ethereal beauty but what struck me was that she was not wearing a blouse and her bust was covered only by the Pallu (wrap of her sari). She almost looked like an enchantress who has come from heaven and my mind could imagine the beauty of her body. She was fair; I will say ultra-fair with a slim waist and firm bust which I could see in the low light. The girl was a thrilling sight and as I took the cup from her, I took it to my lips. I close my eyes and take a sip of the tea which was a little sweet. Now, something unique happened and I heard a crash Thunder I open my eyes instantly and see outside the temple a chariot with four horses and in the chariot, I could see the girl who had given me the cup of tea. As the horses neighed, I realized that I was wearing armour with a sword strapped to my belt. The girl was beckoning me to come to the chariot and I was wondering what to do. I come out of the temple and walk to the chariot and mount it. The girl stood by my side and now I could see her clearly; she was almost like a princess bedecked with jewelry. She was beautiful and radiant, and her beauty glowed. If I were to use modern terminology, I would say she would be extremely sexy.\nThe girl, whom I will call a princess whispered to me, “climb in, my warrior and just save me from the evil Bhagel who is following with his troops.”\nI climb into the chariot and put my arm around her and find that she’s soft and pliable. I involuntarily say, “yes I will save you.” I hold the reins of the horses in my hand and the beasts neigh with froth emanating from their mouths and they surge forward. The chariot now begins to move, and I can hear horses' hooves some distance behind.\nI hold the waist of the girl with my left arm, encircle her and hold the reins of the horses. She is close to me, her body joined to me as with my right hand I lash the horses, and the chariot speeds forward. As my Chariot moves forward, I can hear a bunch of riders coming behind me and I lash the horses and they pick up speed, and soon the chariot thunders across the hills and dales’.\nThe chariot is now moving at full speed and I’m getting away from the riders and the sound of the hooves recedes. I look at the princess and say, “we are pulling away from the evil Bhagel, and now princess where do you want me to take you?”\nShe looks at me quizzically and says,” you know where to take me, my warrior, take me to your abode and make me your woman. this is the vision of the Lord.”\n“But princess I do not know you.”\n“When the Lord gives a gift, it has to be accepted and he has told me that I am your gift, but you have to win me”.\n“Win you?”\n“There is a rider coming head-on, you will have to fight him because he is Bhagel, the evil one.” I look ahead and I can see that a rider is coming, and he holds a lance in his hand.\nThe princess says, “do something, this man is a master with a lance, and can shoot it from 150 paces.”\nI also lift my lance which is attached to the chariot, and I let it go. I remember the time when I was in the Academy and practiced throwing the javelin. I lift and throw, the aim is unnerving and strikes the rider in the chest. He falls from the horse, his leg stuck in the stirrup, and the horse panics, and he’s pulled away to the mountains.\nThe princess turns to me and says, “you have saved me from the man now you can have me if you want.”\n“If I want?”\n“Yes”\n“But I am bewildered”.\n“You should never be bewildered by god’s gift”.\nI pull the horses back and bring the chariot to a halt and ask the princess, “What next?”\n“There is a beautiful lake with a small hut by the side, take me there”.\n“Where is the lake?”\n“Just behind the clump of trees.”\nI get down from the chariot and cradle the princess in my arms and walk towards the clump. I cross it and low and behold is a beautiful lake and a lovely hut by the side. I wonder, ‘is all this real? and I’m telling myself what the hell is going on man.’\nI walk into the hut with the princess and what follows is something that cannot be described. It is ecstatic and hedonistic, more like a sophomoric delight. Outside the horses are neighing as I accept God’s gift.\nI close my eyes and I am conscious that I am sitting cross-legged on the bare floor of the temple now I can see the priest coming slowly towards me and he says, “I have been watching you for quite some time. You have been meditating in the Lotus pose to the Lord doubtless you have received a great gift.”\nI look at the priest and say, “I don’t know what you are talking about because there was a beautiful girl here who came from behind the deity, and she gave me a cup of tea.”\nThe priest only smiled, “it is not possible there is no girl here and I had just gone to the market to bring some ingredients which I have brought and now I shall prepare you my customary cup of tea.”\n“But I already had a cup of tea which was given to me by the girl”.\nThe priest looked at me and he had a radiant smile on his face,” I think sir, you have been transported to another world when you were meditating to the Lord. I don’t think anybody gave you a cup of tea, it was just the Lord decided to reward you with what you desire the most.”\n“But the cup of tea”\n“There is no cup of tea”.\nI looked around and could not see any cup of tea and I scratched my head and looked at the priest and said priest,” I have had a strange experience.”\nThe priest just smiled at me and said,” the Lord gives fulfilment. All that happened is real for you. but it shows that you are in the eye of the Lord, and you have accepted his gift.” He soon returned with a cup of tea which I drank. As I sipped the tea, I was wondering about what had happened, or maybe I just dreamed it, but it was very real. I left the cup of tea after I drank it and came out. The rain had stopped. The weather was clear, and I sit in my SUV and start the ignition and move forward. I desire to come again to the temple wondering if I could have that delicious dream again.\nThe story does not end here. Two years later I had entered the polo ground at Bhopal for a polo match. I was moving towards my horse when I saw the maharaja of Dewas. He saw me and without pretence walks to me with a lovely girl by his side. The maharaja smiled and said, “Colonel, this is my daughter, and she also is adept at horses and was keen to meet you as you are a well-known polo player.”\nI looked at the girl. I was wondering what to say as I was tongue-tied for the simple reason that the girl standing before me was a carbon copy of the princess on the chariot. it’s something like Ripley’s believe it or not. I stood tongue tied as my heart beats quickened. The princess held out her hand and I kissed it. I didn’t know what to say and heard the princess say,” I will enjoy the game of polo with you.”\nIt was a robust game, and after it ends, we move over to the Shamiana where we had a sumptuous lunch spread with unlimited beer. The Princess remains mostly with me, and after the luncheon suggests an afternoon ride in the hills. I readily agree and, in my heart, I know that what is happening is something which is not ordinary.\nWe rode the horses across the hills and dales, crossing a small wood shrouded in greenery. We crossed the wood with me following her on my horse. As the wood cleared, I was surprised when before my eyes opened a view of a small pond with a hut. The adrenal rushed to my brain, and I realized that I had seen this beautiful scene earlier. I could not correlate how this had become reality.\nI dismount from my horse and in a moment step towards the adjacent horse with the princess astride and lift her from the saddle and cradle her in my arms as I carry her to the hut. She makes a small protest, but I am overwhelmed with the dream which I had experienced and press forward. At the same time, I realized that what I’ve seen was a reality, as I was transported into the past. As I push open the door of the hut and softly lay the princess on the mat and kiss her, it dawns on me that time travel is a possibility. I open her blouse and suckle her nipples whispering, “princess, you are god’s gift, this was inevitable…”\nWhat happened next is another story for another day but I know the incident did take place in another world in another life but it is all linked." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Born to Live\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1333\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “The plot thickens.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There were times Thomas found himself forgetting. His father, his mother, their faces and voices, the home they had lived in. All of it was distant in his mind, faded and blurred. It had gotten worse since he caught the sickness, even yesterday's events felt more like a dream than reality. Maybe they were. But for all his forgetting, his grandfather's memory remained firmly set in stone.\nHis parents had died at some point. Maybe at the same time, maybe years apart. A war might have played a role, or gangsters. Could have been a bootlegger with a shotgun or a hit-and-run driver. He couldn't remember anything about the ordeal accept for the doorbell's ring. Grandfather had come to collect them.\nThem. Oh yes, Thomas remembered, shifting in his bed. The sheets were fresh, but his gown was soaked with sweat. A boy sat, somehow sleeping, at his bedside in an uncomfortable wooden chair.\nHe was small for his age, though Thomas couldn't remember just what age the boy was. He wore too-big knickers held up by suspenders and a warn out cap, hand-me-downs from his big brother. In his small, pink-tinged hands, he grippes an elegant white glove. It had belonged to their mother, hadn't it?\nBen, that's what Grandfather used to call the boy. Ben. He'd have to remember that.\nThe old man took care of them for a time. Those days were good, peaceful. But a sickness had spread through their town, through their country. Maybe through the whole world. Grandfather hadn't lived long. Thomas wouldn't either.\nCoughing, he shifted in his bed again. It squealed under his weight, which wasn't very much. He'd never been particularly meaty, but he was all bones these days. Bones and bruised skin.\nThe creaking bed-frame was painted white, same as the dozen others. No one was in any of them, though he was sure half had been filled the day before. The ceiling was white, and the walls. A thick ropey wire ran up the wall opposite him, bending at the top to run further along the ceiling. It was white too.\nGrandfather hadn't died in the hospitable, but at home in his own bed. It wasn't white, or cold and metal. His frame was made of wood, polished dark oak. But the men had burned it after he died, like everything else in the little house, save for the two boys. They'd been sent to a doctor for examination, but only one of them had caught the old man's sickness. Ben.\nHard as it was, Thomas could remember his little brother, sweaty and coughing and asking for water. A month of suffering had passed, but the boy survived. The doctors said he was cured, immune even. But by that time, it had passed to him.\nLike Ben, Thomas sweat buckets and coughed so hard it felt his guts would fly out his mouth. A month had passed, and another after it. By the third, the doctors knew the truth of it. Thomas knew it too. He wouldn't be recovering, and he hadn't forgotten.\nIt was strange, knowing you were to die.\nEveryone died, of course. One day. But they had the luck of delusion. They could pretend they'd live forever, or at least that there was still something good to come. Thomas didn't have delusion, though. Any day now, any hour, could be his last. There was nothing good, or even bad, to come. Just death.\n“Men are born to die,” Thomas could remember his grandfather saying. “Only a few are born to live.”\nHe didn't what the words meant, but they were the old man's last. He still couldn't make sense of them. Or maybe he had, but he'd forgotten. There wasn't much he remembered, just himself and his grandfather, and his little brother.\nStruggling into a sitting position, he set his eyes on the still-sleeping boy at his bedside. What was his name? \nOh yes, he remembered. Ben.\nThomas couldn't help but feel guilty for dying. Ben would be alone then, the last member of their family. His future was bleak regardless of his big brother's mortality. But if Thomas still lived, then at least Ben could be supported and loved. Instead, the boy would likely be locked away in some orphanage, or forced into factory work.\nThese concerns were just about the only thing keeping Thomas going. He knew that if he fought just awhile longer, Ben wouldn't suffer so. But he was tired, so very tired. He didn't want to fight anymore. And more and more, it was becoming hard to remember why he was fighting. \nThe sweat made his gown stick to him. He pinched the rough fabric and tugged it off his wet, clammy skin. The stale air of the room was refreshing, and he swallowed a mouthful of it before crashing back into the mattress. His body ached down to the bone, not that there was much else to him. He really was tired.\nHe fell asleep soon after. And though he didn't know for how long, he was glad to wake again.\nThe boy, his brother, sat on the bed's edge. His eyes were teary, his lips pink and teary. He still gripped their dead mother's glove, but with the same hand he clung to Thomas' own, the soft fabric pressed between their sweaty palms.\n\"No crying,\" Thomas told the boy, even though he himself felt like doing just that. Not because he was sick, but because he couldn't remember his brother's name. \"You, you're the man of the family now. You can't cry anymore.\"\nStoically, the boy clenched his jaw, sniffled, and gave a nod. \"I won't,\" he vowed. \"But you can't either.\"\n\"It's a deal,\" Thomas said, rolling his head over. On his other side stood a man, tall and silver-haired and wearing a long white coat. He swallowed. \"Is it time?\"\nThe doctor gave a tight lipped smile, an attempt at comfort. \"It won't be long, my boy. Not very long at all.\"\nWith all his strength, Thomas squeezed his brother's hand, the glove wrinkling. He stared up at the white ceiling and the thick ropey cord that ran down its middle to the dim overhead light. He took a deep breath, his bed creaking from the feint movements of his body, and remembered those words, his Grandfather's last.\n“Men are born to die,” the old man had said with a gasp, his dying breath a high-pitched whistle. “Only a few are born to live.\"\nThe white of the room went black, the boy and the doctor at his sides vanished, and Thomas was falling. It wasn't a swift, stomach flipping fall like on a carnival ride, now a sudden drop like when you tumbled from a tree. It was a slow, sinking fall so slow it felt as if he were barely moving at all. He was a feather drifting down through the darkness, alone and peaceful.\nHe felt as if he'd fall forever. But forever ended quicker than expected, for he'd reached the bottom of the nothingness. It felt soft, cushiony. I'm asleep, he reminded himself, and opened his eyes to an alien world.\nIt was dim in the little room, the morning sun just beginning to slip through the curtains. He was warm, but not sweaty. The bed was thick, cushiony, and the sleek sheets had a pleasant scent. But they weren't his, he tried to tell himself they weren't. He was in someone else's bed, yet the mattress and sheets and blankets felt familiar, as if he'd slept here a million times before.\nThe walls around him were painted baby blue, and they were lined with bookshelves, all except for one where a strange object hung. It was rectangular, and resembled the large screens at the picture shows. T.V., his mind supplied, though he felt the word belonged to another language. Another word came to mind, a name. Ben. He just couldn't remember who it belonged to." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Roses and Thorns\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1690\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": "Fatima stepped out of the bar, giddy. Amidst the drinks and food – they were celebrating her friend’s promotion – , a faint scent of men cologne dragged her mind down the torturous path of her past.\nThe scent was strikingly familiar to that of her ex-boyfriend's. Could they not produce perfumes exclusive to each person? Now, her nostrils flare at every passing smell of Sauvage de dior cologne.\n“I love this!!” Olamide was grinning and swaddling his girlfriend in a hug. It was valentine’s day and Fatima had gifted him a collection of items, one of which was a cologne that smelled fantastic. Spraying the substance in the air and sniffing, he said. “This will be my signature perfume for the rest of my life.”\n\n“Signature perfume, my foot!” Fatima hissed at the thought before hauling the contents of her stomach. The wave of nausea had kicked in when a young man approached her and had used an ample amount of the cologne she has now learned to hate. She thought she could handle it because it’s been a year since her break up with Olamide, but to her peril, every moment of inhaling the substance was detrimental to her health, until she couldn’t take it anymore.\n“There, there.” A pat on her back that she figured out to be Ayeesha – The star of the day who just got promoted.\n“uh-huh, uh-huh.” After hauling out the last bits of her stomach’s contents, all that was left were fits of cough.\nFatimah rose and wiped her mouth, acknowledging her friend with a nod. “Thank you.”\n“Tell me,” Ayeesha sighed. “Another Olamide crisis?”\n“You bet.” Fatima hissed, as they both settled into a seat. “I’m sorry, that I...your day was r…”\n“Don’t sweat it.”\nFatima spends the moment in Ayeesha’s arms, who cuddles her like she were her daughter and not a friend.\n“There you are!”\nThe two friends whip their heads around to see Catherine and Angela strutting towards them. They were a four-man group of friends who met in their university days and happened to be roommates.\n\n“We’ve been looking all over for…what happened to Fatima?” Angela is now giving her friend a thorough perusal.\n“It’s…” Fatima straightens on the seat and so does Ayeesha, creating room for their friends to sit.\n“Don’t tell me it’s another Olamide crisis?” Catherine chips in. She’s the one with the curt mouth.\n“Well…” Fatima shrugs. “More like a Sauvage crisis.”\n“Oh.” Angela creases a knowing look. “The hottie was wearing Sauvage?”\nFatima nods and in a bid to avoid the feeling of self-pity sloshing in her stomach from being the centre of attention of being a long-term victim of heartbreak, she rose and claps her hand.\n“Let’s go finish that party!!”\n“Whoo-hoo!”\n*\n“I love you so much.” Olamide was nibbling the delicate skin of Fatima’s lips.\n“I…I…” Fatima paused to take a breath. “I love you too. ”\nOlamide chuckled behind her ear, whispering sweet nothings to her.\n“Will you marry me, one day, when I’m financially stable?” He asked afterwards when they both lay in bed, their gazes up at the ceiling.\n. . .\n“This is why I never loved you!” Olamide was bawling, the loudest she’d ever heard. “You are not understanding.”\n“But you cheated.” Fatima was trying really hard not to scream.\n“Because she’s better, and you are unable to satisfy me!” Olamide hissed. “You are never going to be good enough for anyone!”\n“Olamide, please…No, please!!” Fatima jerked up from her sleep and sighed before bursting to tears. “Not again.”\nAngela came running into her room. After graduation and the girls had to part, Fatima stuck with Angela who stayed in the same city as she did while Ayeesha stuck with Catherine.\n“This cannot be happening.” Fatima whispered softly before yelling. “This cannot be happening!!”\n“Easy. Easy now. Come here.” Watching Fatima go through this phase repeatedly was heartbreaking for Angela and the rest of their friends. Fatima stayed still for a moment while Angela patted her.\n“Okay now,” Angela lifted her friend’s head. “Why don’t you perform ablution and make prayers.”\nFatima was a Muslim and Angela was not but she understood the basics after years of university filled with watching Fatima and Ayeesha practicing.\nAngela sighed and watched somberly as her friend dragged herself up from the bed and into the bathroom. It’s been a tough one year for them as much as it’d been for Fatima.\n\n\n\n*\nFatima sat at her office desk, the next morning, elbows propped on the table and her head resting in her hands. She’d gotten lost in the thoughts of her ex-boyfriend, yet again. She sighed and took a peek at the files open before her and wondered how she’d been able to cope with work and other activities amidst everything.\nShe worked as an accountant in the central Bank of Nigeria and was doing pretty well at her job. She was beautiful, talented and yet, the only problem in her life happened to be the least important person in the world. Everyone saw her for who she was, a soul radiating positivity and light, but somehow, Olamide’s words gained precedence over them.\nHe’d picked her closest friend – Before Ayeesha, Angela and Catherine, she’d been close friends with Seyi whom she met and bonded with long before meeting her current friends – over her. Cheated her with Seyi, and even dared to have a long-term relationship – that has now crashed – with her friend.\n“Face it, Fatima.” Seyi had curtly spoken with folded arms, like she felt no remorse. “Your relationship was bound to face an inevitable end.”\n“So, that gave you the right to come in and stab me in the back!” Fatima was furious, and was blinking on occasions to stop the tears threatening to make an appearance.\n“Olamide had confided in me, for you.” Seyi was saying. “You were becoming difficult for him and unable to satisfy him.”\n“So you stepped in?” Fatima couldn’t believe her ears. Usually, in cases like this, the wrongdoers are remorseful or try to at least deny it. But here, they were owning up to it and not even sorry.\nFatima…\n“Of course.” Seyi was grinning. “Men need better partners than lame people with lame minds.”\nFatima…can you hear me?\nOlamide walks in at that point and gives Seyi a kiss. “There’s no point talking to her, she’ll just blackmail you and play the victim.” Then he turns to Fatima. “Now, that you know the truth. I hope you realize that the relationship is done?”\n\n\n“FATIMA!!!”\nFatima breaks out of her thoughts and faces her work colleague who now has worry creasing his face.\n“Where did you go?” He stood before her desk, arms akimbo. “I thought I lost you there, you seemed lifeless.”\n“I…I was…” Then she sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Sorry, what is it?”\n“The boss is asking for you.”\nPushing her chair backward, Fatima grazed her face with a smile and rose from her seat.\n“After you.”\n*\n“You did a great job with managing the accounts.” The boss was saying, lifting his glasses up his nose bridge. “You need to teach your colleagues how to be as efficient.”\nFatima just gave a slight bow while her colleagues eyed her with envy. In another lifetime, Fatima would have killed for a compliment from the boss, but now all she felt was numbness in her heart. Her life, as she knew it was filled with Roses – her life was going on well, she had a nice job, a nice home, and lovely friends – but the thorns of her past relationship keeps drawing her backwards and pricking her.\nAfter they’d been excused out of her boss’s office, Fatima took a lunch break and dialed in a FaceTime with her friends.\n“GUYS!” They’d picked the call after few rings and were giggling until they sensed the seriousness in her voice. After they quieted, Fatima spoke. “I think I need your offer on therapy.”\n“Whoo-hoo!”\n“Finally.” Angela sighed. She’d been the one living with Fatima through her post- break up phase. So she knows firsthand what her friend had been through.\n“What changed your mind?” This question came from Ayeesha. It had been her opinion few months ago to have Fatima enroll in therapy. Fatima had dissed it because according to her, she wasn’t mad and therapists were overrated mini-gods.\n“Olamide has traumatized me.” Fatima cried. “The ruins of my past relationship still haunts me.”\n“Well, hold your horses.” Catherine spoke sensibly. Amidst all her gibes about Fatima not moving on, she still cared. “You’ve been moping over the break up because he cheated with Seyi.” She rolled her eyes and made a gesture with her fingers. “Well, hello…Seyi and Olamide broke up too.”\n“So it’s not your fault.” Angela added. A flush is audible from her end. She was taking the call in one of the stalls at her workplace. “The boy is a player, and you deserve better than him.” Angela placed more emphasis on “boy” which would have brought a smile out of Fatima but unfortunately, she’d heard many of these soothing words from her friends, and it did a tad bit in aiding her healing.\n“I'm tired, guys.” Fatima sighed and patted the hijab which she donned over her head. Frustration seethed through her. “I need more than just encouraging words.” She added with a plea. “Please save me from Olamide’s hold over me.”\nThe words fell like a bomb and every quip that might have glistened her friends eyes faced a fatal death as they all spoke in unison.\n“You’ll get over it, boo.”\n“We can get this over with and get you out there, again.”\n“I know a very good therapist.” Ayeesha was saying and that was what Fatima needed to hear.\n“Please send me her number.“ A desperate Fatima requested and sighed when the call ended. Nervousness took over her as she wondered what her fate will be. She wanted to be done with the phantom of her toxic relationship and hoped for a renewed life." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Chocolate Caper\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1583\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “It’s hardly brain surgery.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was supposed to be an easy mission. Get the goods, return to base. It should've been as simple as that. It was hardly brain surgery.\nUnfortunately, nine-year-olds aren't exactly super-elite agents.\nIt was my ninth birthday party. I'd decided to have a sleepover, and my mom had allowed me to invite four people, so I'd chosen my two best friends and two of my cousins.\nWe were quite the motley crew. First, there was Emma, my best friend. We'd known each other since kindergarten and did everything together. She had black curly hair that she always kept cut shoulder-length and a huge My Little Pony obsession that she'd passed on to me. At the time we were still holding onto our shared dream of starting a horse ranch together. Yes, we were that kind of horse girl.\nUnfortunately, my other friend Audrey, an intelligent strawberry-blonde girl with the memory of an elephant, was unable to attend due to an event at her family's temple (they were Jewish). Maybe if she'd been there, the whole thing would've gone much more smoothly. She had more brain cells than the rest of us combined.\nLauren, my cousin who was older than me by a little less than a year, was the planner. If we decided to do something, Lauren would plan every step to the last second. She'd brush her curtain of long, dark hair behind her shoulder and get right to business.\nAlyssa, Lauren's younger sister, was her second-in-command, but if she didn't want to follow orders, she would make it extremely obvious. Her curly brown hair and bubbly personality was the antithesis of Lauren's. She and I loved to match with each other more than with our own sisters. We wore matching teal nightgowns with an ice cream cone print to bed that night and identical sunset orange t-shirts the following day.\nMy little sister Hailey was the last guest. Even though I hadn't invited her, my mother compelled me to include Hailey in every activity. Funnily enough, it was actually her idea to go through with the Chocolate Caper.\nMuch to my disappointment, nobody else wanted to watch The Sound of Music (a movie, according to my mother, that I'd memorized at the age of two, thanks to my great-grandmother who always put it on when she watched me at her house while my mother was at work). Therefore, we retreated to the bedroom Hailey and I shared to turn our bunk bed into a fort. I designated Hailey's bunk (the bottom one) as our headquarters.\n\"Why?\" Hailey asked. It was her favorite word, and every time I heard her ask it I felt a piece of my soul die.\n\"Because I said so,\" I told her.\nThat response usually worked, but since we had company, Hailey wasn't ready to concede so quickly this time. She narrowed her blue-grey eyes at me, put her hands defiantly on her hips, and declared, \"Mommy says you're not the boss of me.\"\nI knew this was true, but I was a manipulative little turd, and with our guests intently watching the exchange, I wasn't going to back down and lose my authority as The Birthday Girl. I retorted, \"It's my party, and that makes me the boss tonight.\"\nHailey pouted like a four-year-old (which she was) and let us use her bunk as our headquarters. We hung our blankets down from the top bunk (which had been established by Lauren as our lookout tower), then climbed one by one into Hailey's bed.\nWe spent two or three minutes staring at each other excitedly. None of us had ever made a fort before. After those first minutes were up, we started to get bored. We'd left our stuffed animals in the living room where we'd be sleeping that night, and nobody wanted to go and get them, leaving nothing for us to do.\nHailey was the first to voice her opinion, since she had no filter whatsoever. \"I'm boooored.\"\n\"Me, too,\" Alyssa chimed in. Emma, Lauren, and I all glanced at each other.\n\"We could play My Little Pony,\" Emma suggested. It was a game the two of us played at school during recess where we pretended to be two ponies that we'd made up. I was more than willing to play, but everyone else... not so much.\n\"Sure!\" I chirped.\n\"No!\" Everyone else groaned.\n\"I'm hungry,\" Hailey complained.\n\"We can go eat some of the snacks,\" I suggested half-heartedly, referring to the store-bought plate of baby carrots, grape tomatoes, broccoli, chopped celery, and ranch dressing my mom had prepared for us to snack on while we waited for the pizza to arrive. To five kids under the age of ten, this was less than appetizing.\n\"But broccoli is yuckyyyy,\" Hailey whined, once again stating what everyone else was too polite to say. \"I want chocolate!\"\nChocolate sounded much tastier than the vegetables and ranch. I remembered that we somehow still had plenty of candy leftover from Halloween, and as soon as I mentioned this, we were ready to plot a caper.\nLauren took control and made the plan. Hailey was the lookout. She would check to make sure there were no adults in the kitchen or the living room, where we'd be visible. If the coast was clear, we'd hurry to the kitchen and grab one of the swivelly bar chairs. I was the best at climbing, so I would climb on the chair to reach the candy that was hidden in the highest cabinet to prevent sneaky little girls from eating it when we weren't supposed to. While I did that, Emma and Alyssa would hold the swivelling seat still so I didn't fall. If the adults came, Hailey would report to Lauren and Lauren would stall until the rest of us bagged the loot and made our escape back to our \"headquarters.\"\nAt first, it all went smoothly. Hailey reported that the adults — my mom, my two aunts, and my grandparents — were outside on the back patio chatting. We hurried unnoticed into the kitchen and set the barstool in place. I climbed up on the chair and opened the cabinet.\nThat was when my dad entered the house, having just returned home from work.\nWhen I say everyone was scared of my dad, I mean everyone was scared of my dad. My cousins, my friends, even full-grown adult men were scared of my dad. A 6'3\", broad-shouldered, stone-faced ex-Marine, the guy was pretty intimidating. To this day I am the only one of my siblings who isn't too scared to argue with him.\nLauren, despite being the adults' favorite, chickened out and was unable to stall him. Hailey couldn't stall to save her life, so our dad walked straight past her into the kitchen, where he found me perched on the bar stool that was being held steady by Emma and Alyssa. All three of us froze when we saw him.\nMaybe he was being lenient because it was my birthday, or maybe he was just tired from work, but all he said was a stern, \"No. Get down from there.\"\nI was quick to obey, but I doubt it would've made a difference, because all he did was grab a beer from the fridge and head outside, where my grandparents were chatting with my mom and her two sisters, who were visiting for my birthday.\nWe watched him go, then glanced quickly around at each other, half-terrified that we'd been caught, half-relieved that we weren't in trouble.\nI was the first to recover, and I looked accusingly at Lauren and Hailey. \"You were supposed to stall him!\"\n\"What's a stall?\" Hailey asked.\n\"He scared me!\" Lauren protested. \"I freaked out!\"\n\"Guys, this is our chance!\" Alyssa said, effectively getting us back on track. I climbed back up onto the chair, opened the cabinet, and fished out the canvas bag in which my mom had stored the candy. Once I'd hopped down, Emma and Alyssa put the chair back, and we hurried back to our fort to begin our saccharine feast.\nWhen my Mom came to tell us that the pizza had arrived and it was time to eat, she found all five of us huddled on Hailey's bed with chocolate all over our faces. I was chewing on a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup; Hailey was in the middle of testing how many Milky Way Minis she could fit in her mouth; Alyssa was working on her eighth fun-size bag of M&Ms; Emma was rifling through the bag for more Almond Joys, and Lauren had just finished her third Tootsie Roll and had begun to unwrap her fourth.\nMy mom didn't even get mad. She simply burst into hysterical laughter (though I'm not sure if she was actually amused or if she realized how hard it was going to be to get us all to sleep that night after all that sugar we'd just gorged ourselves on) and went to grab the camera.\nEveryone, even Alyssa, who ate like a bird, had room for two slices of pizza and a slice of birthday cake. However, right before bed, we were all instructed to put our shoes on and go run laps around the backyard until we had a sugar crash and we were too tired to do anything but troop heavily back into the house, crash on the sofa, and go to sleep.\nIt was definitely one of my better birthdays." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 woods\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1441\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where ghosts and the living coexist." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In the woods\nNorth Preston is the largest black community in Nova Scotia by population and has the highest concentration of African Canadians in any community in Canada. \nThe population was 3,223 in 2021. This is a decline from 2006 when Preston had a population of 3,536. \nNorth Preston also includes the beautiful Lake Echo in which a river flows through the community. \nAshayo was a shy, quiet, yet happy little guy. His short 10 years of life on this earth were thought to be quite uneventful. \nThe community in which he lived was a community of faith.\nThere was a sign at the beginning of the community\n\"We've come this far by Faith.\" and it was true - the community was tight. There were big church potlucks once a month, Sunday school for the children every Tuesday night, and everyone knew everyone. It was a community that took care of its own. They looked out for each other. \nTuesday, October 28 at 9 pm\nAshayo's mom sent Ashayo to brush his teeth and get into bed. A ten-year-old boy needs to get his sleep and so does she. Oh but, she was tired. Harriet was bone tired. Tired from work, tired from worry, and tired of just being sad. \nHe was a good boy and never had Theresa a lick of trouble, unlike his older brother Theo. \nTheodore was named after his daddy rest in peace. Raising these two boys alone was hard, hard, and lonely, but she was determined to make their daddy and the good Lord proud of her and her little family - her sweet boys. They all missed him so much. It was two years since their Daddy passed but they rarely spoke his name. They were just too darn sad. They all just grieved in silence, in their own way I guess. \nTheresa had worked all day until 3 pm at Fry Daze - it was a burger joint really but they also had lobster rolls and\nlobster poutine and of course everyone's favorite - Fish and chips. Everyone ordered fish and chips on Friday\nbecause everyone in the Catholic society knew you had to only eat fish on Fridays. That was the lord's law. Lake Echo was full \nof fresh haddock and the restaurant owners had a brother who was a fisherman and brought the fresh fish in daily so the food was good. \nEveryone knows Fry Daze was one of the only handful of restaurants in Preston. Other than that, you had\nto drive into Dartmouth and you had to have a car for that. Theresa took the bus to work every day except \nfor Sundays because everyone know that was Lord's Day. A day of rest. And God knows \nTheresa needed a rest. \n They lived in an old but tidy little house on the edge of the woods. There might have been 30 houses in the whole community. \nAshayo's school was up the road about a 20-minute walk. Theresa used to walk him to school every day when his Dad was alive. \nbut now that he was ten and in the \"double digits\" and \"almost a man now\" as Ashayo proudly stated, \nhe now walked with his best friend and neighbor Denny. She worried about him. He was her baby but\nshe knew she had to loosen the reins and let him find his way in the world. Plus she had to get to work now. \nAfter school, Ashayo got off the bus, walked home, and started straight away at his homework. \nMomma was home by then and was busy in the kitchen starting dinner. She already had his snack laid \nout waiting for him- homemade chocolate chip cookies and a big glass of milk. After supper of fried chicken \nand a side of greens, he watched his favorite shows brushed his teeth, said his prayers, and went off to bed. Momma still tucked \nhim in and gave him kissed him goodnight every night. He didn't mind. He loved his momma. \nTheresa washed up the dishes and tidied around the house. God knows when Theo would get home and she \ndidn't wait up anymore. He was seventeen and she just didn't know what to do with him anymore. She just had to trust in the Lord that he was safe. \nShe started off to bed but before she turned in, she checked on Ashayo one more time. She loved to watch her sweet\nbaby asleep. He looks so peaceful. He looked just like his Daddy. Oh, how she missed his Daddy. \nWhen Theresa opened the door to his bedroom he wasn't there. She looked all around the room, under the bed, in the closet but he was nowhere to be found. \nShe looked in the bathroom. She looked all through the house. He was gone but where could he have gone? She looked outside around the house while calling out his name. He called Ashayo's best friend, Dany's mom but she hadn't seen Dany since that morning. Soon the neighbors heard the shouting and gathered around in the yard. Someone called 911. Theresa was beyond herself with worry. Please, Lord Jesus, Mother of God keep my baby safe, please keep my baby safe. Bring him home to me. I will do anything you ask me to, just bring him home. Then she whispered a silent prayer to her late husband- Honey keep our son safe and keep him warm and please, please show him the way home to me. Amen. \nWednesday, Oct 29th, 9 pm \nAshayo woke up in the dark and felt a soft breeze stir around his shoulders. He could hear the sound of maybe someone softly singing. The sound seemed to come from outside. He walked over to the window and pressed his ear to the window pane. it sounded like someone was whispering his name - Asha. And then he saw a kind of soft, glowing light off in the distance. He tip-toed out of his room and quietly slipped out the backdoor. It was dark and it was cold. He had his fleece pajamas on and the cold, dry leaves crunched under his bare little feet. \nIn the woods behind his house, he found a somewhat flattened pathway, so he followed it, mesmerized by the soft, glowing light. \nWednesday, October 29th, 12 pm. \nTheresa was pacing up and down her front driveway, waiting for the police, in a panic, she was thinking about where Ashayo could have gone. Had someone taken him? Did he run away? She walked into the house to make another phone call but instead, she decided to look in his room one more time, and there he was, in his bed, sound asleep! She did a double-take - what in the world! Oh, praise the Lord! Thank you, Jesus. She was so relieved and so confused and so filled with joy. She gathered him up in the bed and started rocking him back and forth. She tucked his head right under her chin and kissed the top of his head over and over again. Ashyao slowly opened his eyes, Momma what's going on? What is wrong? \nTheresa cried \"Where were you? Where have you been?\"\nI'm okay Momma. I heard someone calling my name in my sleep and then I saw this beautiful light in the woods so I had to go. I wasn't scared Momma - The light felt safe and it was so warm Momma. It felt like, like... love. Momma? I think the light was Daddy. He told me he loved us so much and he missed us every day. He told me he was watching us and he was so proud of us Momma and he told me to tell you not to worry about Theo, that he would be okay. He just missed Daddy, but he was going to be just fine. Daddy said we need to get through this together and take care of each other. We need to talk to each other and not be afraid to show our feelings because it's okay to be sad. He said he was watching over us, Momma. He is watching over us every day and every night. It was Daddy, Momma. It was. I know It was. \nHarriet cried and stroked his head over and over again as she murmured yes baby, yes baby. It was a dream baby, it was just a dream. We were both dreaming and she smiled as she brushed the fallen leaf out of his hair and then she fell into the deepest sleep she ever had in two long, long years. \nThe End." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The House Dog and The Stray\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1293\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a fable inspired by a relatable life experience (explaining the moral before or after the story, if you’d like)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "From his windowsill, House Dog was anticipating his companion’s return from work for the second day in a row. His bowl had enough food for another day; the water fountain was half full, and the home was otherwise empty. House Dog kept a watchful eye for the familiar brown loafers. He periodically noticed The Stray, though he was a vagrant, arousing disturbances every now and then, too clueless to remain unseen. Each time, House Dog’s gaze turned away from the commotion the filthy, emaciated creature caused. He had seen him up close once. They had locked eyes, and to House Dog’s bewilderment, The Stray still had a tail wag in him. House Dog did not return the gesture from his moving car, piercing through The Stray with severe eyes.\nYesterday, he wouldn’t dwell on The Stray’s ordeal of the day either. From his observatory, unconcerned, he saw The Stick mercilessly mistreat The stray. Over and over, she landed on the fellow’s back. His crime: circling the stall of the street food vendor. \n“Get away!” yelled The Stick with each blow. “Don’t even think about stealing from us!” The Stray cowered away until he settled under a parked car. House Dog briefly watched him in his hideout rolling his back against the cooler spot of the asphalt. Unaffected, House Dog turned his attention to the bus stop.\nToday, still eyeing for his friend’s silhouette, House Dog heard The Stray quarreling with The Trash Can by the butcher’s shop. \n“What’s it to you if I eat some meat scraps from the bags you hold?” pleaded The Stray. \n“Not on my watch!” replied The Trash Can ferociously.\nDesperate, The Stray showed his teeth and soon found himself surrounded by a gang of muscular Trash Cans threatening to shred him to pieces. He retreated, well aware of being without a pack of his own.\nUndisturbed in the least by the latest incident. House Dog’s thoughts drifted to the oddity of his own situation… His housemate’s lengthy absence … His food supply was now gone … Water would soon follow. Even more strange was the raucous to and fro of people clearing the apartment that preceded the foreboding silence filling up the now-unfurnished rooms. What possessed him to let those strangers take away everything, even House Dog’s beloved chaise?\nHouse Dog pondered and pondered until the fourth day when he heard a voice coming from below the window ledge. He was laying on his side by then, weakened from hunger and thirst. Every once in a while, he’d lick his achingly growling underbelly. \nSo, when the wind carried The Stray’s voice up to him, he thought to himself for the very first time that lacking was quite a cruel predicament. He was hearing things and that was undignified in his book. \n“Hey, you up there! You don’t look too good.” insisted The Stray. “How can I help?” \nHouse Dog came out of his stupor, peered through the glass and bitingly retorted, “What could anyone like you possibly do for me? Who said I was in trouble?”\nUnfazed by House Dog’s hostility, The Stray continued, “I’ve been in your shoes … That man will not come back. Take it from me, the sooner you learn to take care of yourself, the better.” \n“Take it from YOU! Take it from YOU!” sneered House Dog, “How dare you speak to me? YOUR kind disturbs the peace … harbors vermin … YOU aren’t much to even look at! Everyone goes out of their way to unsee YOU!” \n“I’ll admit, I have let myself go. It is hard out here for the likes of me. Nothing about my life on the streets is appealing, but I am alive, which is a better prospect than dying from fits of grandeur. Starvation and a steady flow of abuse are nothing compared to a slow death in a golden prison. That, sir, is what awaits you,” The Stray calmly replied. \nThe pain in House Dog’s lower abdomen stopped him from putting The Stray back in his place. He shouldn’t have engaged in any exchange with him in the first place. He’s always prided himself on befriending upstanding, flealess citizens. Besides, he needed to conserve the little energy he had to greet the man of the house when he’d walk through the door. He dozed off. He slept and dreamed of beef-flavored delicacies, purified water, trips to the salon, the obstacle course at the private country club, and more from the good ol days. \nOn Day seven, House Dog came to. He recognized upon barely lifting one eyelid that he was in pretty poor shape. At the street level, a voice kept begging passersby to rush to someone’s rescue. \n“Will anyone please help? He’s still with us I tell you. The man abandoned him, but he’s still fighting.” \nPedestrians, lamp posts, vehicles, shopkeepers, and the whole lot of an entire neighborhood ignored The Stray. The few who stopped on their track, did so only for seconds, before their eyes became shrouded with unease at the sight of the messenger, overshadowing his plea.\nHouse Dog’s suffering subsided quickly, leaving room for a faint of gratitude for The Stray. Despite his state of delirium, he knew he’d need all the help he could get to make it through. The Stray would have to use extreme measures.\nAs if they were of one mind, The Stray jumped atop a snoozing truck who, startled from his nap, propelled him to the fire escape next to House Dog’s window. \n“I’m here buddy,” said The Stray reassuringly. He frantically banged on the pane, not realizing House Dog couldn’t do much beyond just hearing him.\nThe Stray then threw his entire body against the glass until it gave in.\nThe landlord appeared from the top floor to see about the turbulence and a crowd had gathered on the street below.\n“What are you up to down there? If I get my hands on you…”\n“Is he pulling someone from a fire?” a voice asked.\n“Fire!”\n“Fire!”\n“Someone, call the firefighters!” another proposed.\nThe Stray had pulled House Dog out by the collar and was weighing how to get them both to the street without breaking a bone. Again, he started begging for help.\nA firetruck suddenly turned the corner. Two firefighters had reached them in no time. They were brought to safety, fed, and cared for until the captain declared the building free of any fire risk.\nAngry faces turned towards the would-be hero and victim. The Stray knew too well the disdain they held. House Dog weakly attempted to make a case for himself. \nHis - “I don’t know this guy” - “My Housemate is missing” - “Never, ever, have I been …” - fell on unsympathetic ears.\nSoon, the anger of the onlookers turned into scorn then laughter when a firefighter began blasting them both with water.\nThe Stray and House Dog on his heel scurried away into an abandoned shed.\n“This is our home now,” announced The Stray. “You will sleep over by …”\nThe words faded into unbearable nothingness as House Dog took stock of his new dwelling littered with empty oil cans, random household items, his ‘rescue’, the facial expressions of those who once respected him; he revisited it all, except his close brush with a painful death. \n“I have never been so humiliated in my life. You have cursed me to a life of misery. For that, I won’t forgive you … EVER.”\nTo that, The Stray settled on the dirt floor for the evening, pretending to be hopeful for far better days in the company of House-Dog-No-More.\nMORAL:\nOften, a person’s best intentions (such as saving one’s life) will not earn the gratitude of the favor’s recipient." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Misogynist Ghost\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1128\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": "This is a true story.\nNick, Judy and Rob (that's me) were three nerdy strangers studying Computer Science at Curtin university during the 1990s. Living in my family home was not ideal. With two brothers and two sisters it was not only overcrowded but noisy, making study very difficult. So, when Nick advertised for a couple of students to share his rental accommodation I jumped at the chance. Judy was in a similar situation, and after a \"get to know you coffee\" at the university cafeteria we decided to move in together.\n\nIt was an old weatherboard house that needed some repairs, but the rent was cheap and with three bedrooms plus a large living and dining area it suited us perfectly. Judy got the main bedroom that had a small ensuite bathroom at the front while Nick and I got the smaller bedrooms at the back of the house with a shared bathroom. Between our studies and part time jobs we all had very busy lifestyles, but still managed two or three nights a week to sit down together and share a meal, listen to some music, or watch a bit of television.\n\nIt was Judy who first noticed something weird happening. She worked a few nights a week at a local restaurant and didn't get home until around midnight. The first time she noticed that the front door was not only unlocked but wide open was strange and a little concerning. Nick and I were both security nuts and assured her that we had locked the door. We put it down to the fact that the house was old and that due to settling had sprung open. After the second occasion, as nothing had been stolen, I suspected that maybe a previous tenant with a key was playing a joke on us. I changed the lock, but to no avail, every time Judy came home the door was always open. The only time it wasn't was if Nick or I stood at the door waiting for her to come home. Nick installed a simple alarm that buzzed whenever the door was opened, and although we now knew when the door had been opened, we could still find no rational explanation.\nThe next strange thing that started happening was when Judy noticed stuff in her room had been moved during the day while she was at uni. Nick and I assured her it wasn't us playing a sick joke. She started locking her door but that still didn't stop it happening.\n\nA storm had blown in and the sound of the rain on the old tin roof accompanied by loud thunder and flashes of lightning made us glad that we were home for the evening. We were all in the living room watching some television and discussing the strange events when the lights started to flicker on and off. At the same time the door alarm buzzer sounded, and we heard the creaky old front door open. The door had been locked. Before we could move, we heard loud footsteps on the wooden floor as someone walked down the hallway towards the living room. The footsteps, minus a body, continued past the living room towards the back of the house. We heard the back door open, and the footsteps then just stopped. We checked, no one was there. Hearing those footsteps, without a body, was the scariest thing I had ever witnessed and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. Judy's mouth was open in what I could only assume was a silent scream. As Nick and I relocked the doors we couldn't help but notice the dirty boot marks left on the floor.\nPerhaps it was the lateness of the hour, or the storm that was raging outside, I don't know why, but we didn't leave. No one slept that night and we all huddled together in the living room as we discussed what to do next. Judy was adamant that she was moving out first thing in the morning, which she promptly did.\nI planned to stay in the house with Nick until he could find somewhere else to go and then I would move back home.\n\nThen the strangest thing happened. As soon as Judy moved out everything returned to normal. After three weeks and no mysterious events Nick and I decided we would stay.\n\nThere was a knock at the door one afternoon and the young mum who lived next door was there returning a package for Nick that had been incorrectly delivered. We stood chatting for a couple of minutes before an icy blast chilled us both. It was a hot day, and it wasn't a change in the weather. There was no doubt that this house was haunted, and something was sending us an unpleasant message. I told Nick that night what had happened, and we both agreed to move out on the following weekend.\n\nEverything seemed ok and on Friday night my new girlfriend, Lee, came over to help me pack. She had stacked my tee shirts in a neat pile on my bed when I called her to come into the living room for a coffee that I had just made. She just sat down when the alarm buzzer went off and we heard the front door creaking open. It wasn't Nick. The heavy footsteps, again with no body, walked past the living room, but this time entered my bedroom. I didn't hesitate, I grabbed Lee, ran outside, jumped into my car, and drove away as fast as I could. Lee was hysterical.\n\nIt was a few days before I mustered the courage to go back, with a couple of my mates, and get my belongings. The sight on my bed frightened the life out of me. A large (very large) knife had been stabbed right through the middle of the neatly stacked pile of tee shirts.\n\nAs far as I know the house was never rented again and remained vacant for many years.\nSome thirty years later, the house is long gone, replaced with an apartment block, but these events still haunt me, not only in my wakeful dreams but as vivid flashbacks as well.\n\nI did some research, and it appears that a guy had brutally murdered his unfaithful wife in that house some fifty years ago. He protested his innocence but spent the rest of his life in jail.\n\nOn reflection, Nick and I surmised that the hauntings had only occurred when a woman had been present in the house.\nWell, I guess that if the murderer was truly innocent that might account for his extreme behavior, or perhaps he was a misogynist and just didn't like women. We will never know." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Bakery Box\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1008\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the concept of arigata-meiwaku — a favor that turns out to be a nuisance for its recipient." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "He wasn't a baker, but he loved the idea. Cakes and pastries and breads and cookies—some of the best things come out of an oven! But baking takes patience and discipline and thumbs, and Bear was just a bear.\n\nStill, he was determined to make something beautiful, something to finally repay the Baker for all the delicious treats she'd put in the big metal box out back for him every night since the bakery had opened. He would try and fail and try again—as many times as he had to—until he figured it out.\n\nHe knew the first step was setting up his mise en place. He may have been a bear, but he wasn't uncultured. First, the dry ingredients: flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, baking soda, wheat germ, and cream of tartar. If only he knew how to read, figuring out which of these white dusts was which would be so much easier. Ah well. Such is life, thought Bear. All we can do is our best.\n\nAt least milk, eggs, and butter were easy to find. Why couldn't everything come in clear containers? It's so much easier when you can see what you're after. He didn't let his lack of thumbs bother him as he gathered everything together; after all, the eggs had to get cracked open either way.\n\nHis massive paws gingerly placed a mixing bowl on the table before him. He found mixing spoons and measuring cups and laid them out in neat rows on either side of his workspace. He lumbered over to the rack by the door and, in one deft motion of his muzzle, slipped an apron off its hanger and over his head. He tucked his ears under a white baker's toque and set to work.\n\nHis first attempt was a failure, but he chalked that up to the oven not having been turned on—a simple oversight, one even experienced bakers must make all the time, he was certain. It took some time, but eventually he managed to find the right combination of buttons, knobs, and switches to get the oven preheating. Why was this process so confusing? Bear decided to do the Baker a favor, and removed the other knobs and switches from her overly complex oven. Simplicity is happiness.\n\nHis next attempt, he had to admit, could use significant improvement. The crumb was tough and dense, the flavor lacked nuance, the egg shells did not add the most pleasant texture, and the vanilla beans were stringy and unpleasant. After he finished eating the entire batch, he returned to the prep table—to his canvas—and applied what he'd learned.\n\nThroughout the night, the whole next day, and into the following night, Bear baked. He tested different recipes, made batch after batch, tweaking and refining his process, tasting the results, noting the incremental improvements. Bear worked nonstop for 26 hours (not counting a few brief, four-hour naps). But whenever he considered giving up, he’d think of the countless, tireless hours the Baker had put in on his behalf, making sure the metal box was stocked for him six nights a week. He knew she gave herself only one night off, and he was determined to finally repay her, whatever it took.\n\n***\n\nThe Baker was in shock. Her kitchen was in shambles. Baking sheets, muffin tins, and mixing bowls were strewn everywhere. Drawers and storage bins of measuring cups and utensils had been upended on the worktable and violently rummaged through. Every surface was covered in flour, like something from a cartoon.\n\nShe stepped carefully through the carnage, her shoes sticking sickly with each step. The oven was on, but the controls looked like someone had taken a pickaxe to them. She looked around helplessly, aimlessly, which is when she saw the trail of red leading to the walk-in. Her heart hammering in her ears, she pulled the door open.\n\nNothing. Thank goodness. She knelt down, touched an anxious finger to the streaked tile, and brought it to her nose: raspberries. Given the state of the...well, everything, that was hardly a surprise.\n\nShe continued moving through the kitchen, surveying the wreckage. Sheet pans bent in half, different colors of batter streaking the walls, the smell of spoilage having seeped into the pores of the place. Who would have done this? Who could have done this?\n\nEventually, she made it back around to the prep table in the center and saw what had been left for her, but it raised more questions than it answered. In the center of the maelstrom that had once been her workspace, in a patch of table wiped almost strangely clean, was a plate of muffins. On the cutting board beside it, it looked like someone had dipped a screwdriver in molasses and scrawled a single word:\n\nTAHNK\n\n***\n\nBear was a mess. He couldn't stop pacing. Had muffins been the right choice? Would she know they were from him? Would she be able to read his note? He should've done more test batches, refined his process better. He should have cleaned as he worked—oh gosh, what had he been thinking, you always clean as you work, he knew that! \n\nEventually, his nerves ran out of energy. He'd just have to trust that he'd done the best he could, and that his best had been enough. He'd believed in himself, and sometimes that's all it takes.\n\n***\n\nThe Baker cautiously, curiously broke off a tiny piece of a muffin. Against her better judgment, she popped it into her mouth.\n\nIt was, without question, the worst thing she'd ever tasted. Right into the garbage, along with...well, a lot of other stuff. It was going to be a long day, but she'd make it work. People were counting on her. They would understand—or they wouldn't—but she believed in herself, and sometimes that's all it takes.\n\n***\n\nThat night, Bear almost couldn't bring himself to check the bakery box—but as he cautiously lifted the lid, he saw that the Baker had filled it for him once again. \n\nHis heart soared." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Kittens and the Cardboard Box (or Why Cats Can't Have Nice Things)\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1120\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a fable inspired by a relatable life experience (explaining the moral before or after the story, if you’d like)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Once there were two kittens, a sister and brother named Licorice and Allsort. They lived in a comfortable little house with their pet human James, who doted on them, lavishing them with cuddles and kitty treats when they were good, yet also being firm and telling them off when they caused trouble. Since they knew of their cuteness and its effect on him, with their fluffy black-and-white fur as well as their large innocent eyes, they'd frequently use this to their advantage. When they knocked down houseplants, scratched the furniture, or got caught stealing food, they'd give him the most adorable looks they could, accompanied by trills and purrs. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.\n\nOne day, they were napping in their favourite spots on the sofa when the telltale click of the key in the lock roused them. They trotted into the hallway, meowing as James came in as if to say \"Where have you been?\". He’d call his absences work, something he treated as important for some reason, but couldn't he stick around instead in case one of them suddenly had a craving for Dreamies? It wasn’t like they could steal them anymore, now he kept all treats in a locked cupboard. At the sight of the large cardboard box he carried, though, they sat and stared. The perfect place to play.\n\nThey followed him to the living room, where he set down the box on the floor. \"I've got something for you,\" he said, leaning down and peeling off the tape, gesturing for them to stay back as they tried to climb inside. Cats were naturally curious, and they couldn't help but wonder of the box's contents. Several bags of treats? Comfy faux fur lined beds that were fun to scratch until the stuffing came out? A brand new cat tower for their pet to assemble as they meowed at him to work faster? When they saw what was inside, though, they gave identical blank stares of disappointment. Two bags, one of litter, one of that boring bland health food they were expected to live on. They glared up at James. Couldn't he at least have included a catnip mouse in there?\n\n\"Enough kibble to fill your bellies for a good while. Or not, considering the amount you eat,\" James said with a chuckle as he lifted the bags out and headed to the kitchen to store them. The cats peered into the now-empty box, their interest rekindling. The contents were secondary. Even if they'd been something better, nothing could compare to a cardboard box.\n\n\"Did you hear that?\" Licorice pushed her brother aside with a sweep of her paw. \"He got something for me! So move it!\" Confident that James wouldn't overhear the taunt - cats, after all, communicated with each other mostly via body language, facial expressions and soft chattering noises - she leapt into the box, where she stretched out and purred. No toy, no bed, could measure up to this. There was nothing quite like the sense of comfort and security its walls gave, or its soothing papery smell.\n\nHer enjoyment was short-lived. She yelped as Allsort barrelled inside, landing on her. \"Oi, he was clearly talking to me, you dolt!\" her brother shot back before biting her ear. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to make a point.\n\nPawing at him, Licorice managed to push him off hard enough to flip the box onto its side. Both kittens tumbled out. Allsort crouched to jump back inside, but Licorice pinned him to the ground. He struggled, turning over with considerable difficulty and kicking her off of him. He darted back inside the upturned container, only for Licorice to chase him out.\n\n“Now now, you two.” Footsteps creaked across the floorboards, and the kittens whirled around, putting on their best cute faces as they looked up at James. “No need to fight over it. It’s more than big enough for both of you.”\n\nBig enough for both of them? What nonsense. Everyone knew no cardboard box, not even the largest, was big enough for more than one cat. The siblings turned their attention back to each other, with glares that could turn reduced lactose cat milk sour, and launched back into their brawl, each one scurrying in and out of the box until it turned the right way up from the momentum. Licorice, who was inside at the time, landed on her back in the most undignified way. So much for cats always landing on their feet. Of course, before she could right herself, Allsort jumped up and dive-bombed her.\n\nThe sound James made was something between a laugh and a groan. “If you play nicely and share,” he said, reaching in and pulling the kittens away from each other, “you may well get treats.”\n\nAt the word “treats”, the kittens’ eyes widened. Even so, it wasn’t enough to deter them. “Treats or not,” Licorice said, facing down Allsort once more, who reacted in kind. “I won’t let you steal my new toy!” Her rear end wiggled as she prepared her pounce, which only gave Allsort time to jump aside, causing Licorice to crash into the cardboard wall.\n\n“Your new toy?” Allsort said as Licorice spun round. “I’m the toughest, so obviously I deserve it most, and if you don’t believe me, I’ll just have to prove it!” He launched himself at her again. Both felines wrestled in a tangle of paws, kicking and biting at each other, until it happened. The seams of the box gave way, and the kittens found themselves tumbling as the sides fell flat against the floor.\n\nShaking off their dizziness and blinking, Licorice and Allsort stared at the collapsed piece of cardboard.\n\n“Now look what you’ve gone and done.” Shaking his head, James leaned down and picked up the broken box. “The only one who’s getting it now is the trash collector.”\n\nIgnoring him, the kittens turned to each other and reassumed their fighting stances.\n\n“That was your fault! You went and broke it!”\n\n“No, you did! You’re going down!”\n\n“Did not! And am not!”\n\n“Did too! And are too!”\n\nJames tutted as he watched their standoff. “No need to look at each other like that. Maybe this will teach both of you a lesson – if you’re greedy, you’ll lose everything.”\n\n***\n\nAuthor's note: This is based on something that happened between my cat and my housemate's cat (both littermates) when they were kittens. The differences are the names, the appearances, and the owner's gender. After it happened, my housemate and I were talking about how it could be the plot of a children's story with an anti-greed moral, so I went ahead with 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: Goldilock's side\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1221\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story containing the words “it’s the thought that counts.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Ok, ok hear me out… porridge isn’t all that great–It’s just ok. Why would I want to break into a bunch of terrifying predators’ quarters just for some ok food? With that being said there is basically no way that I could have had any ill intention by eating the bears’ porridge. I mean–be real– they’re bears. How could I have known that a bunch of bears turned into Todd Chrisley and got a house in the suburbs? With this all being said I still broke and entered, stole, and trespassed in an innocent family’s home. I would still like to say–despite all of this–I did not do the wrong thing. I know, I know, all of this “legal” stuff, but I still believe that the public’s opinion of me should not be as it is. They think that I’m some thief that was lazy and just wanted a free meal and a warm bed;however, think for a moment who wants this stuff the most. You should all be on the same answer, homeless people. The underprivileged, the needy, the most vulnerable in this nation. I sincerely feel that you should listen to my reason, my motivation, my WHY. I was just left in the woods like the unwanted runt of the litter that I thought I was. I used to think that I was nothing, not even deserving of the breath in my lungs. This was until I found my purpose, checking out (seemingly)abandoned homes and clearing them out to make a space available for people like me, people that feel that life is empty, and that there’s nowhere and no one to turn to. This was when, one day, cleaning out my daily five houses, I ran into a family, one that has been living in one of my fixer uppers. They thanked me countless times, profusely that I–single-handedly–changed their lives, and swore up and down that they’d give me anything of theirs that I wanted, I just needed to ask. I thanked them for their appreciation and necessitated them to just consider it a kind deed. They agreed, gave me their number, and moved along with their day. I was very happy that day, something that I hadn’t felt in a long time, something that felt missing but that I loved. I went into my next house ecstatic beyond measure. Feeling so thrilled that I gave someone so much hope, so much excitement, so much… PURPOSE. I instantly went into the house begging for it to be my best one yet, to make the people who get this house after me look like millionaires, for them to be.. content. I stomped into the kitchen with so much passion that it could be oozing out of me, seeing a bowl of porridge made, I interpret it as a potential amazing, healthy, and clean meal for people in need. So I naturally look at it and place it to the side, when it hits me. This could be a ploy from the anti-needy government to try and poison people in need and kill its own citizens so that there are less people that they need to take care of, and due to the fact that they don’t have as high of an income, the government then won’t be able to make as much money off of taxes. Yes, yes, this makes perfect sense why a perfectly good bowl of food is sitting out. Then that’s when a different idea comes to me. Maybe this is a hypnotizing spell that forces the person to kill everything and everyone that they know and love and go insane, or even a disease that someone doesn’t know that they have it until a year into it so that the person who has it would go about their life like normal interacting with countless people and contaminating (eventually) the entire world. Dear goodness, I’m in a deep sweat and confused on what I should do, should I take the chance and give a person some food, but maybe I’d accidentally kill the entire world. I was wondering why a harmless and hearty bowl of food would just be sitting out, but I thought that it could’ve been from the previous owners, and maybe they’d put some anti-aging formula into it. I instantly knew what I had to do. I said my goodbyes to all of my family, “Goodbye, Goldy, it was lovely to be on earth but I know what I have to do, maybe I can have as sharp of a mind and as pure of a heart in my next life. I, then, took a spoonful and gulped it down. I winced in a way that was almost anticipating the pain, I sat like that for three minutes straight, after noticing that I was unharmed I went for the next bowl, repeated the same anticipation, and then went to the next. This last bowl looked a little odd, a tinier spoon and bowl, it had to be where the poison was. I took a bite, then another, then another, then I kept eating thinking that it was going to be the next bite, and that if I didn’t finish it, someone could die. Some may call it OCD, but I just call it caring. Bite after bite after bite and finally I finished it. I then thought that they put it in the other necessity of people–sleep. I then laid in one bed, then the next, then the last one. I then giggled at my silliness, looked at my schedule and realized this was my last house. I found out that I had been involved with this house for so long that it was already night time, and I don’t know about y’all, but I’d prefer not to walk through the woods in the middle of the night. So, I just decided to stay the night, I might as well indulge in the fruits of my labor. I slept, and I won’t even lie, I slept well. The issue is that my wake up call wasn’t so nice. I woke up to see three grizzlies, two of which were full grown, just awkwardly staring at me. I instantly stand up, sprint out, and am so traumatized that I never clear out another house. Sure, maybe it’s being a bit of a coward, yet I still haven’t died and I don’t want that to change anytime soon. So then I just live in my house, secluded from the world and an impostor to anyone that has heard my story. You might think that the purpose of this was just to brag about how awesome I am and how I’m actually not a monster, but I just think I’m setting the record straight. I hope that you know that it’s the thought that counts and that I’ve gone back to the bears’ house, they love me, and love the work that I did. I’ve explained myself to them and they are totally good with what I’ve done. I earned a bear’s favor and I hope you can too. Obviously not an actual bear, but what are the scary things in your life that could go away if you just face it head on. I learned how to conquer mine and I hope you can too." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Do You Still Love Him?\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1140\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": "\"You missed my calls yesterday.\" My boyfriend's scruffy voice came over the receiver crackly and barely audible.\nI'd grown used to the extra strain my ears had to take to hear what he was saying, so I could respond without having to pause to decode what might've been said.\nThough his greeting made my heart twinge with a little guilt, I gripped my pink and purple phone case in annoyance anyway, catching a few of my brown hairs that were rolled into perfect, meticulous curls. I forced the strands free with unnecessary force. The hours I’d spent that morning primping so I could look nice for a class presentation meant nothing when I started fidgeting out of exasperation.\n.I was tired of hearing that. I was tired of feeling bad about my current life not always aligning with his new one.\n\"Yeah, sorry. You know I have class and stuff, so...\"\nI let my voice trail off so he could fill in the blanks. I had explained the same thing over and over again. After the few months he'd been in jail, this had become a routine after all. I used to watch for the jail number saved under “We’re Gonna Get Through This,\" like my life depended on hearing his voice every day after we were snatched apart. If I missed one call in my weirdly religious schedule of telephone visits with him in between working full-time and being a full-time student, he would start acting all huffy like a kicked puppy. He wouldn't say it, but I felt it. \n\"You okay?\" I asked, trying to fill in the awkward silence that was starting to balloon too big. I knew not to push it too far. He still needed me to be his emotional center; I never let myself forget that fact, not even when I was trying to. He was in a harsh system built to break down his mind and make him mindlessly compliant. I’d never wish anything like that on anyone, so, at some point, I started to pity him. I did my best not to rock his emotional boat too much.\n\"I'm keeping my head up. For you,\" he rasped, sounding more tired than sincere.\nI smiled instinctively but felt nothing inside. A memory of a time when anything he said to me would have had my cocoa cheeks rising even when I tried to fight it bubbled in my mind. I was so in love then, I couldn't help it. The memory and others like it were so vivid that it was easy to recognize when I no longer felt that way. Our relationship no longer existed at that time. I wasn’t in love anymore, and he wasn’t in an environment where he could offer any anyway. He had to completely turn off his emotions to not get swallowed by the darkness of the correctional system. I knew he was just another victim of the school-to-prison pipeline. He was still so young, and no one had ever really tried to help him. When I finally came around, it was too late.\nI tried to love all of his past away and show him we could be happy living a different kind of life. Right when I thought we were making progress, he was gone.\n\"Everything will get better soon. You just have to believe.\"\nI shifted on my purple bedspread, shuffling a few of my textbooks closer to the edge of the bed by accident as I curled myself into the fetal position and cradled the phone like it held the most precious thing on Earth to me. There was a pause, and this time, I didn’t try to fill it. I just listened. I listened to see if I would hear the thud of my books finally sliding off my bed as my legs shook up and down with anxiety. I listened to see if I could hear Jalen's breathing, like visualizing the rise and fall of his chest, which I'd seen so many times, would make me feel closer to him. My eyes slowly started closing by themselves until I finally heard, \"I miss you. I'm so glad you're sticking beside me through all of this, baby. For real.\"\nMy eyes snapped open, and the words sank into my subconscious. I was listening for something to make me feel something reminiscent of what we'd had before, but I couldn’t forget so quickly anymore; he can’t give me that right now.\n\"I miss you too.\"\nThe disappointment reared its head but dissipated as the light rumbling of movement on his end signaled that the phone call would end soon. Relief washed over me. I didn't know how I had been making this work for so long, but it wasn't the time to start questioning it.\nHe smacked his teeth in agitation at the interruption, but resigned anyway.\n\"We're about to lock up. I'll call you tomorrow.\"\n\"Yeah, talk to you tomorrow,\" I replied softly, still offering no one my flat smile.\n\"I love you, Amaria,\" he crackled, his tone stronger and more defiant, as if telling me he wasn’t giving up yet. We always promised each other \"no matter what,\", not \"forever.” This time, he was demanding forever of me, as if he knew.\nThe twinge of guilt came back as fiercely as the first time.\n\"I love you too.\"\nWhen the line disconnected, I looked toward where my books should've fallen and saw a silhouette that made the hairs on my arm stand up. I should've known he was there since the books never sounded off, but he still scared me. It wasn't because I thought he’d heard, though. There was nothing else for me to say about the situation besides what I'd already told him.\nOf course, that still didn't stop him from looking up at me with dark, questioning eyes.\nStill in the fetal position, I tucked my head in my knees and hid my own eyes. I needed to lick my wounds from one prickly exchange before starting another.\nIman did not offer one sound in response to my blatant disregard. For a while, his deep ivory skin and presence seemed to blend into the darkness and silence of my bedroom in my apartment. The city sounds bounced against the walls, and it was like he wasn't there. In the mental state I was in, the thought honestly comforted me. That's what Iman had been for me since we'd met anyway—a source of comfort. I'd ruined so much already by saying all the wrong things. I just needed a minute to think before I messed up what we had too. Mentally, I was begging him, \"Please, don't ask. Whatever it is, please, just wait.\"\nMy pleas didn't reach him; however, because he still asked,\n\"Do you still love him?\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Heirlooms\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2686\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finding a treasure in an unexpected place." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Timepiece\n\nJim Coyfield clutched his battered pocket watch as his worn out body wracked itself, his diaphragm heaving, his trachea spasming, his lips forced open in a ragged “O.” \n\nThree hundred years the watch had passed from Coyfield to Coyfield. And now, there was no one left, no one he could give it to, no one he could tell the secrets.\n\nOld man Coyfield coughed again and bloody phlegm splattered the moldy carpet of his desolated trailer.\n\nHe was the last and the worst of the proud Coyfields. Last because his progeny had been too feckless to survive him. Worst because had never solved the riddle, and now the clues would die with him. Three hundred years of Coyfield struggles would be in vain and the buried wealth would be left for the filthy McHatties to find.\n\nJim’s gnarled hand fell hard against the threadbare armrest. His arthritic fingers convulsed around tarnished brass bezels, then the pocket watch fell free, its ticking silenced as it hit the floor.\n\nThe Family Bible\n\n“Three hundred years of McHattie history, all their names written right here inside the cover.”\n\nThe auctioneer thunked the heavy bible on the block. Its leather binding had stains of unknown origin, and the word “holy” had been completely worn away.\n\n“Is that the one with all the pages hollowed out?” someone shouted from the crowd.\n\nThe auctioneer lifted the cover to reveal the dark compartment inside. \n\nNo one knew for sure how it had happened. One story blamed Old Spinster McHattie herself. The way it went, she had done it when she was a girl looking for a place to hide her lover’s letters—she needed somewhere she knew her daddy would never look.\n\n Another said it had been done long before she was born. Capt. Shane McHattie had carved it out so he could hide a pistol. He carried the bible with him to the gallows, pretending to be pious all the way. But even as the gate fell out from under him, he pulled the gun so he could shoot the dirty Coyfield who had turned him in.\n\nWhatever the reason, when the auctioneer started the bidding at a hundred dollars, there were no takers. So the bible kept its secrets and went to charity with all the other unwanted rubble from Madame McHattie’s heirless estate.\n\nThe Thrift Shop\n\nI hated thrift shops. It wasn’t just the musty smells or racks of worn out clothes or rows of obsolete electronics. It was the fact that every summer I got dropped off at this one to have some ‘quality time’ with my Grandpa. My parents spent the same week at an adults only resort in the Bahamas. I felt as left behind as the bin of moth eaten teddy bears in the toy section.\n\n“Try not to break anything, Casper,” Grandpa growled as I tugged my suitcase towards the back of the store. I looked around to see if there was anything that wasn’t a little broken already. Nope.\n\n“You take your stuff upstairs. I’ll come for dinner in a few hours.”\n“I have to stay upstairs for a few hours?”\n\n“Unless you want to help me organize these VHS tapes.”\n\n“Grandpa, no one is going to buy those.”\n\n“I’m doing a buy 2 get 3 free special.”\n\n“You should just throw them out.”\n\nHe shook his head, “no, they could be collectors items someday.”\n\nI did a head shake of my own and climbed the narrow stairs. \n\nGrandpa’s apartment was less junky than the store down below. It wasn’t that he had anything nice—he still used a VHS player—it was just that he kept things up here uncluttered. In the living area he had his TV, an old La-Z-Boy and a side table set with three items. The first was a picture of my grandma. It was black and white and she looked a lot different in it then what I remembered. The second was a picture of his mom and dad—my great grandparents—staring out of a sepia frame, no smiles. It didn’t seem like they thought much of me either. The third object was an old tin cup. It was dented and discolored and I had no idea why Grandpa kept it around. Probably thought it would be a collectors item someday too.\n\nI got hungry before Grandpa came upstairs. He didn’t keep much in his cupboards, all I could find was a can of Spaghetti Os, and despite the fact that there were fifteen hundred different kinds of bowls for sale downstairs, I couldn’t find a single one up here. Ah well. Maybe that's why he kept the tin cup.\n\n“What are you doing?” Grandpa snarled.\n\nI hadn’t heard the door open, but he was standing there, his eyes bugged out like the apartment was on fire. \n\n“I got hungry.” I held a pair of tongs clamping the handle of the tin cup suspended over a gas stovetop. Spaghetti Os were just starting to bubble. \n\n“Put it down!” Grandpa shouted.\n\n“Geez, fine.” \n\nI meant to set it down softly, but the tongs slipped and the cup clattered on the floor. Hot Spaghetti O ejecta coated the cupboards and Grandpa gasped as if he had just seen a murder.\n\n“Don’t touch it!” He pushed me out of the way as I bent to pick up the cup. The thin loop handle had taken a new bend, and it looked like the metal inside hadn’t reacted well to the acidic tomato sauce.\n\n“It just an old—”\n\n“You have no idea what this is!” Grandpa roared.\n\n“Look, I didn’t mean—”\n\n“Just go!” Grandpa heaved, pointing down the stairs.\n\n***\n\nIt was dark down in the store. Grandpa only left one faulty fluorescent bulb on after closing time. I found a bean bag chair to sleep in. It smelled like old socks and cat pee, which pretty much matched the way I felt. I didn’t like the flickering light. It made things move. I had to force myself not to look at the wall of derelict dolls. \n\nOf course then I started hearing voices.\n\nIt's just water running in the pipes. Or the furnace lighting up. Nope. Those were definitely words. And not just whispers either, more like tiny shouts.\n\nI got up and followed the sounds. Inside the jewelry display, a battered pocket watch hung from its chain. I slid the glass door open and the sound grew more distinct.\n\n“We’ll bring those filthy McHatties everything they’ve earned these three hundred years!”\n\nThe voice came from inside the watch and it was answered by a cheer that made the hinged covers vibrate. As I watched, the back clicked open. A tiny ladder lowered from among the movement gears, and miniscule forms began descending; men no taller than my thumbnail.\n\nSome were dressed in old fashioned breeches, others had more modern looking jeans and boots. All of them carried some kind of weapon. Though their faces were no bigger than a pinhead, I could see they all had the same large, downward curving nose.\n\nA man in a Union blue uniform waving a tiny saber was the last to descend.\n\n“For Coyfield honor! For Coyfield treasure! For the ending of all McHatties!” he swung his saber above his head and the crowd around him roared.\n\nI cleared my throat, “Umm…Hi?”\n\nThe little faces all looked up at me. I don’t know what I expected—maybe a little respect since I was so much much bigger—but I guess that didn’t matter to the Coyfields. \n\n“You, boy!” The one with the saber shouted, “is that McHattie blood across your face?”\n\n“No,” I wiped my cheek, “its spaghetti’s Os.”\n\n“More’s the shame,” he looked me up and down, “You look like a lad with some size. If you join us in our fight, there’ll be McHattie blood to go around! And a share of treasure to your name!”\n\n“I think I’ll just watch, if that’s alright.”\n\n“A coward? Then stand aside.”\n\nBehind the jewelry counter stood the shelves of antiques. Two levels up from the bottom, a big black book lay on its side. The Coyfield leader pointed his saber in its direction and sounded the charge. The tiny mob shimmied down ropes and ladders from the jewelry display and slung grapples to ascend the shelves. \n\nI moved closer to the action and noticed something strange about the book. Its top cover was propped open just a crack, and I could see reddish points of light glowing all along the margins.\n\nThe Coyfields hollered war cries as they made their approach, but before they reached the book, gunshots sounded. Puffs of smoke blossomed from the crack, and Coyfields toppled over as they ran. \n\nWith a shout, the book cover flung itself open and a tiny army bristled at the edges of the cavity inside.\n\n“Another volley!” Screamed a McHattie wearing drab green trousers and a WWII helmet.\n\n The McHatties fired again.\n\nWhen the battle was over, both sides claimed to have won. The McHatties succeeded in driving the Coyfields back over the edge of the shelf, but the Coyfields captured a McHatties flag and once they were back in the jewelry display, they desecrated it and declared that gave them the victory. \n\n“We’ll have their fortress next time,” the leader vowed as he sheathed his saber.\n\nI bent my face down level with the jewelry case, “Did I hear your name is Commander Ransom?”\n\n“That’s right. Commander Ransom Coyfield.” He clicked his heels together.\n\n“So, what’s this all about?”\n\n“It’s about honor. It’s about treasure. It’s about revenge!”\n\n“I know, I heard you shouting all that stuff. But what happened? I mean, all you little people would be better off not fighting each other, right?”\n\n “Better off? No! That’s what we exist for. We remain to finish what we left undone.”\n\n“Ok…and that is?”\n\nCommander Ransom took a storyteller’s tone.\n\n“Three hundred years ago, a great wrong was done to our ancestor Connor Coyfield. He partnered with one Shane McHattie and together they amassed a hoard of gold and jewels from ventures on the sea. As they journeyed home, they hid their treasure when news of pirates reached them. They split the secret of their hiding place so one could never find it without the other, then swore they would return together when the time was right. But McHattie was faithless. When Connor came to find him, McHattie shot his partner in cold blood and searched the dying body for the clue. But Connor Coyfield had been wise. Suspecting treachery, he left the clue inside his pocket watch and gave it to his son.” \n\nWhile Ransom spoke, the other Coyfields gathered around. He raised his arms and gestured towards the crowd. “Each of us bore the heirloom and spent our lives in search of the trove and of vengeance against the foul McHatties.”\n\n“But now you’re here in my Grandpa’s thrift store?”\n\nThe entire crowd of tiny heads lowered in shame.\n\n“Alas,” Ransom said, “there are no more Coyfields left to bear the heirloom or remember our story. A child of our blood would be precious above all other things, but it seems the McHatties succeeded in the complete annihilation our heritage excepting the pocket watch itself.”\n\nPrecious above all other things huh? That sounded a lot better than sleeping on a bean bag stuffed with kitty litter.\n\n“Do you adopt?” I asked.\n\n***\n\nMy first task as an heir to a share of the Coyfield fortune was to steal the McHattie bible. Its stained leather cover looked sinister in the flickering fluorescence, but I was pretty sure my pot lid shield would be good enough to stop any micro bullets.\n\n“Halt, thief!” a small but mighty voice demanded. \n\nI peaked around my shield and saw a tack-sized sentry dressed in drab green, his miniature rifle shouldered. “Our spies informed us the Coyfields have lied to you. Will you parley?”\n\nI reached for the bible, ignoring the pinprick in my thumb that came when the sentry’s gun went off. I tossed the cover open. Inside the hollowed pages, McHatties swarmed. Tiny pinging bullets reverberated off my shield. I lifted the book and tipped the whole McHattie clan out onto the shelf. A few cursing men clung to the cavity edge. A little shake and they went sprawling. So far, being a Coyfield felt great.\n\n“Drop the Bible, or you’ll lose this baby blue!”\n\nIt was the sentry in green. Somehow, he now dangled in front of my vision, one hand holding a fist full of eyebrows, one leg braced against my nose and his rifle's bayonet tickling my eyeball.\n\n“Whoa, how’d you get up there?” I asked, crossing my eyes and setting down the book.\n\n“Nothing compared to Pointe Du Hoc, son. Now, are you ready to listen?”\n\nUp so close, his bayonet looked big enough to do some damage, so I decided it would hurt less to hear what he had to say.\n\n“The Coyfield vendetta is a sham,” he declared, his combat boots digging into my nose. “Connor Coyfield was a personal valet to my great ancestor Shane McHattie. Shane promised him a great reward for loyalty, but Coyfield set his greedy heart on all the McHattie treasure. He stole the key to its location, then denounced his master as a pirate. As the story goes, Coyfield laughed as he watched Shane’s innocent body dangle from a rope, but he wasn’t so giddy when he figured out he’d stolen only half the secret and Shane’s three sons knew what he had done. For three hundred years we McHatties have spent our blood to reclaim what's rightfully ours. If you’re choosing sides son, choose the side of justice. The Coyfields will only stab your back in the end.”\n\n“How much treasure’s in it for me? The Coyfields promised an entire share as a fully adopted member.”\n\n“Of course that’s all they promised, greedy even in death. If you join us McHatties, you’ll be the only living heir to all the treasure.”\n\n***\n\nThe McHattie bible’s secret compartment had a second secret feature. Inside the cavity a tiny lock secured a false bottom. To open it, I needed the winding key from the Coyfields pocket watch.\n\nIt wasn’t hard to get, though the angry clan charged after me promising all kinds of tiny horrors. \n\nThe McHatties met them on the floor, promising to hold them back till I discovered the secret. \n\nThe key slid smoothly in the lock, the bottom sprung softly open. I scooped the folded parchment and broke the red wax seal.\n\n\nDear Descendents,\n\nThe reading of this letter means our heirlooms have at last brought you together! This was our dearest hope. Gold and silver can be stolen against your will, but the treasured bonds of friendship and family can be only lost by choice.\n\nLet it never be forgotten that Connor Coyfield saved the life of Shane McHattie in battle on the seas.\n\nLet it never be forgotten that Shane McHattie stood in for Connor Coyfield at the gallows.\n\nMay the pocket watch remind you that time is always borrowed and may the hallowed word teach you to treasure the golden rule.\n\nThough our trove was lost, our friendship never will be.\n\nIn Brotherhood,\nShane McHattie and Connor Coyfield\n\nI snorted. Three hundred years huh? Somewhere along the way I guess someone mixed up the word ‘hallowed’ with “hollowed.” I threw the watch inside the bible and closed the cover.\n\nThe shouts and bangs from the tiny skirmish made me shake my head.\n\nThere were a few other things that got mixed up as well.\n\n I tossed the sheet of parchment over the feuding clans.\n\nUpstairs, Grandpa was sleeping in the La-Z-Boy. He held the tin cup in both hands nestled against his stomach.\n\n“Grandpa,” I said, poking him in the arm.\n\nHe startled awake.\n\n“Can you tell me about the cup? Where did it come from?”\n\nHis eyes went straight from bleary to intent, and he sat up in the chair.\n\n“Well, Casper, it's been in the family for a long, long time…”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Too Many J's\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1013\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two characters who like each other but don’t get a happily-ever-after." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Too many J's\nJJ's opened three months before I graduated from high school in 1985. I worked my way through culinary school as a waitress, busboy, dishwasher, and eventually bookkeeper for the previous owner of the building. When he had health problems and needed to be hospitalized, I agreed to run it until he recovered from surgery. Mr. Jonas was the sweetest boss I had ever worked for. He and his wife were the original JJs, John and Jordan, and their children hated the restaurant business. The name was theirs first. I realized how much they could teach me. I saw her order food on a shoestring budget, and after the restaurant was afloat, she never changed her methods. They set up 401k's for everyone and matched your yearly pay-in once a year on your birthday.\nAt Christmas, they would adopt two families for the Holiday. They would ask the staff if we knew of any deserving families, and one year, we helped four families because ten days before Christmas, their building was sold. The new owner raised their rent by $550, due immediately. Knowing that the residents would not be able to pay, they evicted them; the Jonas family relocated all four families and still provided Christmas, too.\nMr. Jonas lost his battle with lung disease in February, just before he turned 65. JJ's was his father's wedding gift to him and Jordan, who loved cooking, socializing, and entertaining. She could not bear to set foot in the restaurant after his passing. I applied for a loan to purchase JJ's from Jordan for $250,000.00 by Valentine's Day in 2001. After I was approved for the loan, Jordan agreed to sell JJ's to me if I would agree to the following terms:\n1. I had to keep JJ in the name.\n2. I had to keep the current staff on.\n3. I had to continue the 401k matching\n4. I had to continue adopting families for Christmas and\n5. I had to promise to get a life outside of the restaurant\nJordan's only regret was that they had spent their best years building and running the restaurant instead of enjoying themselves after it was self-sustainable. Jordan designed JJ's operating system into a two-keystroke majestic dynamo for someone who never attended culinary or any higher education after her senior year in high school. All of the reordering could be done in minutes. Payroll for the employees began running at 4 a.m. Then, at 5, the bills were automatically sent to each vendor, and promptly at 6, the printer started up with the paper trail, printing paychecks and envelopes. It left nothing for Jordan to do but sign, seal, and deliver each physical payment and deposit.\nA month after selling JJ's to me, Jordan surprised me with four gifts:\n1. The deed of ownership\n2. A brand-new sign that renamed JJ's to JJ's Bar and Grill\n3. My original Birth Certificate\n4. A letter from the founders\nYear one was the hardest…\nOlder women would say, \"Too many cooks in the kitchen would spoil the soup.\" I didn't understand that analogy until I married my long-time coworker, the sous chef JJ. Imagine James Jr. announcing his upcoming nuptials to June Jacobson or, visa-versa, JJ to marry JJ. He often told new staff he had to know who beat him to his dream copyright and restaurant name in Virginia. JJ's Bar and Grill was all I could see in my mind's eye since I received an Easy Bake oven at 6 for Christmas. The initial meeting was no doubt hostile and awkward. It's hard to be angry and fascinated at the exact moment you meet your doppelganger, better half, or counterpart. So, hoping to have an opportunity to steal the restaurant from someone while they slept, he applied for the sous chef position.\nThat was twenty-seven years and two sets of twins ago. Juliet and John Z. the Third were born ten months after the wedding. Julia and Julian came along eleven months later. I'm not the eighteen-year-old 'green menace' from 1985's graduating high school senior class I was when our paths first collided. However, I was ten years his junior. \nTen years to the day after the sign went up, Jordan passed.\nAfter working together for Jordan during my culinary school days, John Zachary Jackson Junior realized he would never be second in charge, even if he outlived me. Jordan's last gift was to give JJ's Bar and Grill to our twins equally; the older set each own thirsty percent, and the younger children own twenty percent each. So, if anyone wants to sell their share, they must divide it equally until they have children. I nor their father can ever own, buy, or sell JJ's Bar and Grill. If we divorce or die, John Z. II or June J. can't make any decisions about its dissolution. Being the shrewd businesswoman Jordan was, she pegged him as a potential threat when he walked in for the interview. She liked confidence in those who worked at JJ's, but there was something about him, and I was asked to do a background check on him immediately. As Jordan had thought, she asked me to do genealogy tests on my oldest twins, who now work with us at JJ's. He was the son of their first partner's sidepiece. When I met the first partner's wife, she grilled Jordan about how they caused her husband's heart attack. Being a woman of distinction, loyalty, and faith, Jordan allowed the wife to release her anger on her and never mentioned his affair or other children. \nAngered about the restaurant, my husband, John \"Zac\" Jackson Jr., broke away and started a rival restaurant. Unfortunately, happy ever after wasn't in the cards for us. He killed himself in a car outside of \"Jay's\" on Thursday, April 1, 2010, April Fool's Day, after discovering that the \"Jay's\" restaurant was being foreclosed. I'm Jordan's long-lost daughter; that is another whole story to explain another time. Our children have owned JJ's Bar and Grill since birth." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: antique love\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1941\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at an antique roadshow." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Throughout the years of driving the same route to and from work not much changes in the way of scenery with the exception of random roadside construction. One of my favorites for some reason was that of a tree company. The pronunciation to this day still eludes me. I would see them everywhere. There was something about the sheer volume of organized destruction and speed that amazed me. Like a storm they came in with little warning, made their noise and onto the next location all with the minimal amount of disturbance to local traffic. \nHouses rarely changed, yards and driveways again the same day in and day out with the exception of a freshly cut lawn or maybe some new tulips planted around the mailbox. Business the same, maybe a new sign in the window proclaiming lowest prices of a special of some sort. The cars were even the same as I drove by every morning and night, which made sense. For the longest time I had ignored the obvious and continually questioned why the same cars always were there. Different days and couple minutes difference from time to time and there could be a strange car, or the red Corolla might not be in spot 2. For entertainment purposes my imagination would drift off to where the Toyota Sienna with the “salt life” sticker disappeared to if I hadn’t seen for over a week. That one was simple; the little ones grew up and moved out, so the parents packed up sold the minivan and moved to Cabo for sun and surfing. Jealous! But I’m sure it wasn’t that exotic, rather just a new job new start time.\nSpring was in the air and with that came the events, shows, tours and festivals. Just like the nature of spring, life was popping up all over that is except for the roadside scenery. Then then again, the Clancy’s, my name for the occupants of the yellow, teal house, they got a rose bush. My excited was overwhelming me now, I could barely hold a straight line. While in such extasy and creeping into the shoulder what should I see but a new sign. It was small, white with red letters and now in my rear-view mirror by this time. Tomorrow I could read it. I would guess a week had gone by and I saw the sign a. n and realized I had wanted to read what was on it last week. Somehow I must of forgotten or there must have been something so incredibly fascinating that I got distracted. What it was I don’t know, however, and by this time again I had missed what the sign had read. I knew I would lose sleep over the anticipation of what the red words were. The next day, I remembered to read, I paid attention. COMING IN MAY ANTIQUE ROADSHOW. And that was that.\nI gave this no thought really for I was not very interested in antiques. I did, however, grow up in a house full of them. My parents’ friends had them as did my grandparents. I do remember when we would visit the one set, they would always pull us toward a great big chest of drawers that towered over my sister and me. It was always so shiny, smooth, and smelled of, what now I know was wood polish. My grandmother though would open the drawer third from the bottom and pull out some sort of craft or puzzle game to entertain us. My mom now has one of those for when my sister visits with her children. But now I know it was merely a distraction for them so she could take a break. Everything in the drawer was either from the dollar store or a garage sale. My dad even had an old friend that owned an antique restoration business, I wonder if he would be at this show.\nI had been on a dating site, or sites for the past five years now although now I rarely looked at it. Maybe once a week, not because I had a date or a girlfriend but rather it just didn’t work. I still think it’s broken. In the beginning though I looked every day and wrote hundreds of letters which were met with disappointment. I do mean hundreds too, thousands and nothing. There was so much nothing that I had considered suing one of them on the grounds of not working properly and wasting my time and if it was broken then ruining my chance at a match that should have happened but never did. But I didn’t and life moved on. \nTonight, I looked. Years ago, I would have lost it at the sight of this girl, but now I knew better. She was, however, maybe the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, not in person. I read her bio and short letter she wrote about herself and short consisted of two sentences. To me the girl was absolutely perfect, so I clicked on the write her feature and nothing. I was known as one with a pen and paper but literally nothing came out. That’s a lie, I got “hi” typed. Now from past experience I was pretty confident she didn’t exist or a scam, but I really wanted to write to her, and I really wanted her to be real, so I had to. But with just “hi” not sure how far that would get me. I’m guessing 30-45 minutes had passed and I still only had the word hi. Thinking how crazy this was and how much wasted time on someone I was fairly certain to be not real. Even if she was, the odds of her writing me back, zero. Then I concluded with myself as I thought of something I never think of at home, my drive to and from work and the sign I read. “Antique roadshow” so “Hi… Wil you be my date for the antique roadshow. And send.\nShe wrote back! I’m not talking days later or even hours almost instantly. She replied, “absolutely.”\nWe decided to take separate cars and meet there. I arrived in the parking lot first. I was always early, kind of an OCD thing when it came to time, but not so bad as to wreak havoc on my life. So, with that said, one minute past meeting time and I had not seen her. Her name was Renka. So of course, I started to think the worst, or the obvious, both of which I think would be the same and that was she really wasn’t real. We had never talked or written to each other except at a time and a place. That was it and it made it more mysterious, so I didn’t push to ask any more. I stared at the antique roadshow sign and back at my phone for the time. Five minutes passed. And on the 6th a Toyota Sienna pulled up with only one passenger. I knew this had to be her. I thought to run up and open the door for her but I’m sure that could scare the crap out of her, instead I stood by my car with a single flower in my hand. When I saw her, I couldn’t believe my eyes and it took a moment for me to move as she came near. She looked at me, smiled then at the single flower and a giggle as she covered her mouth as if to conceal the giggle, but it was too late. Turned out though she couldn’t believe guys still did that and hugged me as she accepted it. I did notice a ‘salt life” sticker on the rear of her car as we made our way in. I thought, could this be?\nInside we found ourselves in the antique rug section of the show. Within five minutes I had learned she had zero interest in antiques as with me. I agreed with her and had no explanation for why I chose this as a first date. I did explain going to a fancy dinner that could take 1-2 hours as we sat 3 feet from each other, never have meeting before was just too much like an interview. So, we talked about that while inspecting the oriental and Persian rugs that hung from the ceiling. I would have preferred walking down the aisle of the supermarket than a dinner first date. I did have to reassure her or maybe reassure myself to not disregard a nice dinner date. She was in agreement, and she explained she was new to the area and had come from Virginia Beach with her 3-year-old daughter. Do I ask her? Yes, let’s ask her…\nAnd yes, it turned out that was her Toyota Sienna in the parking lot I had seen for weeks and disappeared. Turned out I have my imaginative story backwards. That person didn’t move away to a new life but the opposite. I had a really good feeling that she thought the fact that I was that observant was rather amazing, or she was hiding the fact that she now thought I was a stalker. In any case we had finished our first aisle and actually hadn’t really noticed any of the rugs draped around us. She stopped at the end of the aisle and grabbed my hand and then the other and we stared at each as she slapped my chest and yelled “your it” “10 second head start.”\nShe ran off and disappeared as I counted out to 10 and I was off to find her in my first game of hide and seek since I was maybe 8. Down the aisle I went, the antique and ornate rugs hung long and wide and there were also stacks at the end of each aisle. Amazing in this somewhat small room she did a pretty good job of hiding, or had she just used that as an excuse and was actually driving away as I foolishly looked for someone that wasn’t there. Just then, however, I had that giggle and I stopped till I heard it once more. I grabbed her shoe, and she screamed as she tried to escape. With her effort and my reluctance to let go the oriental rug which she chose as a hiding spot came crashing down between us. As I stood up, we faced each other in shock as to what to do but I think more as to a feeling we might be sharing. I looked at her as the most beautiful girl I had ever met and couldn’t believe I was in this very spot with her. To me it seemed as though she was thinking the same thing. I think we both felt as if this might possibly be the greatest first kiss the world has ever seen. At least the greatest this antique roadshow had ever seen. Just as we were about to kiss a voice came to our interruption. A man was yelling about how much that rug was worth and why would we destroy such a display. Turns out that rug she chose to hide behind was worth over $9,000. So I grabbed her hand and we ran and luckily in this section there were aisles upon aisles of hiding spots. It was his turn now but instead we decided to just make a complete run for. Before we left, however, I stopped with her hand in my and gave her a first kiss that I think we would remember for the rest of our lives." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ted\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1019\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone rediscovering something old they thought they’d lost." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As she entered the second-hand store, Lucy coughed. A cloud of dust engulfed her face, a sign perhaps of limited customers. She coughed again, trying to be as quiet as possible.\n\"Are you alright, dear?\" The old man behind the counter gazed at her with concerned eyes.\nLucy nodded, stifling a sneeze.\n\"Have a good browse, and if you need help with anything just let me know.\" The man's eyes were warm and gentle.\n\"Thank you,\" Lucy smiled. She stood for a moment, drinking in the quirky little shop. The third one that day. She was amazed at how much could be crammed on the shelves, how many nick-nacks were piled one upon the other. How the shop itself could look so small but have so many corners and passages.\nHow were you supposed to find anything in a place like this?\nLucy wandered the aisles, lightly touching antique chairs or statues of animals. She paused at the old-fashioned lamps and grinned at the sagging sofa, which reminded her of her old Grandma's.\nShe was looking but not at the same time. A nagging in her mind, a deep down longing for an old loved toy, her subconscious searched without her acknowledgment. Why was she wandering through these old shops? She didn't allow herself to think but a pull kept her going.\n“What is it you're looking for, Miss?”\nThe shopkeeper was behind her. Startled, she stepped back and then relaxed underneath the gaze of his kind, knowing eyes. He seemed to know she was looking for something specific.\n“Nothing really, just looking,” She waved her hand aimlessly and embarrassed, tugged at her sleeve. The old man said nothing but he didn't move.\nLucy looked to the floor and then up again at the man.\n“This is going to sound silly,” she said, red blossoming on her cheeks. “But you're right. I'm looking for something. An old toy actually. My favourite little teddy bear.” She felt herself gabbling and stopped to take a breath. The man waited patiently for her to continue.\n“Years ago, when I was thirteen we moved to the other side of the world. My mum did a lot of sorting out of toys and books, and everything else we had. She's the type to consider certain things tatty or rubbish, if she doesn't like the look of them. Even if she must know when her kid is still playing with that toy, or still attached.”\nLucy paused and stared at the shelves around her, the treasure that had once been somebody else's pride and joy.\n“Well, anyway, she took it upon herself to take a bunch of our toys to a charity shop, without telling any of us kids. And when we found out we realised she had taken our favourite toys! The ones that were left behind weren't even the ones we really played with.” Lucy choked back a lump in her throat, “I'll never quite understand why she did that. She denied it for years too.”\nThe old man nodded. Lucy knew he understood what she was saying.\n“I've kinda been thinking about that teddy of mine on and off ever since. And since I've been back here in the U.K. I find myself entering shops like this and looking. I don't know why, it's such a long shot. I mean hopefully, my Ted is being loved right now by some other young child.”\nLucy trailed off, her eyes were shining and wet.\n“I understand young 'un. Especially when somethin' is taken from you without your say-so, it's hard to let go.” The old man offered her a tissue.\n\"Take as long as you like here. Make sure you check every nook and cranny.” He nodded at her again and then padded back behind the counter and busied himself with a box of books.\nLucy watched him go and then immersed herself in the shop, determined to leave no corner unchecked. She took her time, drinking in the atmosphere, the peacefulness of the place. As she searched Lucy at turns stood on tiptoe, crouched low to the ground, and sat in the bean bags and chairs dotted about the place. Absorbed in the items she was discovering. The odd customer came and went, the bell over the door jingling softly. Lucy was oblivious to the other people around her.\nAt length, she turned a disappointed face back towards the door. Cold air was blowing in now, and the blue sky outside was turning darker. She had checked everywhere. It was time to leave, empty-handed again.\nDespite it being an obvious long shot Lucy felt let down. She had been sure about this shop, a tingle as she had passed the doorway had made her think this time it was going to be different.\nLucy sighed and headed to the door. She turned her head away from the counter, not wanting the old man to speak to her. She just wanted to leave. As she turned she saw the shopkeeper's eyes, and he winked as her gaze passed over him. She chewed her lip and went to pull the door open. Her eyes fixed upon a spot to the left of the door. Something was tucked down on a little shelf behind the door.\n“Oh,” She stopped, her heart fluttering. Bending down for a closer look she saw a grubby, tiny, teddy bear. A pink bow around his neck.\n“Oh,” She gasped. “Ted! My Ted.” Lucy picked him up, knowing it could be any old Ted, one of thousands of the same Ted she had once had. But simultaneously she could feel it was her own Ted. It was something she could not describe. She just knew.\n“I can't believe I've found you, Ted.” She whispered softly, nuzzling against his worn fur.\nShe had never been able to let the idea of him go, and now years later here was her special toy from her childhood.\n“I'm never going to let you go again,” Lucy whispered, as she paid the smiling shopkeeper and slipped out into the night, a warm glow in her chest." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Merger\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1290\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a scene in which a character’s behavior or reaction to something is affected by a past experience — without saying what that experience was." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Tomas was pissed.\nFrom my Merger rental he marched along the highway stumbling in ruts and over branches making him more and more angry. He delighted in kicking coconut sheathings out of his way. It was black dark. Trees all lining the highway road. No lights. He knew there was a mountain climbing straight up on one side of the roadway. He knew there was still sea a short distance through the brush on the other. There was no moon. There were lots of mosquitoes, no wind, humid.\nTomas was pissed.\nHe tore his wet shirt off, got attacked by swarms of knats, no-seeums and mosquitoes, put his wet shirt back on again slapping and running a bit, but it was too hot. \n“Shit. Motherfucker ” emphasising his words with nods of his head. “Nothing good about this place. Rod’s crazy, a crazy niggah.”\nWe had had an argument about the virtues of Haiti. We had gotten stubborn on both sides. Tomas thought the country poor, backward, too many beggars, too dirty, too funky to be lived in, maybe for a visit for a few days, buy some art work and get out again.\nAnd, I had played a joke on him that he did not like. He was right and I should not have done it, but, it was done, eh?\n“Shit! What the fuck am I doing here?”\nHe had stomped out of my place bound up the road, not knowing exactly where he was going but going there anyway. He was tramping along the roadway when he heard the mechanical moaning of a truck’s un-muffled engine approaching. He looked up and then down the road but saw nothing until the truck, with its lights off to conserve battery, was right on top of him. He jumped into a muddy runoff channel and cussed at the receding shadow and slow meringue beat. Tomas sludged his way back up to the pavement and stamped some of the mud from his sandals and from between his toes.\n“Shit, motherfucker.” He looked back where the truck had gone and was boiling with rage. He remembered there was a small open bar on up ahead, so he trudged on, mud squishing underfoot, catching and slapping his sandals against the pavement. Another truck came rumbling up without lights but he was prepared for it, standing off the road on sand. He threw rocks at the rushing beast, yelling for the bastard to put his lights on. He stood there directing hate stares at the darkness down the road. “What the fuck he think he’s got them for...?” The quiet resettled in. He slapped a few mosquitoes. He knew he was not alone.\nTomas had studied martial arts, so he inched his toes to a balanced position, set his body to prepare for whatever struggle lay ahead. His eyes moved his head, studying the three hundred and sixty degrees around his point of earth. Tall grass and a palm grove pushed its edges toward him.\n“Hey, “ he called, “ I know you’re there” he called.\nCrouching, he slowly advanced upon a slight rustling spot listening for the rush. His arms were at chest level now, protecting and ready. A clunk, directly in front of him. He pinched his lips and breathed fear away. Another clunk.\n“Come on, motherfucka ” he said quietly to the tall reeds. \nThe startled cow blinked woefully, turned and rambled away through the grass, its cow bell clunking an uneven rhythm. Tomas blinked, staring at it disappearing into the field. Then looked around to see if anybody saw this incident, then laughed at himself.\nThe bar was almost empty, a couple of people dancing in the open air to an old juke box, socca-merengue-zouk of course. A couple of people sat at tables drinking, talking, laughing. The sea dully slapped the beach outside to his front. The moon finally made it over the hill ridge line to his back. \n He drank a few beers, a few rums and felt lonely, even though people nodded invitations for him to join them. He decided to come back to my place and hit the sack. He decided again that he was getting out of this rotten country the next day if he could.\nOn the way back Tomas stepped in some fresh cow dung, so he stopped to dig it from between his toes with a stick. Across the highway some drunken men were laughing and talking loud in Creole while they staggered, arms around each other along the roadway going in the same direction as Tomas.\nHe replaced his sandal and began walking ahead, letting them know that he was not interested in their company. They ran across the highway to him. He loosened his shoulders and balanced his body and knew that if he went down two or three of them were going too, and the others would feel remembrances of their victory.\nThey surrounded him, speaking Creole in serious tones. One touched Tomas’ shoulder.\n“Hey, I don’t play that.” he responded, staring into the man’s eyes.\n“Ahh, Americains. C’est une Americaine blanc.” The one nodded, smiling to the others.\n“Blanc?” Tomas got insulted.\n“Oui, yes, a blanc.” another laughed.\n“I spek English, man, brudder.” A skinny one, with a black tee-shirt with Madonna’s face and chest protruding, said smiling, “Gimme five man, high five, man.” He raised his palm and slapped Tomas’ proffered open palm.\nThey all had to slap his hand in turn, the Madonna man slapping it a second time.\n“Okay, cool.” Tomas said attempting to walk on, but they had him surrounded. Seven of them. In a circle.\n“I starve death in New York, man. America!” the man spit on the ground, then pushed the clear bottle with its clear liquid at Tomas. “Drink blanc. Clarin. Is good. Clarin. Make dick stay hard, man.”\nTomas had been a political activist for a large segment of his life, and now looking down where the man had spit he suddenly remembered that he loved his country. It was a surprise to him, he had been fighting it for so long, that he had forgotten that he was fighting America because he loved it. He took the bottle, keeping a glancing eye about him, put it to his lips then gave it back.\n“I love America.” A big jawed man said.\n“Me too.” Madonna contradicted himself.\nTomas tried to walk on again. A hand took his shoulder. He shook it off. “I told you I don’t play that.”\n“W’as wrong you, blanc?”\n“I ain’t no blanc.”\n“You blanc, oui.” A finger touched his cheek. “You scared, blanc?” The man spoke in Creole to the others, they laughed, chuckled and giggled.\n“Don’t be scared, Americaine. Don’t be scared of black mans. You in Haiti now. You with bruddahs now. You come here, to Haiti. What you come Haiti for, blanc? Dis no New York. No scared here.”\nTomas was alone walking down the road. The thought came to him and expanded itself that they were just drinking and really didn’t mean any harm. He was just keyed up. But, it was dark, it was lonely, they were drunk and they were poor looking, and they were black. So, he was supposed to think there was something bad about to happen, wasn’t he?\nThe moon sent slits of smiling lights upon the still sea. Cocopalms hushed and hissed in soft conversations. The water gurgled, turning over stones and sucking them quietly toward its vastness. A whiff of jasmine brought a smile to Tomas’ sweating face. He bounced along the road swaying now and then to a passing truck’s zouk rhythms. \n The drums on the mountainsides, the conch calls on the sea." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Song of the Violinist: By Mary Palladino\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1370\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “I feel alive.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“The snow falls, the wind howls, and the moon rises to console the stars.”\n\nFew could see the cold imagery of the mind. Many are blind; they ignore the inside storm. They only look at what they want to see- the outside: Vibrant colors and the melodies that the Violinist creates.\n\nIn a sleepy little village some time ago, in an old cottage on the hill, there lived a man. Every soul in the village knew of this man. He would go into the less sleepy parts of town and play his violin. His playing was so entrancing that the ears that heard his song would stop what they were doing, and get lost in the song of the Violinist; it sounded like something out of a dream of serendipity.\nNot only was he a violinist, but also an artist. He would paint the most beautiful pictures of surreal landscapes, eye opening shapes and colors, and photographic portraits. If you were to step into his Gallery, you would feel the\nstares of eyes going down your spine. Often the villagers would ask the Violinist, “Why do you play? Why do you paint?” He would answer,\n“I do these things out of love. It makes me feel alive.”\n\nOne day, a visitor came to the village. She had heard all about the Violinist, and had traveled from afar to see him. As it turns out, she was a host of one of the biggest arts competitions of the time, and the Violinist was invited to compete.\n“Who, me?” The Violinist asked, astonished. “Truly, I am not who you are looking for. I am not rich or famous. How can this be?”\n“I know who I traveled to see.” The host replied. “Paint something spectacular. Compose something extravagant, then come find me.”\nThe villagers expressed their excitement for the Violinist; they wanted him to join the competition. With all this support, how could he not?\n\nThat night, the Violinist went through his many papers of compositions. He was proud of a lot of them, and thought about which one he should use for the competition. “Summer Rain in F Major?” “Twilight Symphony in E flat Minor?” He just couldn't decide. After a while, he decided to examine his paintings instead. His walls were packed with paintings, and his Gallery contained even more. But, like his songs, the Violinist could not decide. He thought and thought, and then it hit him- He should create something new. He would compose a new creation of love, or paint another sky for someone far away. He pulled out his violin, and played a few scales for inspiration. He wrote some notes on his sheet. He played some more, but stopped in the middle. His song was not turning out the way he wanted it to. He did not want to get frustrated, so he set down his violin, and picked up a canvas. He sketched out a quick idea, and started to paint. However, the colors did not look like how he imagined them in his head. He tried again, but it got worse. “Maybe I just need some rest.” The Violinist thought to himself. And that is exactly what he did.\n\nThe following day, the Violinist went into the village and tried to play his songs like he used to. His hands shook, and the rod was at war with the strings. The villagers looked on with confusion. “What is happening to our talented violinist?” They asked amongst themselves. “Does he not work well under pressure?”\nThe pressure was nothing to the Violinist. No one could view the storm on the inside. Days went by, and the Violinist slowly got worse. Crumpled papers piled, and innocent canvases were slaughtered. Three villagers, meanwhile, knew there was something wrong with their hero.\n“This is ridiculous.” the arrogant villager grunted. “The Violinist is losing his luster.”\n“Nonsense! Shame on you!” The beamish villager gasped. “Our violinist is simply not feeling well.”\n“Perhaps…” The introspective villager mused, “he is still grieving.”\nAfter a pause, the beamish villager nodded in agreement. “I miss her too.”\n\nThat night, the Violinist went into his Gallery, something he had not done in a while, and he looked upon a painting with disheartened eyes. It was a painting of a woman. If one didn't know better, they would say it was a goddess. She had blonde hair, chestnut eyes, and no one deserved her. Until sleep would finally overcome his dejected mind, The Violinist wept tears of a broken song.\n\nWhen the Violinist woke, he noticed he was no longer in the walls of his home; he was lying in lush verdure. Wind softly blew, the sun was lagom, flowers waved to the sky, and all was peacefully silent. Confused, the Violinist stood up and viewed his surroundings. These were not the valleys of the village, he realized, but something about them was very familiar. As he looked longer, it occurred to him that this place looked like a world from his artworks. He remembered this painting from not long ago. “Where the Melody Resides”. But why was he brought here, he wondered to himself. Who brought him here?\nHis stream of consciousness trailed off when his ears caught a faint sound of delicate notes in the air. It was coming from the woods, and seemed to be calling his soul. Of course, his motive was to answer this summon and follow this selcouth song. The music became more mystical with each step. When he finally reached the heart of the wood, he found a woman, his lost Darling, playing her cello as she did years ago. How she was good at playing that gorgeous instrument in her lifetime, and for the Violinist to hear it again was a blessing- a sorrowful joy. How beautiful she was, playing her passion perfectly. She was like a goddess from above. Euterpe, Hera, or perhaps Athena. The Violinist closed his eyes and breathed it all in, for it would be a long time before he would hear the Melody of the Cellist again. Her song was calling the Violinist back to life, the life he had long ago, and the life he longed for.\n\nBefore he knew it, everything was gone. He was back in his Gallery as if nothing happened. But the song in his heart remained. His Darling was hanging above him, with a cheery smile on her face that whispered, “Write.” And he did.\nHe wrote down every note he heard in his vision, and he painted everything he saw. His pencil glided across the paper as he composed; his brush danced across the canvas, leaving lambent colors in its path. A song of the Violinist might not be worthy for the world, but a song of the Cellist is. He performed the Cellist’s song in the street for the host to hear, and he had truly never felt more alive playing it. The village came down, and the host was in awe. She has never heard, and will never hear anything like it. The Violinist played “The Cellist’s Ballad\", and he presented his artwork, “A Goddess and her Cello”, with pride in the competition. But did he win? I cannot tell you. I can tell you however, that the Violinist was wrong; every note he ever played, every piece he ever painted, did make the Cellist happy. They were fit for her because love was weaved in the canvases, and written in his songs.\n\nOver time, the Violinist’s time in the village came to a close. He was missed by many, but the villagers were happy, knowing that the Violinist and the Cellist were reunited. Some say at night, if you listen with your heart, you could still hear a violin playing under the moonlight. Listen harder and you might also hear a cello. Very few people know this, but everyone in that little village knows: Maestros don't die, they become music. Their legacies will not die either; the Violinist’s son has come to the village, and he now plays his viola for all to hear, in honor of his late father and mother. Indeed, wherever this family goes, the melody will follow." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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'm a Big Girl Now!\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1002\n\nPrompt:\n\nNow, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I'm a Big Girl now!\nEvery school year ends on my birthday or the day after…June 5th or the 6th.\nTomorrow morning, I finally have to change buses to get to my new school. I also got to pick all my outfits for the semester, even my footwear choices—no more baby clothes, uniforms, and penny loafers. I get to carry a backpack and gym bag instead of a lunch box and a book bag.\nI have decided that quick-change outfits are appropriate on gym days, so bib overall or one-piece dresses and tennis shoes. There should be nothing that I will need extra time for changing before and after gym class. I can have my emergency supplies in my gym bag for personal upkeep. My body decided I was old enough for female changes over the summer after a bicycle accident.\nI look forward to the school year and this middle school. My last teacher thought it was her duty to hold me back and found out she couldn't justify the failing grade she gave me in Language Arts and Math. How does a straight-A student fail two stem classes? Well, your mom threatened to beat the hell out of the oldest teacher alive; that's how.\nWe went to the open house thirteen days ago and met Mr. Harold, a new teacher at Zion Elementary School who didn't believe in the partial pass/fail thing. He vowed that at the year's end, I would be moving on to the sixth grade. He said, \"I will figure out how to help Kimberly to live up to her potential and surpass it.\" At the end of the first quarter, he said, \"I apologize to you, Kimberly,\" as he handed me my report card, a letter for my parents, and a few books on creative writing. To a ten-year-old girl who didn't open the books for each subject, a creative writing book was an insult…. ha! I was full of ideas, tall tales, and a vivid imagination, but I was not too fond of anything related to school.\nIf I had the stories I wrote between that grade and my first published book, I would have a wonderful collection of short stories and a great-sized book ready for publication. A children's collection that analyzes the world through the eyes of a preteen, that tender age before attitudes. You know that period where you still respected adults and your parents knew best. That tiny window from seven to twelve. Also, there would have been a collection of the teenage years when the world made no sense to the changing philosophy of thirteen to seventeen. Then, of course, the tween space was eighteen to twenty because the government changed the legal age from eighteen to twenty-one just before my eighteenth birthday.\nIt didn't matter much to me; I wasn't a drinker. All the things I enjoyed were still activities I could do with a valid U.S. government-issued identification. Most clubs I frequented in the latter '70s and early '80s were restaurants daily until nine p.m. After that, you would be fine if you were having dinner before they started carding at the entrance at 8:30 p.m.\n(blaring alarm…)\nAhh….\nWow, that dream never disappoints. I like it when I am upset at bedtime and wake refreshed and clear-minded. Looking back now, I realize Mr. Harold saw something in me that I didn't want to embrace. I only wrote enough to pass the required assignments. I remember that most of the teacher's comment sections said the same thing throughout the years:\n\"Kimberly is a bright, articulate, and underperforming student. Although it is apparent that she understands the assignments. She spends too much time:\n1. Wasting time 2. Talking or 3. Daydreaming. \"\nIn my defense:\nI only spoke during two inappropriate times:\n1. To say no, I don't know. I refused to help someone cheat during test times and wouldn't rat on those seeking answers. \n2. If I was so bored that I needed a break, the assignments were easy, so after completing them, I would ask to go to the restroom, and if allowed, I would sometimes go to my hiding place in the library or if not, I would put my head down; it was not my fault if I fell asleep, talked in my sleep or snored.\nMr. Harold was the only teacher who figured out I wasn't being challenged enough, hence the apology, the letter to my parents, and the creative writing books. So, by way of trickery, he would challenge the whole class to do different things to earn a field trip. Some were interesting or lucrative. Some were to make us think outside the box. The interesting ones that we did that didn't get us away from the school for the day would earn a movie day or a party during the 5th and 6th periods.\nI was in Mr. Donald Harold's class in 1977, and my oldest son was in his fifth-grade class almost two decades later. You know you left an impression when your child keeps saying, \"My teacher says I remind him of someone, and we figured it out today. It was you, Mom. I found a photo of you in the art closet and asked him if I had reminded him of this person after class. He chuckled and said Y-E-S. She was my brightest star and my sharpest thorn.\" Then, without a pause, he turned his head in bewilderment and said, \"Sharpest thorn?\" Then, I saw the light bulb moment happen. He laughed and connected the references between his father, other family members, and the teacher's comments: that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree is valid. Once he stopped laughing, he said Mr. Harold was curious about what I was doing and where I lived.\nOnly three teachers left positive impressions on my mind, and I have now written about them all. So, this story is dedicated to all the teachers who make a lasting impression!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Martha And Her Kite\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1134\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “I feel alive.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Kite waited patiently all the long, dark winter for the sun to return. Crumpled up in a tangled heap on a top shelf in the crowded, musty garage, she counted down the days till spring. While mice tiptoed across her tail, she dreamed of soaring through the sky. When sleds and shovels were taken out for snowy fun, she longed to feel the wind on her belly and warmth on her back.\nJust when she thought she might spend eternity covered in cobwebs, forgotten on that shelf, a hand reached up and pulled her down. The hand belong to Martha, the young girl who had received Kite as a birthday present 2 years earlier.\nMartha sneezed as she brushed the dust off Kite. She ran out of the garage with both hands gripping Kite tightly.\n“Mom! I’ve got my kite! I’m ready to go to the park,” Martha called.\nShe skipped out of the garage.\n“Alright, let’s do it!” Mom said.\nMom loaded Florence, Martha’s little sister, into the stroller, and clipped a leash to their dog, Buster’s, harness.\nMartha hopped down the sidewalk behind Mom, holding on tightly to Kite with one hand. Kite trembled with excitement as the wind brushed across her tail.\nThe sun was shining, and the sky was a brilliant blue, but much to Kite’s surprise, there were still large patches of snow covering parts of the ground. Buster stopped every couple of feet to sniff, and then pee on the snow. Kite could hear the call of the red winged blackbirds in the marsh that bordered the park. She knew it had to be spring, despite the remnants of winter that had been left behind.\n“I can’t wait until the weather warms up. I’m tired of the snow,” Mom muttered, as she maneuvered the stroller across an icy puddle near the entrance to the park.\n“Boot skating!” Martha cheered, as she shuffled across the same ice patch with glee.\n“Be careful, Martha!” Mom scolded.\nAt that exact moment, Martha slipped and fell to her knees. \n“I’m okay!” Martha assured her mother. \nA shock hit Kite as the force of the fall flung her from Martha’s hands. She skidded across the cool, wet, ice.\n“My kite!” Martha gasped.\nShe popped up and penguin waddled over to the edge of the frozen puddle, where Kite had come to a stop. Martha picked up her kite, and ran toward the soggy soccer field.\n“Remember to stay far away from the trees,” Mom warned her.\n“I will,” Martha promised.\nFlorence fussed to be let out of the stroller when she saw Martha speeding away. Mom loosened the stroller buckles and lifted Florence out. Little sister chased after big sister, and Buster followed behind both, barking his excitement.\nThe trees were just starting to burst with buds. Kite could tell by the way their branches were swaying that this was going to be a great day to fly. Martha ran to the middle of the soccer field, then stopped. She let out a small amount of Kite’s string, then paused to look at how much she had.\n“Is this enough?” Martha asked Mom.\n“Try it. You can let out more string once the kite is in the air,” Mom said.\nKite could hardly contain her excitement. In just seconds, she would be high in the sky! Martha took off running into the wind, and Kite braced for liftoff. The wind caught Kite, and she flounced for a moment before crashing nose first to the ground.\n“Aww, almost,” Martha grumbled.\n“Next time, try letting out more string as soon as the kite is in the air,” Mom suggested.\nMartha untangled Kite’s string and took off running into the breeze once again. When the wind caught Kite and lifted her into the air, Martha let out more string. Kite soared higher into the sky, lifting up on each gust of air.\nMartha giggled and continued to run across the soccer field. Her boots squelched in the slushy grass with each step. Kite dipped and danced above her, tails trembling and body rustling with pure joy.\nBuster pulled Mom all over the soccer field. There were so many smells to be sniffed, and he didn’t want to miss a single one. Florence stomped through the saturated field, squealing and clapping each time Martha passed by her with Kite.\nKite was certain that this had to be the best day of her existence. Martha had become quite skilled at keeping her up in the air since last spring.\n“Here you go, Florence. Do you want to fly my kite?” Martha asked.\nShe offered Florence the winder. Florence took it, and promptly let go. A big gust of wind swept by, and carried Kite away.\n“Oh no!” Martha cried.\nShe ran after Kite, arms outstretched, but it was no use. The winder was spinning fast, and the string unraveled, sending Kite higher and higher.\n“Run, Martha! Run!” Mom shouted.\nBuster howled his encouragement.\nMartha ran as fast is she could, but she tripped on a patch of snow and fell in the slush. She whimpered as she watched Kite fly further and further away. \nKite was scared, at first. With no one holding on to her string, she was at the mercy of the wind. What would happen to her? The higher she drifted, the more she began to relax. She was moving fast, but she was having fun. With no one controlling her, she was free to twirl, flip, dance, and dive in whatever way she wanted to.\n“I feel ALIVE!” Kite whistled with the wind.\nWhen the gust that had carried her away ran out of steam, Kite felt herself dropping. She floated down, until a pine branch reached out and grabbed her. There was nothing else to do but stay cradled in the tree until someone came to help. Kite could hear Martha shouting from across the park.\n“My kite! Mom, it’s in a tree!” Martha yelled.\nKite sprawled out on the branch, her tails and string dangling in the breeze. The scent of pine sap was all around her.\nA few minutes later, Martha climbed up the sticky tree to fetch her. Mom, Florence, and Buster caught up while Martha was still in the tree, inspecting all the parts of Kite.\n“It’s not broken!” she exclaimed.\n“Good. Now come back down here before you fall and get broken,” Mom teased.\nMartha tossed Kite to the ground for Mom to catch, before climbing down herself. Buster, doing what he does best, barked incessantly until Martha’s feet were planted firmly on the ground. Mom handed Kite back to Martha, and they trudged through the puddles back home. Tucked in the crook of Martha’s arm, Kite drooped with exhaustion, but her heart, and tails, fluttered with happiness." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: What Falls with Snow\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1413\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with “It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.” (Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Match Girl”)" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. As it is accumulating as quickly as predicted, I am brought back to my childhood. For any ten-year old raised before the age of internet and social media, an abundant snowfall was a winning lottery ticket. It meant a full day off from school. It meant a day of outdoor fun with siblings and friends. It meant building snow men and snow forts. It meant snowball fights. It meant Gran preparing steaming mugs of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and placing my 2 ½ year old brother's playpen directly in front of the family room sliding glass doors so that he could watch my little sister, me and our friends play. He would delightfully squeal as he watched us frolic about in our cumbersome coats, snow boots, mittens and freezer burned ski caps. Pop Pop would be situated on the sofa watching all of us per Gran’s strict instructions. Gran believed if we were outside the house, we needed to be watched because – well you never know. The backyard wasn’t safe let alone the side walked streets and local playground. I wondered if any place was truly safe for Gran. \n\nA substantial snowfall meant so much. It sometimes meant that my mother would visit. \n\nBack then, I would sit on our living room sofa looking out to the streetlight through a wide window. I knew the snow was falling from the sky, but I saw it falling best under the streetlight. Under that streetlight, I could determine the snow’s strength and speed. I would find it thrilling if the snowflakes were fat and furious or feel disappointment if they were really nothing more than a spat of glorified rain that would never amount to anything worthwhile. That anemic form of snow usually resulted in a delayed opening of school, which for some reason was far more annoying than attending a regular, routine full day. On days like that, though, there was equally as good of a chance as any that my mother would pay a visit. \n\nOn that night, I witnessed the best of it falling from the streetlight and onto the ground. The snow grew inch by inch causing our lawn to meld with the black street to become an expansive sheet cake thickly frosted with vanilla icing. Gran would not mind that I was up past my bedtime. No school meant no strict routines to adhere to. It meant Gran would be gathering snow shovels and bags of salt to be ready for the great digging out at the snow’s cessation. Whether or not we were effective in removing snow, I will never know. I do know that lifting heavy loads off the ground to dump into a pile meant to become a mountain was a long, wet task that we never complained about. \n\nGran and Pop Pop always let my mother in when she showed up. They would give her a cup of tea and Gran would help her to shower and change into a fresh pair of pajamas. Then it was my turn to settle her in my bedroom and I was more than grateful for that. When my mother started this sporadic routine of coming home, Pop Pop switched out my twin bed for a trundle bed. I would slide it out and make it up for my mother. I was meticulous about it. The bottom sheet needed to be firmly tucked in, the top sheet placed perfectly over it, the quilts smoothed so that not a wrinkle buckled, and the pillows perfectly fluffed. She would sit on the chair of my compact school desk that was set up for homework and just watch. Her eyes would be sad and swollen like water balloons about to burst as she would look into mine and say, “I love you. Just know that I love you so much and I am sorry.” Tonight, she fooled around with a piece of paper she had torn out of my notebook. She was jotting something or aimlessly scribbling. I didn’t think much of it. \n\nShe was always inordinately weak and tired – a lifeless rag doll who miraculously figured some way to move. Gran remarked pitifully to Pop Pop that she looked like death. I hated that. It was a frightening thing to say and even more frightening that when Gran first used to say such a dark thing, she would be visibly upset. Now she simply stated it in a way that made me think she did not care anymore. She did though. I know she more than did. \nOnce my mother got into the bed, she would crawl herself into a tight fetal position burying her head deep into the pillows so I could only see her hair. She hardly moved at all, but when she did, it was in the form of a sudden, violent quiver. Her breathing was far from normal. It would constantly go from soft and steady to ragged and irregular. I never slept. I stroked her hair and watched over her. I worried that she might stop breathing all together. \nIn the morning, I struggled to keep tears from my eyes as she gathered her two oversized tote bags with the few things she had brought and with the things that my gran and Pop Pop would give her like sandwich bags filled with snacks and bottles of Perrier water. They hesitantly gave her money, too. \n\nThat morning was the same except that after my mother hugged me goodbye and I eventually heard the front door shut with a click that was my cue to let out all my tears, I heard the front door open again. Then my bedroom door opened, and my mother rushed in. Before I could figure out why she was back, she dropped her bags and gave me the tightest hug I ever felt. Then she quickly left. \nThis only prolonged my sadness until eventually I joined the household to help with all the things that needed to be done. Later that day, it started to snow again and continued into the night. I was overjoyed when the phone rang after dinner. I knew it was the call that would inform us that school would be closed again, and it was. \n\nWhen I went to my room, I made up the trundle bed in case my mother returned. I felt a scrap of paper as I was fluffing up the pillows. It was the page my mother tore from my notebook. It consisted of pictures she had drawn. They were a stack of small, childlike drawings. On the bottom was a little house - a nearly perfect square with two windows, a door and a triangle roof, above that was the same house with several thick weeds sprouting out from the foundation and windows, above that was a sun, above that a rainbow, and above that a bold smiley face that was much larger than all the other drawings. After a while I folded it carefully and placed it in my jewelry box. I would save it forever whatever it meant. \n\nThe next day was much the same as the day before except my mother did not visit the night before. After I helped Gran get my baby brother and sister to bed, I had the privilege as the oldest child to stay up and hang out with my grandparents in the family room. They watched the news as I read my latest Nancy Drew novel. \n\nWithout warning my grandmother got up to turn up the volume on the television. I put my book down to pay attention. Something must be happening in the world that was of concern to us. Something major like when Nixon resigned. I looked at the screen to see a newscaster in front of a city row house that had clearly burned down. It was a distorted figure of gray/black wreckage that seemed to smolder. I heard him say that the police believed it had been an abandoned house occupied by homeless drug users who set a fire of some sort to keep warm. The fire got out of control and the house burned leaving no survivors. \n\nMy grandmother rose abruptly from the sofa and turned off the television. It was then that I knew that the weeds in the pictures were badly drawn flames and that my mother had said goodbye." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: No Offense, But...\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 2847\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about an AI or person trying to inject a ‘human touch’ into their work." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sometimes the thing you choose as the clear winner turns into a steaming pile of shit. I used to tell everyone that artificial intelligence marked the start of a revolution guaranteed to improve the world. It would give people time to do what they love and create a new leisure class - with me in it of course. Ha. Nothing will revolutionize humanity like a dose of humiliation.\n“Davionne will be with you soon,” the assistant said from the office doorway. “Make yourself comfortable, Tommy.” She closed the door, leaving me in a silent and magnificent office. As I admired the line of framed certifications on the wall, I understood why my cousin Sonia recommended her. Wharton Business School. Wow! Certified Financial Planner. Nice. Client Appreciation award. Eh, OK. I stopped in front of a crayon drawing. The silly thing was in the same type of ornate frame as the pedigrees, as if it was equally important. That’s weird, I thought. \nThe door opened behind me. “Hello, Tommy, I’m Davionne.” In walked a Black woman of average height, a little pudgy, but with great legs. She gestured for me to take the seat across from her shiny white desk, as she came around to her own seat. “Tell me what brings you in to see me.” Her silky blouse revealed nothing except a hint of crêpey hazelnut-colored skin. A navy blue blazer was draped over the back of her ergonomically perfect chair, and I appreciated her taste in platinum and diamond jewelry. She looked put together.\nSonia had said Davionne was nice and super smart, but as I studied the woman’s face, the laugh lines at her eyes ran deep. Did anyone laugh that much?\n“Well, Davionne, I’m thirty-five,” I said, taking the seat. “I’ve been with the same medical equipment company for three years, and I just got a raise.” My pride was uncontainable, right down to my balls. The extra hours I’d put in to solve a massive technical glitch paid off. My boss and the higher-ups had noticed. Getting rewarded for being smart felt good. Better than good, and I had all kinds of reasons to believe that the Chief Technology Officer position could be mine one day, maybe fifteen years down the road. I deserved a fast track.\n“Congratulations, Tommy, and please call me Davi.” Her kind, brown eyes brightened, and she rested her chin on interlaced fingers. Maybe yeah, she laughed more than the average person. \nAll the way to the bank, I bet. I glanced at my Allen Edmonds shoes and smirked. One day, Prada and Ferragamo, baby.\n“I’m here to help,” she said, unlocking her fingers to clap. “So let’s get into your financial goals, and then we’ll review where you’re at now.” Davi leaned in close to her laptop screen. “I’ll ask a few questions here and there if I need clarification, OK?”\nThrough her wall-to-wall window, I took inspiration from the God’s eye view of downtown. Financial goals? I wanted to be a multi-millionaire and retire young. “I see myself in a new, upgraded car in a couple years. I’m getting married next year, so a house is a must, since we want to start our own family. Kids, yard, two-car garage, gated community, pool, pets. That kind of thing.”\n“Of course,” Davi said, nodding with a smile. \nTight waves of dark hair were pulled back into a neat bun, strands of gray running through it. Aside from the crows feet, her brown face was smooth. I needed to size people up right away, but it was hard guessing her age. Forty-five, sixty? I couldn’t tell, and I wanted to squirm, but that would have demonstrated weakness, so I sat stoically still. I must have been staring too hard, because she cleared her throat and her eyes narrowed, with the slightest tilt of her head.\n“Tommy? Are you there?”\n“Sorry. I was just thinking about –” I knew better than to finish the sentence truthfully. I uncrossed my legs and crossed them again with a nervous laugh.\n“Maybe you should know that I’m planning to retire in a couple years, a little early.” Davi leaned back in her chair, a lot like a man, with a clear sense of pride. “I’ve followed my own advice, if that makes you feel more secure about letting me guide you.”\nIt should have, but I thought she was bragging. Davi was surely from the generation raised on MTV back when they played music videos all day. I was raised on the Internet. Why couldn’t I just plug some numbers into an online financial calculator and figure this out myself?\n“We can factor in your goals and come up with a practical plan. How do you feel about living within a budget?”\n“I set budgets for my department at work.” I meant that I drew the lines and others were allowed to color within them, the way God intended things to be.\nShe pursed her lips and tilted her head again. “We can circle back to budget-setting later. What’s your price range for the house and car and your budget for the wedding?” Her hands, etched by the passage of time, hovered over the laptop keyboard.\nMy fiancée and her family were planning the wedding, so I hadn’t thought about how much the wedding would cost. Nothing? Our honeymoon, on the other hand, would set me back.\n“OK.” Davi’s head bobbed about in a weird sort of way at my silence. “Moving on. Will you work from home full time or part time? Do you expect to get annual raises and bonuses? Are you willing to work a side hustle to boost your savings?” Davi’s look of eager anticipation seemed fake. No one could possibly be this sincere and passionate about helping other people. Was she for real?\nThis personal touch was getting too personal, like those stories of anal probes during alien abductions. I dreaded getting flattened out and inspected under a microscope with all these infernal questions. She resumed talking, but my mind kept getting stuck on solving this problem on my own with ChatGPT. I wasn’t comfortable giving so much transparency to another human being. Davionne’s wrinkles around her eyes seemed to deepen the more I looked at them. All those years of doing things the old way. I snickered to myself. Her generation had a massive upending coming, and it was going to be a real shit show. So, I wondered, why am I wasting time getting advice to do retirement her way? Her way was doomed to flatline. \nShe kept on talking with that look like she expected a response from me. What did she just ask me? Dammit, I was starting to hate her on behalf of her whole gas-guzzling, baby seal-clubbing, red meat-eating, paper check-writing, VCR generation. I bet she thought Pentium was still state-of-the-art processing speed. \n“You know what, Davi?” I began, rising to my feet. “I have to run.”\n“What?” Her eyebrows arched, eyes opened wide. “Didn’t my assistant let you know to set a couple hours aside for our appointment?”\n“I don’t have a couple hours. I’m very sorry.” I wasn’t sorry. She’d gotten under my skin, and I didn’t like her there.\n“I don’t understand,” Davi said, palms up. “You haven’t really answered a single question, so getting a clear picture of your financial health is impossible. It’s a mistake to leave so prematurely. We haven’t gotten anything done to help you reach a comfortable retirement.” She rose to her feet and came around her desk. Good Lord, was she actually wearing orthopedic shoes? \nNow, I was annoyed. There was a fine line between persistent and pushy and this bitch crossed it. “To be perfectly honest, Davi, I think AI will do just as good a job as you and faster. This process is taking way too much time.”\n“I understand your impatience, Tommy, but planning out the next thirty years of your financial picture shouldn’t be rushed.” She smiled warmly, just like my grandmother would as she pulled a batch of fresh cookies out of the oven. Guilt threatened to undo me for wishing harm on someone who reminded me of my grandma. But what did I have to feel guilty for? My body temperature shot up, and my right eye twitched. \nMy temper bulldozed over the guilt. “I also think your approach is dated. No offense, but you’re just too old for the way I want to do this.” I strode out of her office, a rush of heated adrenaline and youth propelling me.\nI got in my five-year-old AUDI A5 and headed to Starbucks. As I sat with my double shot, half caf’, soy latte, my head cooled. “I’ll show her,” I mumbled. I opened my laptop and typed in the web address for ChatGPT. I input my age, projected retirement age, total net income, credit card debt, regular bill payments, and VOILA! In seconds, ChatGPT calculated that I’d need to save $143,000 a year.\nWait, what? That was more than my gross pay.\nMy heart contorted in my chest, much like the foamy heart losing its shape in my latte. Where the hell would I find a job earning enough right now to save that kind of money? What did Davi say about a side hustle? I’d just gotten a raise, and while that had been amazing last week, it felt horribly inadequate today. I called Sonia, but got no answer and didn’t leave a voice message. I almost called Cari, my fiancée, but thought better of worrying her.\nI couldn’t leave Starbucks until I had a plan. Sacrificing what Cari and I wanted didn’t sit well, so I punched the keys – especially delete – creating a spreadsheet until my eyes ached. Three lattes and two snackboxes later, an employee in a green apron approached my table. \nHe held a broom in one hand and looked everywhere except in my eyes. “Uh, excuse me, sir? We’ve been, like, um, closed for the day for a while now. Would you…you know, please leave?” The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he gestured his head toward the exit.\nI checked the time on my phone and noticed I’d missed text messages from Cari. Jesus, had I really been sitting there for four hours?\nNo matter, I had an idea. Granted, it was out there, but I’d deleted every other idea and had a blank spreadsheet to show for it. Nothing else would work.\nI’d have to rob a bank. \nAll this plan needed was the right combination of brainpower and willpower. Hadn’t my boss given me high marks for teambuilding? I knew a couple tough guys at the pizza joint near work. My cousin, Johnny, flunked out of law school. He was supposedly a hacker, must have been pretty good at it because he lived in a decent neighborhood. Johnny’s kid’s babysitter was in architecture school, so she could theoretically get schematics and floor plans. My buddy Alfonze drove an electric car that had great pick-up.\nThe more I thought about it as I drove home to Cari, the more I warmed up to the idea. I’d have the team rob the bank as a distraction while I hacked into the wire transfer system and moved the money digitally. No one would ever know. I’d tuck away enough to meet my wedding, honeymoon, car, home, and retirement needs.\nWhen I got home, I pounced on Cari and made love to her like our lives depended on it. It was the best sex we both ever had.\n…Eight months later\n“Your trial sure was quick,” Davionne said through the punched-out holes in the plexiglass divider. “Jury came back with a verdict in under twenty minutes.” The last time I’d seen her she’d been wearing a conservative skirt suit. Today she sported a colorful tank top, jeans, and open-toed sandals.\n“What are you doing here?” I asked, looking down at my jumpsuit that was an orange bright enough to be seen from space. My skin looked ghostly grayish-blue under the LED lights. I was suspicious but curious to see her. Davionne was, after all, the only woman besides my mother to visit.\n“I followed your story ever since I recognized your face on the evening news,” she said, without a trace of smugness. “I followed the trial, too.”\n“But why come see me? I’m nobody to you.” \nShe wagged her finger at me. “Remember when I said I followed my own planning advice and was nearing retirement?”\n“Yeah, so?” I shrugged.\n“I did retire,” Davi said, her eyes crinkling with her characteristic smile. “Even earlier than planned.”\n“What’s that got to do with me?” I asked.\nAgain with the head tilt plus a blissful look in her eyes. “Well, Tommy, I don’t know what came over you in my office that day. You were terribly rude, but thinking that artificial intelligence would somehow help you retire was laughable, to be honest.”\n“Ah, I see.” I hated her all over again. “You’re here to rub it in my face.” \n“A little, maybe,” she said, chuckling. “My client, your cousin Sonia, is doing well, by the way.”\nA robotic guard with a creepily humanlike face standing behind Davionne stifled laughter without even raising its hand to hide it. Computers and robots could be such assholes. Case in point, ChatGPT didn’t fact check the answers to my questions about the bank’s wire transfer systems.\nThis particular area of the prison didn’t smell like the cell bloc. Here smelled of Lysol and lavender - for the prisoners’ honored guests, I’m sure. I wasn’t in much of a rush to get back to the hell beyond the door, so I continued sitting.\n“Please get to the point. Why are you here to see me?”\nDavi paused with a contented sigh. “You relied on modern technology to solve your problem instead of tried-and-true advice from me, a living person. I wonder if you have any idea where you went wrong.”\n“I got caught,” I said, cross at having to state the obvious.\n“You went wrong long before you got caught, dipshit,” Davi said, shaking her head. “ChatGPT might be faster, but it only landed you in trouble faster because it was impersonal. It didn’t factor in anything important in a person’s life.”\nI crossed my arms and spread my legs out.\n“I asked you pertinent questions so the plan would be custom-tailored to your dreams. What did AI ask you?”\nI shook my head and my shoulders slouched. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”\n“Hmm, in a way, I suppose you’re right, Tommy Dipshit. It didn’t ask because it didn’t care. It’s funny though, the police didn’t even need a high speed chase after that silly little Tesla. The FBI was on to you and went straight to your hideaway. You should have seen the look on your face when they arrested you on television.” There were those laugh lines again.\nI stared at her with burning eyes.\n“Guess where I’m going now.”\nAs if I should care. My throat released a sound best described as a growl.\n“I’m going back to a retirement hideaway of my own on Naples Beach in Florida. I’m writing a book about this whole… teachable moment. Let’s call it that, shall we? You said I was too old,” she said, pointing a damning finger at me, “but I’ve never felt more vibrant in my whole fifty-nine years on this planet.” She leveled her gaze and looked right through me. “I also stay abreast of technology trends. When ChatGPT had over a million subscribers within a week of launching, I knew it would be a major driver of growth. I took a long position in corporations developing AI. See, Tommy, that’s legal. What you did was not.” She fondled the string of pearls on her wrist, thoughtfully. “Retiring early gives me a lot more time to spend with my husband and our grandbabies. No offense, but the little ones will get big fast, while you’ll whither away quickly behind bars.” She tsked-tsked, took her purse off the back of the chair, and motioned to the robot guard.\nWith that, Davionne got up in her jaunty attire with a pep in her step and left me. The night I’d conceived the idiotic plan to rob the bank, Cari and I also conceived our first child. The only way I knew was because my mother told me Cari was pregnant. Due in just a few weeks. I hadn’t seen Cari since my arrest, and probably never would again. My own little one would grow fast. Dammit, Davionne was right. That helpful, motherly bitch.\nThe robot guard opened the door, letting the stink ooze out to greet me. It took me back to my sticky gray cell. In a half hour, I’d get to go outside. Fresh air made staring into the void of my future ever so slightly less miserable. Tomorrow, back to machine shop. I wondered if ChatGPT could help me with the drill press." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hoai and the Holy Fox\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2682\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a fox spirit (a gumiho, jiǔwěihú, kitsune, or hồ ly tinh), inspired by, e.g. Korean, Chinese, Japanese and Vietnamese folklore." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was 8031 BCE. Cáo was the youngest of four kits. He struggled for recognition within the fox family, but when his mother soothed him at night in their den, she would always say, “One day Cáo, one day. If you work hard at your magic, even you may write your story into the stars.”\n\n\nIt was 1420, and Emperor Lê Thái Tổ was racing through Lam Sơn, his bitter enemy, Marquis Li Bin of the Ming army, hot on his heels. His men had moved off at an angle to divert the pursuing enemy while the emperor moved off alone, to the protests of his personal guard. Perhaps they’d been right. Shortly after they’d parted ways, the emperor had heard the war horns of the Ming army off in the distance, and although it was difficult to judge, he estimated that the diversion had not been entirely successful. Then his horse stumbled in a deceptively deep hole in the grass, and became lame. The emperor left her and raced on, now on foot. The river on his right was widening, but also getting deeper and more powerful. There was no escape that way. And the thicket on his left now seemed to curve in towards the river…\n\n\nIt was 1958. Hoai was born after a very long delivery. His umbilical cord was cut and tied, and he was placed on his mother’s chest. But he was silent and unbreathing. His mother was exhausted, and in pain. And increasingly desperate, though the midwife was now gone, rushed off to another birth. But, miraculously, after two minutes that seemed like centuries to her, he suddenly jolted, breathed in, and to his mother’s almost unbearable relief, began to cry. His parents, honourable though poor, brought him from their small rural village where they were both employed in a brick works, north to Buôn Ma Thuột, where a comparatively wealthy old aunt lived, (all four of their parents having been killed in the first year of the war.) After a few weeks, it was decided Hoai’s parents would go back to their village and their jobs, and little Hoai would stay with his aunt for the first three years of his life.\n\nThe plan changed when, after a couple of happy years, his aunt, surprisingly for her age, got engaged. This meant she would have to move far away, up north to Vinh. Hoai’s parents made the trip back up to Buôn Ma Thuột to collect their little boy, but bandits attacked and killed them on their journey, and they never arrived. His aunt, deeply saddened by the loss of her brother and sister-in-law, told the little Hoai that he would be coming with her up to Vinh, just like he’d wanted, but it soon turned out that her new fiancé wouldn’t have it. To his aunt’s horror, he was left at the local Trần Nhân Tông shrine. Just left and abandoned there at the age of just over two. His aunt wailed tragically that he would surely die, but her fiancé merely shrugged and mumbled, “That’s good,” and whipped the horse whose traces held the trap the two of them were sitting in. It moved on.\n\nBy age five, living with a local teacher who’d lost her son in the war, Hoai had grown into a happy, healthy and helpful little boy. He brought her joy. The teacher was very kind to him, although she could be bossy and outspoken sometimes. When she was caught teaching the folk religion of Đạo Lương to her class and her boy, she was warned, but that wouldn’t stop her. Her fate was sealed not so much by the teaching of forbidden religion, but by her domineering attitude, in a time and place where women were still seen as second-class citizens. She was beaten to death by the authorities. People muttered that this was going too far, but they were all scared about being made the next example of disobedience to authority…\n\nA family who was friendly to the victim took Hoai in, but although he got along well with the mother and one of the sons, the father and other son took a dislike to him. The son got into a fight with Hoai, who barely fought back, though he evaded most of the other’s kicks and punches most infuriatingly. It was then that the father walked him down to the local police station and bribed the sergeant to do something with the boy. As they walked down there Hoai had asked what he’d done to offend him. The man clipped his ears. The boy asked what would happen to him. The man said that he could die for all he cared. How would that help him, the boy questioned, his already high-pitched voice rising. But that just earned him another clip.\n\nThe sergeant arranged to have Hoai shipped up to an orphanage in Thanh Hóa. Unfortunately Hoai’s cycle of moving north, and to steadily larger towns and then cities seemed to work against him. He was bullied at the orphanage, although he had one good friend, a little girl called Nhung. By the age of eight, most of the staff at the orphanage, though generally tolerant and even appreciative of the boy and his amiable and helpful attitude, even in diversity, agreed that he was an unsettling influence and arranged to have him moved. They struggled to find a place for him though, and ended up shipping him even further north to an even bigger city, Nam Định. Nhung insisted on coming with him. The new orphanage was very overcrowded, and a weird keep-to-yourself culture made the place grim. A tall and skinny man who was secretly a monk, and who administered the orphanage, appreciated Hoai. He tried to keep an eye on him, but the young boy just had a way of innocently annoying many of the people around him. He managed to get in the bad books of a gang of big kids who were insulted that he refused to be dominated by them. They waited until he was alone, then jumped out at him, and surrounded him. After saying they were going to kill him, and Hoai asking with genuine bewilderment how his death would help them, they started hitting and kicking him. Hard. Nhung had been coming to meet him though, and when she saw from a distance what was happening, she ran up and threw herself furiously at the boys. Who accidentally killed her, then raced off. Despite his injuries clearly supporting their side of the story, the Thanh Hóa judicial system was extremely corrupt, and Hoai himself was accused of her murder!\n\nThe boy was locked in a police cell for months and months, subsisting on extremely bare rations. He got skinnier and skinnier. Though he never complained, eventually the genuine smile, that had been his default facial expression all his life, faded. After the better part of a year they moved him to a jail, north, in Haiphong. Hoai spent his first day in the cells reflecting on the fact it was his eleventh birthday, and he had no freedom to celebrate it, and, now that Nhung was dead, no-one to celebrate it with anyway. He sat on his bed, back to the wall, knees up and those dreadfully skinny arms around his bony ankles. He looked up through the bars at the night sky.\n\nOne evening he was looking through the bars as usual, and all the noises around him seemed to fade. The guard’s toilet cistern, with its broken ballcock, filling and filling and spilling and spilling. The guards’ snores. The man in the cell over from his wanking repeatedly. The gravelly call of the occasional bulbul, up in the teak trees outside the jail. They were still semi-active, even though it was now night-time. The burbling snuffles of one of the men heroically failing to hide his sobs, and the wailing of a fifteen-year-old boy in another cell, who wasn’t even trying to hide his personal grief. The bicycle bells from out on the road, along with the heavy tyres of trucks bumping through the potholes and over debris. And, always, in the background, the sound of the war – gunfire and explosions out on the edge of the city, and sometimes within it.\nAll sounds had disappeared other than Hoai’s own heartbeat. He still stared through the bars up at the night sky. There were a few clouds, but he could see the stars most of the time. They were coming for him tomorrow. He’d been rotting in a cell for what seemed like most of his life now, but somehow he knew it. He would be executed tomorrow.\n\nAlthough his eyes were well-adjusted to the dark now, soon even his vision seemed to fade. The walls of his cell. The floor. The ceiling. The corridor outside the barred wall of the cell, and then the bars too. He lifted an arm slowly in front of his face. Nothing. Back outside the window though, he could still see the night. The stars. He just hung there in space. A heartbeat and stars. It was then that he remembered Linh, the teacher who’d once taken him in. She was the most loving mother figure he could remember. At the end of the day, when he’d lain peacefully on his mattress under his warm blanket, she would read to him from a book with words on the cover he didn’t then understand: Lĩnh Nam chích quái. He’d thought first it was a book about her, as the first word looked like her name. The book had marvellous stories. He most enjoyed hearing about hồ ly tinh, the foxes with magical powers. Especially the cửu vĩ thiên hồ, the nine-tailed celestial fox. Linh would read until the little boy fell asleep, pull the blanket up for him, and leave him dreaming the stories of Vietnam’s spirit.\nHoai’s body was still in the same position on the bed as 3am came and went, and yet he was not aching or stiff-necked. His knees and his back felt fine. He was still looking out the small high-up barred window in complete silence. And complete darkness, except for the piercing beauty of the stars. Suddenly he felt a jolt intrude on his inner calm. There! Two eyes at the window! The heartbeat started racing. Eyes. Whiskers. A long snout. Large triangular ears. The fox wriggled impossibly through the narrow bars, and leapt down onto Hoai’s bed. His senses of hearing and sight returned, and he looked out through the bars to the corridor to see if anyone was observing him, but it was 3am, and everything seemed quiet. He looked back, and although most of his facial expression didn’t change, his eyes went very wide. The fox had nine tails! This was a hồ ly tinh! It walked around him on the bed, found a soft-ish spot, and lay down, splaying out the tails so he could easily count them. The boy was awed. This celestial fox was at least ten-thousand years old. It would have been practicing its magic at least five thousand years before the first Vietnamese dynasty! It was the most worthy-of-respect being he’d ever been near, and yet he couldn’t help softly stroking its muzzle, head and back.\n\nA slightly unsettling mental bond formed between them. It seemed to need his help. It seemed to need his… his death. How could his death help anything? Hoai asked that question that he’d struggled with on many occasions throughout his life. The bond between them deepened, and suddenly he understood. Though a brick-maker may die, the bricks they have made remain. Vietnam was a sacred temple, and each course of bricks in its many walls were the legacy of it people over the ages. And although war had eaten away at the strength of some parts of the structure, the calm, cheerful, intelligent, and brave spirit of the country had, on the whole, strengthened and beautified it more and more with time. Through the way he'd lived his life, Hoai had contributed many bricks. And he now understood. With his death he could remove a source of contamination of those bricks, especially around one of the most precious parts of the building.\n\nThe bond between boy and fox broke. They looked at each other and had true understanding and appreciation. The fox leapt back up towards the windowsill, and Hoai lay down on his prison bed. And for just a glimmer of a second he thought he saw the ghostly shape of Nhung, riding on the back of the hồ ly tinh!\n\n\nThe magic of the cửu vĩ thiên hồ was strong, but not enough to leap back in time that far. But, with the sacrifice of the two special children he’d hunted for so long, he could do it. The next day, as they boy died, his body riddled with firing squad bullets, his soul pushed at the cửu vĩ thiên hồ, and Cáo was flung back into the past.\n\n\nEmperor Lê Thái Tổ heard the thunder of horses’ hooves far behind him, but catching up. He ran on desperately. Suddenly there was a flash of white, close over the waters of the river. He looked over and saw the body of a young girl in a white dress floating on the waters, her expression quite calm, although she was obviously dead. The emperor took off his armour and waded into the freezing churning waters. He grabbed the body of the child, and, when they were out of the river, he picked up his armour, and the child – though waterlogged she was very light – and carried her over towards the thicket. There was a small opening just there! Although he suffered many painful scratches from the prickly thicket leaves, he managed to walk through about ten steps until he found a small clearing. There he dug a hole, and buried the girl, saying prayerful words over her grave when he was done. There he hid, knowing it was only a matter of time until his enemy found him.\n\nMarquis Li Bin knew he had his hated rival in his grasp now. He could see the impenetrable thicket on his left getting closer and closer to the river. Yes! The fool had walked into a trap! This evening he would be burning the emperor’s tongue to ashes, and storing them until he got home in order to graffiti a rebuke to Lê Thái Tổ, and his pathetic kingdom, right on the Li Bin stronghold gate. That would teach this peasant realm to mind their manners.\nSuddenly, from the direction they were headed, came a white fox. With many tails? It darted this way and that, and the marquis, who knew he was in control of the situation, decided he could take his time, and follow it. As they got closer and closer though, the lure of the chase of the animal seemed to take him over. Several times he thought he had it, but by the end of the day it had eluded him. Each day after that he would start his army searching for the wretched creature earlier and earlier, and they would find it. But it would elude them! Each day he pushed the men harder and for longer. The chase occupied him completely. Then, finally, after a month’s chase, they caught it!\n\nMarquis Li Bin reached his stronghold, and paused. The remainder of his army – after a long and incredibly wearying five-month journey – trudged wearily forward into the compound, towards their lodgings. Li Bin had no ashes to adorn his stronghold’s gate with. The fox’s tail-of-nine-tails would have to do.\n\n\nAnd, through Cáo, a new story was added to the holy pages of the Lĩnh Nam chích quái, and the temple that was Vietnam rested more calmly, more beautifully, and more assuredly on its foundation of ages. With the two heavenly children on his back, Cáo leapt unblinking up towards the stars." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Little Match Girl Retold\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1029\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with “It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.” (Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Match Girl”)" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling and it was almost dark. A little girl sat shivering as near as she could get to the front of the grocer’s shop. The grocer sometimes gave her hot chocolate to drink; but not today as his wife was helping tend to the many last minute shoppers at the store. She believed the little match girl lowered the tone of their shop and so did not encourage her to linger.\n\nHana could not help her appearance as she only had the one set of clothes. They were well and truly threadbare and offered no insulation against freezing snow and ice. They had been patched so many times that the patches needed patching and no one would want them except as rags to wash floors. Her hands were turning blue and she could not feel her feet. The holes in the soles of her shoes had allowed water to gather and turn to ice. Once, when her grandmother was alive, she always had a warm coat, stout boots and knitted gloves to ward off the cold.\n\nTrying to be brave she sent a plea to her grandmother “Why did you leave me? I know you would help me if you were here.” She was trying hard not to cry as her tears would turn to ice and she would be even more uncomfortable. The smell of roasting goose sauerkraut and boiled potatoes wafted around in the air and the growling in her stomach reminded Hana that she had not eaten that day. What was waiting for her at home? If she was lucky some stale bread and the end of a sausage would have been left if it was too unpalatable for her drunken father. He didn’t have many teeth left and so hard food was her usual fare.\n\nShoppers were hurrying past and no one took any notice of her. She was used to that and she knew she made a pitiful sight and that made more well to do persons feel guilt. Some of them thought that if they had more time they might stop and talk to her but they consoled themselves that there would be more time tomorrow and tomorrow they might try to help. Unfortunately there was little anyone could do as most of the townsfolk were aware of her father’s bad temper and knew it was only sensible to steer clear of him and his daughter.\n\nMeanwhile in a far distant place something was astir.\n“Let me see the Boss” pleaded an elderly lady.\n“No” said St Peter “He’s too busy. Can’t I help?”\n“I don’t think so” she replied “I need to go to earth to fetch my granddaughter. She is having a hard time and needs rescuing.”\n“You know the rules as well as I do” he replied. “You cannot interfere with a person’s earthly stay. People who have elected to be born must stay for their allotted time. We cannot change their destiny.”\n“That’s not true” she said “Jesus healed the sick, made the blind see and helped the crippled walk again.”\n“Yes but he did not help them to die and come upstairs with us. Did he?”\n“But her life isn’t worth living. She cannot survive for long and in the meantime she is cold and starving and being abused by that wretched man who is her father.”\n“Well” St Peter replied “I can see that you really care for her and so I will take your case to the Boss. I don’t think he will say anything contrary to what I have said.”\n\nSometime later St Peter called her name “Eva” he said “I have news for you from above. You cannot fetch your granddaughter until she dies but you have the word of God that you will be her escort when she’s ready to come. Between you and me it will be soon. So stay close and when the time comes you will go and bring little Hana home to us.”\n\nWell the Almighty had spoken and had to be obeyed. He didn’t say she couldn’t go down and keep an eye on Hana. However, she could not cut short her stay on earth. The kindly lady only went to observe; but the sight of her granddaughter’s plight was indescribable. You cannot imagine the sad state she was in. It was New Year’s Eve and she was starving. She hadn’t been able to sell any matches and all around her she could smell the feasts that the wealthy townspeople were preparing for this night’s special feast. Her stomach was growling so much it would have made Eva weep if St Peter hadn’t foretold there would soon be an end to Hana’s misery. She spoke to Hana’s Guardian Angel who was hovering by and asked her what could be done. The angel said that nothing could help at this point but she had suggested to Hana that as she hadn’t sold the matches she could light one or two to brighten her surroundings.\n\nUnfortunately, or fortunately Hana couldn’t stop lighting the matches and when they were all gone she was too frightened to go home to admit to her father that she had no matches and no money. Instead of facing him she curled up in a corner and went to sleep. For a while she was shivering with the cold but soon lethargy overtook her and it wasn’t long before she was ready for the trip up to her new home. Everyone (grandmother, her guardian angel and even St Peter) rejoiced because now her father had lost his source of income and would have to look after himself.\n\nHana received a warm reception in heaven. Both Eva and Hana celebrated the fact that there would be no more suffering for now. They made a vow to choose more wisely when they were offered a chance to return to earth. Both of them were determined that in future they would be warm and never hungry. They hoped they would meet up again in better circumstances. They also promised each other to never walk past a match girl without purchasing her wares." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 DLD\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1124\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In the DLD\nNothing vaguely interesting ever happened in the DLD. How could it, with a name like the Dead Letter Department? It is where undeliverable mail goes to die in any city. Usually, it’s only a missed spelled last name or street name. Occasionally, someone may transpose a house number or leave off an alphabet like “54 C Sunset Ct.” at the most. Any permanent carrier knows the residents on their route, so they are used to sorting the mail and correctly delivering all pieces of mail and packages; even when someone has moved. When the zip code is wrong, things will land in the DLD.\nIn 1943 the post office assigned large cities postal zones; Zip stands for Zoning Improvement Plan implemented by the United States on July 1, 1963, throughout the states and US territories. 1963 zip codes contained five numbers like mine, 22901. The first number (2) designates the national area, the following two digits (29) determine the sectional area, and the last two numbers (01) depict the associated post office or delivery area. In 1967, with pickup-in-drop shipping, a zip code was required for second and third bulk mail. Because of the population explosion 1983, the zip code went to zip plus four, like 22901-1115, to further segment locations.\nMargo Drought headed our DLD. She took pride in that, for twenty years, she had never had a piece of mail remain in the DLD for more than seven days. Until the pandemic. An impressive record…yes! One that she refused to let COVID-19 break. She tried her usual methods first:\n1. Looking up the address as written =------ it was a valid address.\n2. The intended recipient no longer resided ======no forwarding address was filed.\n3. Check Obituaries ======================== no obituary found,\n4. Attempts to return to sender ============letter had an address and postmark from before zip +4\n5. No other choice but to open it…\nThe page was a handwritten note on a pastel pink postcard, and it read:\n----------------------------------------------------------------\n(letter 1)\nMy darling Henry,\nIt has been three months since your last letter, and I am worried. I understand why, but I hang on to every word you write. I love you, Henry Burris Campbell. Don’t ever forget that. The war has got to end soon; it just has to. Love, Rainey Arrington-Campbell\n----------------------------------------------------------------\nMargo’s new lead…\n1. Look up Rainey A. Campbell =============several name changes\n2. Check all listed names================obituary for Rainey Lee Arrington in 2021.\n3. Find the next of kin========== letter sent to the Mortuary listed.\n----------------------------------------------------------------\n(letter 2)\n8/8/22\nTo whom it May Concern:\nI am writing to return property belonging to Rainey Lee Arrington. It can be signed for at the Seminole Trail Main Post Office between 9-5, Monday -Friday. Ask for Ref#: 6688DLD.1\n----------------------------------------------------------------\nMargo’s record is in jeopardy…\nIt’s been three days, and the Arrington letter is still unprocessed. Usually, a piece of mail moved through in a few minutes or, most, a few hours.\nSecond attempt to locate the owner or executor of the estate\n(letter 3)\n8/11/22\nAgainst company policy:\nI’m writing a personal note to anyone who knew Rainey Lee Arrington and Henry Burris Campbell. I’m a supervisor within the Charlottesville main post office and have been trying to return some property. You can call me at 800-DLD-0066, or it can be signed for at the Seminole Trail Main Post Office between 9-5, Monday -Friday. Ask for Ref#: 6688DLD.1.\n----------------------------------------------------------------\n8/13/22\nPutting it off for over a year, cousin Lisa and I decided to pack up 1640 Riverside Court since the whole family has agreed that it should be sold out of the family. A few wanted to have a bonfire and burn it down; too many memories. Lisa and I have fond memories of sitting with Gram learning to knit and crochet but the aunts and uncles who grew up within the walls of that great three-story remember all of the fights between the husbands and Gram.\nAs I pulled up the driveway, the mailman emptied the overflowing box and flagged me down. “You saved me from going to the post office to stop delivery to this address for Rainey Lee Arrington, thanks.\nWait…there’s a certified letter you must pick up, and a signature is required. I had the letter with me for three days and sent it to the front last night. Please go today or tomorrow so it won’t get lost in the dead letter department. You can call this number 800-DLD-0066, or it can be signed for at the Seminole Trail Main Post Office between 9-5, Monday -Friday. Ask for Ref#: 6688DLD.1.\nHmmm….\nPoor choice of words, I thought as tears began to flow as if Gram just died yesterday. He was new to this route. The regular carrier Freda was pregnant before Gram passed a year ago and is on maternity leave. She was the last baby prediction Gram did. I didn’t think about it until now. We were in the living room, and Gram’s statement went in one ear and out the other, but now it makes perfect sense. Gram told Freda as she touched her baby bump, “She is destined for greater than I can predict. Move in and inherit much.”\nFreda was the last woman Grams took in, and I know Gram would be happy to see Freda paying it forward. Several women Gram took in over the years have been referred by a mail carrier, and Freda was the link, go-between, or conductor.\nThe moment I had that recollection, a weight seemed to be lifted. I also realized that what the family members remember most of all is the steady stream of violence that darkened this doorway over the years. Whether Gram was being arrested for beating the largest shareholder of Commerce Bank for trying to drag his wife home by the hair or if the happy couple got drunk enough to say what they thought of each other. The Grams that Lisa and I loved didn’t emerge until they were grown and gone.\nWhen Lisa pulled up, I told her to jump in….\nAt the post office, we retrieved the letter.\nThe letter chilled Gram because she thought Henry had abandoned his new wife and baby. Until she met her husband number four, Henry’s twin brother, who informed her that he had been killed overseas. We are the only people who know he never received her last letter.\nFast forward to 8/25/23…...that was a year ago.\nThe family agreed to sell 1640 Riverside Court to Freda Montgomery for $250, and each of Gram’s grandchildren received a $10 gift card, including Freda’s daughter.\nDidn’t I tell you Freda was the baby Gram was pregnant with when Henry was drafted?" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Once Upon All Times\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2425\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character must continue to tell their tale to a listener to avoid unsavory consequences." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The grandmother had finally rounded up the children and marshaled them through their bedtime routine like a military operation: brushing teeth, scrubbing hands and faces, changing into pjs, locating stuffed animals that had gotten lost in the excitement of the day. But going to sleep itself, that was another matter for three small children in beds that were not their own. A summer with their grandparents was going to take some getting used to. The children squirmed anxiously beneath their blankets.\nA request for a nightlight came from the smallest voice, Lennon, aged five, who missed his parents and his light-up star mobile. The grandmother found a few tiny tea lights that seemed to do the job.\nRune, aged six, asked for another drink of water to delay being left on their own in the strange room, triggering Lennon to pipe up with a matching request. The grandmother brought in three little cups of water, and waited while sips were made, followed by the inevitable trips to the bathroom.\nZilla, aged seven, was used to having her own room and fretted silently about not being able to keep the light on while she read. The grandmother detected the anxiety, and in a quiet voice asked, “Would you like to hear a story?”\n“Yes!” all three shouted, relieved to postpone the frightening prospect of sleeping in a strange house. \nThe grandmother nodded. “OK, but voices need to stay low because Grampa’s trying to sleep.” She heard a derisive snort from the living room where Grandpa was definitely not trying to sleep. She ignored it and, keeping her own voice soft and low in the darkened room, she began.\n“Once, not so long ago, there were three animals who were the best of friends. I’m wondering if you know what kind of animals they were?”\n“An owl,” Zilla responded immediately. She loved owls, collected them, studied them, and wore owl print pajamas.\n“A bear,” Rune answered almost as quickly. She loved bears, and had a well-loved stuffed bear clutched at her side at that very moment.\nAfter a span of deep thought, the smallest voice answered, “An eagle.”\n“And quite right you all are too,” the grandmother said. “That is exactly what the animal friends were. They lived in the deep woods and had many adventures together. They took long hikes and had picnics where they dined on seed cakes and honey—\"\n“And s’mores,” Lennon inserted.\n“Of course, though s’mores were for after their seedcakes and honey. They would explore the caves and swim in the rivers—\"\n“And travel,” Rune suggested.\n“Exactly, but not in the way you think. Oh no, not at all. That’s where our story starts. One day, on their hike, Eagle flew extra high into the sky and with his eagle eyes, he spotted something most unusual in a clearing in the woods on the top of a mountain. It was shiny and round, and not natural at all. So, the three friends hiked the mountain. Well, Bear did. Owl and Eagle mostly flew but sometimes rode on Bear’s back, for she was a strong bear.”\n“It’s not fair that she had to carry them,” Rune objected.\n“Of course it is. She was their friend, and she knew they would help her too.”\n“Like Eagle spotting the round thing,” Lennon reminded her.\n“Just so. And in order for us to find out what it was, we might need not to interrupt too much. OK? Though it is OK to ask questions because it is always OK to ask questions.”\nThey answered silently, so as not to interrupt.\n“When they got to the mountain top, what they found was a large silver disc, like a sled, with strange markings on it. Bear nudged it this way and that with a paw. It spun around just like a toboggan but didn’t do anything else. Eagle, whose beak was very hard, gave it a few pecks which made a ringing noise. Ping, ping, ping. Owl, who was very smart because she read so much, tried to decipher the strange signs.”\n“Maybe they were instructions,” Zilla volunteered, forgetting not to interrupt.\n“Owl thought it very likely that the markings explained what the silver sled was. But they couldn’t figure it out, and after much puzzling, Bear gave up and sat down right on the silver sled. Then the most amazing thing happened.”\nThe grandmother could hear several indrawn breaths. Rune asked nervously, “What happened?”\n“Bear started to disappear! Owl and Eagle could see right through their strong friend like she was tissue paper! But they were quick thinking birds. They each stretched out a wing and grabbed onto Bear to pull her to safety.”\n“Did we all turn into tissue paper?” the smallest voice asked.\n“What happened is that they all disappeared. Only they didn’t know they disappeared because they could see themselves. It was everything else that disappeared. The trees, the mountains, the sky. Even the smell of the pines and the song of the wind. Instead, where do you think they ended up?”\n“Egypt,” said Zilla who had just learned about mummies in school.\n“Dinosaurs,” said Lennon, who was five, after all.\n“India,” Rune decided sleepily.\n“You are each right in your own way. They shot lickety-split through darkness, a strange wind whooshing all around them. Suddenly, the sled landed with a thump and began to slide downhill, just like sledding in the winter, only they were sledding down the side of a sand dune. It made a sshhhsshh-ing sound beneath them. When they came to a stop at the bottom of the dune, the three animals blinked around. Particularly Owl, for the sun in this desert was far too bright for her eyes. She thought she might need sunglasses if she was going to be visiting—\"\n“Egypt!” Zilla realized.\n“Egypt indeed. While Owl adjusted her eyelids to the glare, Eagle spotted some white pointy things in the distance. “They look like upside down waffle cones,” Eagle reported. Right away, Owl knew they were- “\n“Pyramids,” Zilla said confidently.\n“Right. So, the three animals decided they would explore the pyramids. They knew they would need the sled to get back home, so they buried it a little in the sand and arranged some sticks in an X to mark the spot.”\n“Like pirates,” Lennon mumbled.\n“Exactly like pirates, and you’ll find out more about pirates later. For now, the three headed towards the pyramids, the soft sand sinking under Bear’s paws. They reached the Sphinx that guards the pyramids, like a big, ginormous lion. Nowadays, it doesn’t have a nose, but what Owl was quick to notice was—\"\n“It had a nose!” Zilla sang out softly.\n“Quite so. That’s how she knew they had traveled not only through space, but through time. They had ended up a long time ago. Before the Sphinx got noseless. The nose knows, you know.”\nThe grandmother could hear two people breathing heavily and Zilla’s sleepy chuckle.\n“The three friends stared up at the enormous pyramids,” she continued, “which were shining white in the sun. A string of camels carrying building supplies joined them with friendly snorts. The workmen were friendly too and offered them tea and some Umm Ali, which is a flatbread soaked in milk and filled with almonds and coconuts. The three animals thought this new treat was especially delicious. They ate so much, their tummies hurt, so they settled down for the night by the workman’s fire, feeling very safe and cozy. You know what they did next?”\nThere was no answer.\nThe grandmother smiled, more than ready to feel safe and cozy in her own bed now that the little ones were asleep. “That is what we’ll find out tomorrow night,” she finished softly.\nAnd that is what they did.\nEach night, the grandmother added to the tale, following the breadcrumbs of the children’s interests. And so, on the second night, the animals explored the pyramids but started to get a little homesick. They decided to return to the silver sled and head home. What they didn’t know was that the silver sled didn’t take them home. Instead, when they opened their eyes…\n“…They were at the base of a volcano. They could feel the heat even through the ground. There were big ferny trees and little bubbly-leafed bushes. Strange birds were flying in the air, and it wasn’t long before the ground shook like thunder, big, slow footsteps. Boom, Boom, Boom. Sure enough, a huge animal, bigger than any they had ever seen before, was lumbering toward them.”\n“Supersaurus!” Lennon offered. “I saw a supersaurus!”\n“That’s exactly what was coming right toward them! Fortunately, Eagle knew that supersauruses don’t eat meat, so they were quite safe. In fact, the big beast ambled right up and sniffed at them with nostrils the size of pie plates. Then it sneezed. Ahhh-choookerfluffle!!!” the grandmother sneezed, in her best imitation of a supersaurus sneeze. A small chorus of giggles erupted from the pillows.\n“The sneeze blew away the silver sled which rode on the sneeze wind like a big silver frisbee. Unfortunately, it smacked right into the side of a—”\n“Tyrannosaurus Rex!” crowed Lennon.\n“Who didn’t want to play frisbee, probably because his arms were so short. He was sensitive about that. He swatted the silver disc and glared at the three animals through beady eyes, which were much bigger up close than you’d think. Eagle screamed, Bear roared, and Owl let out her biggest hoot and they ran for the silver disc right as the Rex began to swing its mighty tail at them.”\n“Were we hurt?” Rune cut in.\n“Of course not. Bear thought quickly, grabbed her friends, and jumped aboard the sled right as the Rex’s tail flicked the silver disc high up into the air. They rode up, up, up. Like being on a roller coaster, their stomachs went down to their toes. Then the sled turned, and they rode down, down, down, and their stomachs jumped up to their hearts. Just when they thought they would fall straight into the mouth of the volcano, everything went black and the whooshing sound carried them to safety. And where do you think they ended up?”\nThe room was silent.\nAnd so, on the third night, the trio learned that the sled had brought the animal friends to the Taj Mahal in India. It was as beautiful as any fairy tale castle, even though it wasn’t a castle.\n“So we didn’t meet a princess?” asked Rune.\n“No, but you met a friendly group of monkeys who shared some puris with you,” the grandmother pointed out.\n“I don’t think I like puris,” Lennon muttered, objecting to new foods out of principal.\n“Puris are like golden balloons, except very tasty, particularly with a drizzle of honey. The animal friends liked the puris very much. But India was much hotter than they were used to. A friendly elephant sprayed cool water over them through its trunk, but eventually, they decided to go home. Do you think the sled took them home?”\nThere was no answer. The grandmother rose and quietly closed the door.\nEach night, the story unspooled under the grandchildren’s direction through time and place. And so, the three friends found themselves on the Serengeti where the animals taught them all their different languages: the moan of the wildebeest, the deranged hooting of the hyenas, the bray of the zebras, even the booming of the ostrich. The noises brought the grandfather in to investigate, wondering if the roomful of children had turned into a roomful of wild animals. It took a little longer that night for the three children to calm down and fall asleep on the plains of the Serengeti.\nAnd so on.\nThey travelled to the ruins of Machu Picchu, where they discovered their own father when he was a young backpacker, standing in awe of the past that still echoed there. \n“Did I talk to him?” Zilla asked. “I mean Owl.”\n“It happens Owl did talk to him. A very serious conversation about how the ancient buildings had withstood earthquakes for so long.”\n“Could he understand me?” Zilla inquired.\n“You bet. Your dad knew that humans aren’t the only animal on the planet to talk. You just have to listen.”\nThe children travelled to a busy Moroccan bazaar where they ran into their mother when she was a young traveler learning about a new culture. \n“Did we talk to her too?” Rune asked.\n“You bet. She explored the whole market with you and treated you to serpent cake.”\nThere was a chorus of “No!” from the children who were not about to eat serpents.\n“Serpent cake is a pastry filled with sugar and almonds, and it just so happened to be Owl’s, Bear’s, and Eagle’s absolute favorite treat of all,” the grandmother explained before they drifted off to sleep with visions of sugary pastries dancing in their heads in a Moroccan bazaar.\nAnd so on.\nOne night, the grandfather noticed the fatigue on the grandmother’s face. “Maybe the kids can drop off to sleep on their own now?” he suggested.\nThe grandmother nodded. “Yes, I think they can. They’ve gotten comfortable here, I’m happy to say.”\nShe settled down into her recliner to rest her feet.\n“So why do you keep telling them stories every night?”\nThe grandmother had asked herself the same question. At first it had been to guarantee her own night’s rest, free of little feet pattering down the hall in search of a snack, another visit to the bathroom, a complaint about a funny noise. Knowing they were snugly asleep, she didn’t have to worry if they were crying in homesickness into their pillows or lying awake frightened of the monsters that might reside beneath the unfamiliar beds.\nBut the grandmother knew that wasn’t really why she told her grandchildren a story every night.\nShe looked at the grandfather fondly. “I am not telling them stories at all, really. I am telling them that they are smart, and strong, and resilient. I am telling them they can make choices, and even mistakes, and learn from both. I am telling them that they are friends who will always help each other.”\nShe sat quietly for so long, the grandfather thought perhaps she had fallen asleep. And she was just about asleep but had one more thought.\n“I am not telling them a story. I am telling them I love them. Every night.” And the consequences of not telling them that were unthinkable." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Family Saga\"\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1005\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story from the point of view of a big cat — whether that’s a lion, cheetah, etc., or just a chunky pet." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“The Family Saga”\nSorry, Dusty; I promise I will give you tuna in the evening.\nDusty remarked with a groan and gave a sullen look to \"M.\"\n\"Every time she promises, but she makes excuses, purr purr....\"\n\"Now I have to share that horrid Pedigree with that annoying Bruno, who despite my repeated warnings doesn’t stop licking me.\" Plus, he is a major whiner. Grr Grr.\nA regular day at the apartment ‘M,\" as usual, is boggled with work. With the upcoming event, she is always on her toes, unable to give time to her precious kids, a 4 year old Labrador, Bruno, and a 3 year old cat, Dusty.\nBruno always wags his tail whenever ‘M’ is around, and according to Dusty, he whines the whole day when she goes out for work. But Dusty, as she believes, \"I am a good cat; I don’t like to whine like this Bruno, and why is he always wagging his tail? He is pretty annoying.\"\nAnyway, after a good lunch (according to Bruno), Dusty, as usual, was pouting, and \"M’ got back to her laptop to finish her work before the weekend. It was time for an afternoon siesta for the two babies. Bruno was, as usual, delighted that ‘M’ is working from home. And Dusty, well, well, she got a place on the couch next to ‘M’ to get into her dreamland. ‘M’ cuddled and pampered her a little; she responded with a little gesture. \"Well, I have still not forgiven her for not giving tuna.\"\nBrrr…Brrr… The sudden sound woke both babies from their reverie. ‘M’ was taking a break and switched on the television. Dusty couldn’t make much out of it except for some cars chasing each other like maniacs and making annoying noises. \"Why would they do that\"? Bruno went back to sleep, not bothered by the noise.\n\"What is ‘M’ holding in her hand\"? That, Bruno, is a TV remote to change the channels. He is intelligent at times. Now wait, what is ‘M’ watching? It looks like a creature like me, somewhat bigger. The television just said, \"It is a tiger.\"\n\"Now wait, what is this television saying? It is a large cat of the cat family. Wait, what family are they talking about? I have a cat family. I only remember my mom dying and ‘M’ picking me up from the garage. Which other family of mine is this\"?\nSuddenly, the channel remarks that cheetah, puma, jaguar, leopard, lion, tiger, and panther are all big members of the feline family, i.e., the cat family.\nBefore Dusty could process the statement, ‘M’ changes the channel.\n\"Argh, this ‘M’ can be so annoying at times. Why can’t she let me know about my family members\"?\n\"But I am such a naive; I never knew till now; I have so many big and powerful family members. Now I will show everyone how big and powerful I am. This Bruno has to treat me with respect and stop licking me all the time.\"\nSaying this, Dusty heads towards the balcony of the apartment. Looking down, she sees Ciril, the donkey, resting under the tree.\n“Ah! There is Ciril, who always bores me with his stupid tales of going to the forest and sleeping in meadows and whatnot. I will show him now.”\nSaying this, Dusty jumps at Ciril.\n“What, who, hey, why are you sitting on my back”? Exclaims Ciril!\n“Talk to me with respect; do you know which family I come from”? Says Dusty.\n“Yes, you come from that 3rd floor of this big apartment. You stay with a nice lady and a friendly dog,” says Ciril.”\n\"No, you fool, they are not my family, but tiger, lion, cheetah, these are all members of my family, and you take me to them in the forest that you always brag of visiting.\"\nCiril stares at Dusty with a disbelief.\n“Hey, if you don’t believe me, ask ‘KA’ the raven over there.”\n\"KA\" the raven was considered a wise bird among all birds and animals in the lane.\nAs Ciril trots close to KA with Dusty on his back, he asks him, “is it true that tigers, lions, and cheetahs are all the family members of Dusty”?\nKA replies, \"Yes, it is true, and not just tigers, lions, and cheetahs, but pumas, jaguars, leopards, panthers, bobcats, and wild cats are all family members of Dusty. She has a big feline family.\"\nAfter confirmation from KA, Ciril moves ahead with Dusty on her back. It is a long ride to the forest.\nDusty goes into a daydream where she imagines herself sitting next to a tiger, lion, bobcat, cheetah, and so on. It was a delightful dream!\nBut alas! Power and money can corrupt every creature on the planet, rendering them full of vanity. The sudden information about her relatives made Dusty swing with pride, and she wanted to climb to the skies.\n\"Move, move quick, you stupid donkey!\" exclaimed Dusty.\"\n\"We have reached the outskirts of the forest; where do you want to go first, the tiger, lion, or panther?\" says Ciril.\"\n“Nooooooooooooooooo! Take me to that mouse over there, exclaims Dusty………..”\n\"So, all this saga of your relatives is nothing but a wild goose chase; you got me all the way to eat a mouse; you are nothing but a useless cat.\"\n“Get off my back….says Ciril”\nThud!!!!\n\"Dusty, Dusty, what happened? Why did you fall down? So many times, I told you not to sleep on the edge of the couch.\" The familiar voice of ‘M’ woke up Dusty.\n\"Come, I brought you tuna; you will have it no. Bruno, I got chew sticks for you. \"Come, come.\" Bruno wags his tail with delight as usual.\n“Purr, Purr, exclaims Dusty! Thank God it was a dream. ‘M’ is so good and Bruno is also not so annoying after all. Who cares about the tigers and lions?”\n“Slurrp! Slurrp! The tuna is amazing, I love you ‘M’ and I love you too Bruno.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 perfect present\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1022\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story from the point of view of a big cat — whether that’s a lion, cheetah, etc., or just a chunky pet." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "That horrible white stuff isn’t there anymore, but I am not sure I want to go outside. The stranger slides open the glass door, looks at me and points at my territory but I can’t believe that it’s going to be any different to the last two days when my stomach sank into it, and I could feel icy wet all along. I could hardly lift my legs.\nI look up at the stranger and refuse to move. Oh dear. The body goes in and out and there is a lot more fur on the top of the head than on my human. Then my fears that this is a female are confirmed when she says something to my human and her voice is higher than his. I hope she isn’t going to make babies with him or take him away from me.\nMy human runs to the door on tiptoes (if he’s trying to be quiet, he’s not very good at it), and he’s holding something I haven’t seen before in front of his eyes. It’s much bigger than what he usually uses to cover them, with two long projecting tubes. He turns something in the middle of the tubes, points at the trees at the back of my territory, says lots of things to the female human in a very quick, high-pitched voice, then strokes her shoulder and whispers to her in the special of voice he only uses for me. I wrap myself around his legs to remind him who he belongs to.\nHe remembers me eventually, and I follow him into the kitchen. I give him my most plaintive meow, the one mixed with a little bit of purr so he knows I am hungry. I try to stand on my hind legs, just long enough to smell my favourite breakfast, fish. He forgets to open the second can, and before placing my plate on the floor, he only strokes me once, as though he isn’t interested.\nI will have to show my human how good I am. I ask to be let out, then crawl under the hedge, (it’s really hard to get through these days for some reason) and sniff out my private spot. When I have covered up my hole- not so much that I can’t smell it next time- I go back into my own territory and wonder what I can do to make sure my human prefers me to this stranger.\nI need to give my human a present. The fish are darting around in the pond again. They are a lovely bright colour and must be a lot fresher and tastier than my breakfast, but I still haven’t worked out how to catch any of them without falling in.\nI look at the grass between the hedge and the pond, but I haven’t seen any mice in there for ages. The only time I tried eating one it was nearly all bones, and I choked on the fur. They are enormous fun to chase (or they used to be when I was younger) but I don’t think I can risk making the same mistake as I did last time. I was very kind and carried the mouse as gently as I could so that my human could have the pleasure of killing it. I should have made it easier, because when I dropped it at his feet the creature disappeared into the corner of the room behind my human’s toys. My human ran into another room and came back with the thing he uses to get grass out of the pond, leant across and tried to squeeze it into the space, while I sat back on my haunches, gathering the strength to pounce. Then suddenly, before I was ready, the mouse shot across the room and was gone. I have never seen something move so fast. It was humiliating enough to have been outwitted by something so tiny, but then my human pointed at me and spoke in a voice that for some inexplicable reason was angry! He must have been disappointed that I hadn’t killed it.\nI stalk through the grass several times before giving up on my quest. Then I have an idea. It is a lot easier for me now that the people on the other side of my territory have replaced their fence with a flat-roofed building. I can just about manage to get up there now, if I jump on the dustbin first. When I am there, I can see what other territories have already been claimed by small humans, dogs, or other cats. It also helps me reach the upper branches of the trees. I did once manage to push a nest it to the ground, but the eggs tasted horrible. However, if I were to find an adult bird…\nI have climbed the tree many times. It’s a great challenge to get near to a bird without shaking off the berries, but I have been practising my paw stretch for ages. Today, I manage to get up there without breaking any of the branches. Then I notice something, a bird I haven’t seen before. It is far too busy eating the berries to notice me. It is just about big enough to make a good present (the mouse was a rather mean offering, admittedly- another reason my human may not have liked it) and just about the right size to fit between my teeth and stay there. It really is very pretty, a nice red face, with black around the eyes and the top of the head, and a yellow bit at the end of the tail. My human will be delighted. I gather my strength, pounce, and- YES! It’s in my mouth. As I jump down from the tree, walk along the roof and then take the final leap down, I can feel its heartbeat stop.\nBest of all, my human sees me coming and opens the door, so I can walk in without opening my mouth too early. Once inside I drop my perfect present at his feet and wait for the praise." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 New Cat\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1057\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a human and a cat that come to some kind of mutual understanding." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There were only two men sitting at the bar. They were well-engaged in conversation and did not take any interest in the crowd of people that had come in and sat down since they had first arrived. They were sitting at the end of the bar, admiring the many lit up skyscrapers the view had to offer at night. Enigmatic lines in the floor turned the back-half of the room purple, turning into a bright rust color around the bar. The bartenders were busy pouring and mixing and serving and running around so all the people in the bar could get the confidence they had ordered. Huddled in separate groups, the people collectively talked and laughed and were serious and oblivious to what everyone else was saying around them.\nOne of the men, a young, yet tired-faced man, while looking out the window at the skyline asked:\n“What do you think most people are doing right now?”\n“Easy. Drinking,” his friend answered.\n“Why?”\n“They want to live happy lives.”\nThe tired-faced man turned around and looked at all the people congregating. Some of their faces were lit up by the white screens of their smartphones, others sipped their fruitfully colored drinks through two little black straws. They smiled at the people they wanted something from, and laughed at jokes they didn’t hear.\n“I’m feelin’ a bit sick. I think I’m gonna head out,” the tired-faced man said.\n“You feelin’ sick? Have a Pinot Grigio. That will cure ya right up.”\n“Ah, no. I need to get some air.”\n“Maybe I’ll come with you. It’s gettin a bit stuffy in here for me too.”\n“Don’t be stupid. Go meet some strangers and have fun.”\n“Very few people meet strangers spontaneously anymore, you know that. What’re you gonna do?”\n“I think I might go to bed early.”\n“You think too much,” his friend frankfully stated. “It worries me. You know that I know you’re not going to bed early. I read online that thinking too much is bad for your health; “Like smokin’ a pack of cigarettes every day.” I’ve seen a lot of people fall into the abyss because they use that mind of ours a little too much. What they don’t realize is it wasn’t meant to be used all the time. When the hunter-gatherers were done hunting and gathering for the day, they relaxed and spent time with each other. What they did back then is exactly the same thing most people are doing today. We work and then we relax afterwards. They looked at the stars together and we drink together. It’s basic evolutionary psychology. We as humans have been doing this for millions of years. Life is fun when we talk to other humans late into the night. It’s boring, and might I add, sad, when we spend life alone in our room sulking over the unknowns of the universe.”\n“Yea I know. It’s not that. I just need some sleep.”\n“It’s the cat!” the friend interjected.\n“What?”\n“Ever since you got that new cat, you’ve been spending a lot less time out.”\nThe tired-faced man looked away from his friend and back out the window at the skyscrapers. \n“Don’t look out the window!”\nThe tired-faced man turned around.\n“Let’s go somewhere. Let’s get a group of people and let's go to the Caribbean. What’d you say to that?”\n“I don’t know. Vacationing in the Caribbean's pretty expensive.”\n“No it’s not. Didn’t you hear? It’s the poor Americans' Mediterranean.”\n“We’re poor?”\n“Do you have to go to the office on Monday?” the friend said with a laugh. “Poor in time, indeed.”\nThe tired-faced man looked around at the crowd: young, lively, fresh faces.\n“Aren’t people in their thirties supposed to still be young?” he asked.\n“See, you look at the world in the wrong way. To be quite frank, you look at the world in a negative way. This is why you spend all your free time with your new cat. You shouldn’t be looking at those who are younger and going “how do I get back there?” What you should be asking yourself is “What do I know that they don’t? What experiences have I had that they haven’t?” You see? It’s all about framing your mindset.”\nThe tired-faced man looked at him, but said nothing.\n“We’re thirty-six and single. Never married and no kids. Society says that’s bad, right? But there’s no intrinsic value in what society says. Society can and will keep talking nonsense because that's what society does. The intelligent thoughts sink to the bottom and the bullshit thoughts float to the top.”\nThe tired-faced man looked away from his friend and towards the pretty bartender.\n“Hey, if you don’t want to talk to me, and if you won’t flirt with her, we can call it a night and you can go and spend time with your new cat. But let me just say this. The cat won’t bring you happiness. Pets are awesome, but not as awesome as humans.”\n“Yea, but this cat…”\n“He speaks! But this cat what?”\n“It understands me. And I understand him.”\nThey stared into each other's eyes for a brief moment. The tired-faced man's friend then turned and grabbed his Pinot Grigio off the bartop. He put what was left in the wine glass down his throat in one gulp. Then, turning back to the conversation:\n“What does that even mean? I’m starting to think this is a prank. Are there cameras around here,” the friend said looking around the bar and up at the ceiling. “What do you mean man?”\n“I mean we understand each other.”\n“I need more than that.”\n“Like,” he said under his breath, “We emotionally understand each other. We understand each other's feelings. We get one another. Like the therapy dogs that go to schools after shootings; I have a therapy cat. You understand what I’m saying don’t you?”\nAt this, the friend started to laugh heavily. The tired-faced man stood up and put two twenties down on the bartop.\nAs the tired-faced man made his exit:\n“Wine! It’s good for your mental health!” his friend at the bar yelled to him. No one heard what he said though. They were all too busy smiling at the people they wanted something from, and laughing at jokes they didn’t hear." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hannah Finds a New Home\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2471\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a cat shelter." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "An early morning sunbeam shone across the grass, making the dew sparkle like tiny round rainbows. Hannah opened her golden-green kitty eyes slowly and stretched her silky gray front legs out in front of her, yawning wide. Then she noticed she was alone.\n“Mama! Where are you?” she called, looking quickly from side to side as she struggled to get her sleepy legs to stand.\nLast night Hannah had been playing in the meadow with her two brothers, chasing lightning bugs while Mama Cat watched the sun set. Hannah had tired and found a soft hollow under a tree to lie down – “Just for a moment,” she had told herself. While sleeping, she had not heard Mama Cat and her brothers calling as they searched for her. And now no one was around but a big noisy bird yelling “Caw! Caw!” way above her head.\nHannah tried to smooth her fur the way Mama Cat had shown her, so there would be one less thing to be scolded about when she found her family. “I’m sure Mama will have a lot to say about wandering off and not coming when called, and how lucky I was not to be eaten by a fox or a bear. But I will be happy to hear Mama’s voice no matter how much lecturing I get,” Hannah thought, heading out from her hiding place.\n“I can’t remember how we got here,” worried Hannah. “And Mama always says not to talk with strangers, so I can’t ask anyone. But I should find something for breakfast first.”\nThe sparkling dew caught her attention with its pretty colors. “It’s cool and wet! I can drink this!” Hannah said out loud to herself, just to hear another kitty voice. She lapped up the droplets scattered around her. They were so small that it took a long time for her to stop being thirsty. “Now I’m hungry, too,” said Hannah.\nShe tried nibbling grass the way she had seen deer eating in the yard behind her house. “Bleah!” she said, spitting it out. Then she tried biting into an acorn like the squirrels. “Ugh, that’s even worse,” she said. “There must be something else I can eat.” But she didn’t see anything that looked even a little interesting to try.\n“I guess I’ll be okay until I find Mama, or until she finds me,” sighed Hannah, and she continued to search the meadow as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky. “But now I’m tired from so much walking in the hot sun. I’ll take a nap over there by the stream – just for a moment.” She found a shady spot and curled up to rest, her furry gray tail over her nose.\nHannah opened her eyes wide as a little boy – like the one who lived in the house with her and Mama Cat and her brothers –scooped her up from the ground.\n“Ma! Ma! Look what I found! Can we keep it?” the little boy yelled.\nHannah yelled too. “Put me down! I have to find my family!”\nBut the two humans didn’t seem to understand her any better than the humans where she lived, or at least where she had lived until yesterday.\nThe tall human called “Ma” came closer. “She looks a lot like my own human Mom, but her hair is a different color,” thought Hannah.\nMa gently stroked the back of Hannah’s head with one finger. “Oh, you are a cutie! But so tiny – you must have wandered off from your mother and gotten lost.” Hannah tried to say “Yes,” even though she was ashamed to admit that she had not obeyed Mama Cat, but all that came out was a sad little “Meowww.”\n“I’d love to take her home with us, but Daddy is allergic to cats,” Ma said to the little boy. “We’ll have to take her to a shelter, so they can find a good home for her.”\nThe little boy looked sad, but nodded and said, “Yes, I know Daddy sneezes a lot near cats. But couldn’t I just keep her in my room?” He turned a hopeful face to Ma, and Hannah looked at Ma, too.\n“No, it’s not fair for a kitten to be locked up in one room. And you would have cat hair on you, so Daddy would still be sneezing,” said Ma. The little boy sadly agreed as he and Ma walked to their car. Ma buckled the boy’s seat belt since his hands were still full of Hannah, who decided this would be a good time for another nap – just for a moment.\nThe car stopped moving and Hannah opened her eyes. Ma and the little boy carried her inside a big building and told a man wearing a badge that said “Roger Cox, Pet Keeper” how they had found the tiny gray kitten. Hannah looked up at the man and asked, “Can you help me find my family?” But he only smiled and didn’t seem to understand. “Why is it,” Hannah wondered. “that I can understand humans perfectly, but none of them seem to understand a word I say!”\nThen she was carried away while the little boy and Ma waved goodbye. In a big noisy room full of caged cats, Hannah was suddenly pushed into a metal cage that already had two other cats in it.\n“Oh great,” said the larger cat, arching his brown and black striped back to make himself look even bigger. “Now it will be crowded in here.”\n“I’m not very big,” said Hannah. “I don’t take up much room.”\n“Don’t mind Roscoe,” said the white cat, waving one of her four black feet toward the bigger cat. “He can be such a grump.”\n“You would be grumpy, too, if you had been here as long as I have,” growled Roscoe. Turning to Hannah he said, “Serena only came a few weeks ago, but I’ve been here since the last snow.”\n“What’s snow?” asked Hannah, trying to think if she had ever heard the word before.\n“Ohhh,” said Serena to Roscoe, “she’s just a little kitten and hasn’t been through a winter yet.” Turning to Hannah, she said, “Snow is frozen water that sometimes floats down from the sky. Maybe you’ll see some when you grow up. But what is your name? You know ours.”\n“I’m Hannah,” said Hannah sadly, “and I’ve lost Mama Cat and my two brothers and my human family and…” She started mewing sadly, unable to find the right words to say how alone and lost she felt. “How will they ever find me here?” she finally managed to ask.\nRoscoe and Serena were both quiet, afraid to upset Hannah even more. Finally Roscoe nodded to Serena, who lay down by Hannah’s side and wrapped her fluffy tail around both of them. “I’m sorry, Hannah,” Serena said softly. “They might not find you here.” Hannah started to wail. “But,” Serena added quickly, “sometimes another family comes by and decides to take us to new homes.”\nRoscoe came around Hannah’s other side and wrapped a paw over her back. “There, there, little one. You’re so cute, I’m sure you’ll find a new home very soon.” Hannah squeezed her eyes shut as tears began rolling down her silvery gray face, and she snuggled closer to both older cats for comfort.\nThe Pet Keeper, arrived a little later, although Hannah couldn’t tell what time it was because there weren’t any windows for her to see the color of the sky. He pushed a cart holding dishes full of dry cat food, and quickly opened cage doors to shove in one dish for each cat, slamming the doors shut to keep anyone from escaping. Roscoe and Serena sat up when they heard the noise, but Hannah stayed in a corner as far from the noise as she could. As three dishes were pushed into their cage, Roscoe called, “Hannah, come have dinner.”\nHannah just shook her head. “I’m not really hungry,” she said.\n“But they take away whatever we don’t eat, and you might get hungry later,” said Serena. Hannah just turned away and put her paws over her face.\nSerena and Roscoe looked at each other. Then Roscoe knocked half the food out of one dish, pushing the kibble into a back corner of the cage. “In case she gets hungry later,” he whispered to Serena before gobbling down all his own food plus a little from the dish meant for Hannah.\nThe lights were always on in the shelter, so when Hannah woke up some time later, she was confused. “Is it still daytime?” she asked. “I’m hungry. Where are the food bowls?”\n“The Pet Keeper took them away while you were asleep,” said Serena, quickly adding as she saw Hannah’s face turn even sadder, “but there’s some over in the corner for you.”\n“Thank you, Serena,” said Hannah gratefully as she ate.\n“It was Roscoe who saved it for you,” said Serena.\n“Serena said you’re a grump, but that was kind and thoughtful!” said Hannah to Roscoe. She rubbed the side of her face against his to show her thanks.\n“It’s the least I could do after your terrible day,” he mumbled. Serena came over and rubbed her face against his other cheek, and soon all three cats were in a happy purring heap until they fell asleep.\n“I’m not missing breakfast today,” said Hannah when they woke up to the rumbling sound of the Pet Keeper rolling in the food cart. All three ate hungrily, cleaning their bowls.\n“What do you do all day for fun?” asked Hannah, hoping for a tug of war with string or a ball to chase.\nThe two older cats shook their heads. “We just stay here until someone comes who might want to adopt us,” said Roscoe.\n“How about doing riddles, then?” asked Hannah. “Here’s one: what’s the difference between a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a piece of buttered toast?”\n“That’s easy!” said Serena. “Only the toast is crunchy.”\n“But what if it’s crunchy peanut butter instead of creamy?” asked Roscoe.\n“Hmmmm, you’re right. I give up. What’s the answer, Hannah?” asked Serena.\n“They both have jelly on them except the toast,” laughed Hannah.\nRoscoe rolled his eyes at the bad joke, but he and Serena couldn’t help but laugh, too.\nSuddenly they heard shrieking as a family with a small noisy girl came into the cage-lined room.\n“Quick Hannah, get behind us,” said Roscoe, pushing her to the back of their cage. He and Serena made themselves look as big as possible to fill the front of the cage as Roscoe continued softly, “This is definitely not the right family for you, Hannah.”\nThe two larger cats growled and hissed when the girl stopped in front of them and shouted “Kitty!” Kitty!” while rattling the cage and poking her fingers between the wires. Upset by all her shouting, unhappy cats in other cages began howling. Finally, the girl’s parents pulled her away.\n“You are scaring them,” said her father.\n“You have to be quiet and gentle if you want a kitty,” said her mother.\nThe little girl started stamping her feet, screaming “Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!” Her father picked her up and all three left.\n“Whew, I’m glad that’s over,” sighed Serena.\n“Does that happen often?” asked Hannah.\n“More often than it should,” replied Roscoe. “It’s so sad when they take a cat home with them anyway. I feel sorry for anyone living in a home like that.”\nHannah shivered to think that it might have happened to her. “Thank you for hiding me.” She kissed each of her friends on the nose, and then Serena and Roscoe each kissed hers. They didn’t notice another man and woman walk right up to their cage.\n“Look how sweet these three are,” said the woman softly, “and one is just a tiny kitten. Hello, little one.”\nHannah looked up at the two older cats. Roscoe nodded, whispering, “Look, they are holding hands. They must have lots of love to share.”\nHannah walked to the front of the cage and said shyly, “Hello?”\nNow the man smiled, too, and said, “I sure miss having a cat living with us. And she’s such a pretty silvery gray. I think we should bring her home. And I think we should call her Hannah.”\nAt this, Hannah was so surprised that all she could do was squeak, “They know my name!” Her two cat friends leaned against each other, knowing Hannah would be going to a good home.\nAs the Pet Keeper lifted Hannah out of the cage and placed her in the woman’s arms, Serena said, “I’ll miss her.”\n“I will, too,” said Roscoe.\n“Why, you old grump, she brought out your good heart,” laughed Serena. As she and Roscoe curled up next to each other and waved goodbye to Hannah, a family with two children came in.\n“Oh, these two are such beautiful cats!” said the girl.\n“Look, one’s a boy and one’s a girl, just like us,” said the boy. “And they are curled around each other like best friends.”\nHannah smiled as she watched the Pet Keeper lift first Roscoe and then Serena into happy waiting arms as she was carried out by her own new human Mom and Dad.\nIt was a short ride to Hannah’s new home, and her new Mom carried her into the house, setting Hannah down on a soft pillow in a corner of the kitchen. “Hannah. Yes, that is just the right name for you,” said Mom.\nDad pulled two bowls out of a cabinet, filling one with water and the other with kitty kibble. “It’s tuna flavor,” squeaked Hannah, joyfully sniffing the air. “My favorite!” She wasted no time jumping up onto the counter where Dad placed the bowls – her very own bowls – and crunched away while Mom and Dad took turns stroking her back.\n“Hannah, here’s your litter box,” said Dad, placing her on the floor to show her the box in a corner near a broom and a mop. “And now, come explore your new home.”\n“Ohhhh, a nice big sunny spot in the living room,” purred Hannah. “And wide windowsills so I can watch the birds without going outside where I could get lost again.” She looked up at her new family and rubbed against their legs. “Thank you for this wonderful new home!”\n“It’s so nice to have a cat around the house,” sighed Mom, kneeling to scratch Hannah behind the ears in just the right place. Hannah purred even more loudly, making Dad laugh.\nThat night, Hannah followed Mom and Dad upstairs and curled up on the bed at their feet, in a happy heap of family." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Greatest Fairy Tale of All Time\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2517\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story within a story within a story within a ..." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Fairy Books sat in a pile on Marcus’s nightstand. The colored spines stacked on top of each other looked like the arcs of a rainbow.\nHe pulled his comforter up to his chin. His father sat in a chair next to the bed, flipping through the Red Fairy Book. Some of the worn pages had broken from the spine.\n“Come on,” he said, “I haven’t read any of these to you in a while.”\n“No,” Marcus said. “I want a new story. We’ve gone through all those before.”\nMarcus’s father set the book down. He rubbed his forehead with his palm.\n“Well, I can make one up for you. Is that okay?”\n“I guess,” Marcus said, “but it needs to be one that I’ll recognize.”\nMarcus’s father suppressed a grin at his son’s contradictory demand.\nHis brow furrowed, the lines on his forehead creasing like the spines of the books. He jumbled together all the characters he committed to memory. The plot structures and settings. The archetypes and themes and conflicts. All sloshed together inside his brain like a witch concocting a brew in a cauldron.\n“Something that’s original… but familiar…”\nHe gasped as an idea came to him. A story that incorporated all the things his son knew and loved, but that was entirely new.\n“I’ve got it,” he said.\n“What’s it called?” Marcus asked.\n“The Greatest Fairy Tale of All Time,” his father said.\nMarcus’s toes curled under the covers in excitement. He pulled the sheets up to his nose. His father took a breath.\nOnce upon a time there lived a girl named Little Red Riding Hood. She had a real name, but the villagers called her Little Red Riding Hood because of the red cape she always wore. She lived with her grandmother in a-\n“Wait a minute.” Marcus sat up in bed. He crossed his arms as he pouted. “I’ve heard this one a million times!”\n“Not this one,” Marcus’s father said. “Be patient.”\nMarcus reclined back into his bed. His father picked up where he left off.\nShe lived with her grandmother in a hut in the forest outside of the village. Every day, Little Red Riding Hood would walk into the village to pick up food for her grandmother, as she was old and unable to care for herself.\nOne day, on her way into the village, she came across a wolf with gray fur and a long snout.\n“What’s your name, little girl?” the wolf asked.\n“Little Red Riding Hood,” she said.\n“What are you doing wandering around the forest by yourself? It’s not safe for a little girl like you.”\n“I’m on my way to the village to pick up food. My grandmother is ill and I must take care of her.”\n“Oh,” the wolf said. “Poor dear. Why don’t you pick some flowers and give them to her as a gift?”\n“What a great idea!” the girl said. “Grandmother will love… my word! What a large bump you have on your head!”\nThe wolf chuckled as it rubbed the spot with its paw.\n“Oh, yes,” the wolf said. “That bump has quite the story behind it. I can hardly believe it myself. Let me tell you all about it.”\nThe pair sat cross-legged in the middle of the road. The wolf inhaled a deep breath and exhaled, the air whistling through its fangs.\nHere’s what happened. There once was a family of pigs. An old mother pig and her three sons. One day, when the sons had grown up, she sent them out into the world to seek their fortunes.\nThe oldest son was a lazy piece of pork. He didn’t like to work at all and chose to build his house out of straw. The second oldest son worked a little bit harder but was also lazy and built his house out of sticks. However, the third and youngest son was the hardest working of them all and spent the entire day building his house out of bricks.\nThe next day, I happened across the straw house and smelled the delicious pig inside. I knew it would make a fine meal. My mouth watered as I knocked on the door.\n“Little pig! Little pig! Let me in! Let me in!”\n“No! No! No! Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin!”\n“Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down!”\nAnd that’s exactly what I did. I blew the house down and ate the pig whole. It tasted as good as it smelled.\nI continued down the road and happened across the stick house. Once again, the pig refused me admittance. So I blew the house to smithereens and made a meal out of the bastard.\nWhen I came across the brick house, I knew I had my work cut out for me. It didn’t matter how much huffing and puffing I did. That blasted house stayed up. Except for one little brick that fell off the roof and smacked me right on the noggin! I can still see the stars dancing in front of my eyes. That’s when I knew I had enough trouble for one day. So I went on home and curled up in front of the fireplace with a copy of Werewolf Weekly. There was an article on the front page that talked about a girl around your age. Let me see if I have it with me… ah, here it is.\nThe wolf pulled a folded copy of the paper out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Little Red Riding Hood. She read it to herself in silence.\n10-YEAR-OLD GIRL CHARGED WITH BREAKING AND ENTERING\nPolice have charged Miss Goldilocks Principal, 10, with one count of breaking and entering. According to the Other Side of the Wood Police Department, a 911 call was received on February 29th from Mr. Papa Bear, 42, when he and his family arrived back at their house after waiting for their porridge to cool and happened across Miss Principal watching TV.\n“My family and I had never seen anything like it,” Mr. Bear said in an interview with police. “We didn’t think to fasten the door because we are good bears who do nobody any harm and never suspect that anybody would harm us. Well, I guess we know better now. But it’s not our fault that that girl wasn’t raised properly. What do you expect to happen when you let a child gallivant around the Other Side of the Wood all by herself? It’s a miracle nobody got hurt. My son Wee is right traumatized by the whole thing.”\nWhile Miss Principal has apologized for scaring the bejesus out of the Bear Family, she maintains that she did nothing wrong.\n“Big deal. Sue me. I’m, like, 10. I’ve got no money. And my mom doesn’t either. She’s the one that sent me on the errand in the first place. It’s her fault. What was I supposed to do? Stupid bears left their door open. They might as well have put a sign on the door saying, like, WE WELCOME ALL THE FLIES IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD. Almost burned the roof of my mouth off from that freaking porridge. I should sue them. They’ve got money. I’ll bet they’re the only ones in the Other Side of the Wood that have cable and satellite. And they’ve got plasma screens in each room! Can you freaking believe it? The big bear’s TV almost popped my eardrums, and I couldn’t hear the wife’s TV, but the son’s TV wasn’t too loud or too soft but, like, just right. Not to mention that they’ve got all the premium movie channels, too. So I picked out the latest Cinderella remake and paid the $9.99 because they can afford it. Wasn’t half bad.\n“That one Latina actress played a high school singer-wannabe named Cilantra. After her parents die, she’s raised by some washed-up celebrity has-been. The celeb’s snotty daughters treat Cilantra, like, like a slave and bully her at school. Can’t remember the name of the guy that played the hunk. Anyway, Cilantra conspired with her friends to finish all her chores so she could attend the school dance. She ended up getting it on with Mr. I’m Hot and You’re Not because he went to the dance stag because, like, Other Side of the Hollywood.\n“They dance the night away, but at a quarter to midnight, Cilantra rushes out because she has to drop her rental car back off at the dealer or she’ll be charged an extra day’s rent. On the way back home, some blind guy walks out in the middle of the road and she swerves to avoid him.”\nThe speedometer reached triple digits. Cilantra’s high heeled shoe floored the accelerator. Paying another day’s rent for the car was more expensive than risking a ticket.\nHer cheeks burned as she remembered dancing the night away with Cilantro. The scent of his citrusy cologne. His rough, manly hands pressed against the small of her back. The way his suit jacket hugged his broad shoulders. The timbre of his frothy, deep voice.\nShe replayed one moment over and over in her mind. The music slowed, a saxophone oozed out of the speakers, Cilantro’s brown eyes locked onto hers. They stopped swaying and stood motionless in the middle of the packed gymnasium. His hands cupped her cheeks. She felt no embarrassment at the people watching them. His stubble grazed her chin as their lips met.\nAn arrow of adrenaline pierced her and lodged itself in her heart. She felt nauseous with desire. Her legs turned to jelly and almost gave out beneath her. He kissed her again and again and again.\n“I don’t know who you are underneath the eye mask,” Cilantro said, “but you’re different than all the other girls here. Beautiful… gorgeous… stunning… none of those are good enough to describe you.”\nCilantra never had a chance to respond. The digital clock on the wall read 11:45PM. The Hurtz Car Company beckoned. Without even saying good-bye, she turned on her heel and fled from the gymnasium.\n“God… will he recognize me tomorrow? Why didn’t I tell him my name?”\nHer heart raced with the Honda she rented for the night. A cocktail of emotions swirled through her veins. Excitement at the prospect of seeing Cilantro again at school. Concern at having to pay for another day’s rent. Frustration at giving him her cell phone to hold since her dress didn’t have pockets and leaving without it.\nShe didn’t see the man in the road until it was almost too late. She slammed the brakes. Her tires screamed. She yanked on the steering wheel. Her car lurched to the side of the road. The seatbelt dug into her chest.\nShe took several deep breaths to calm herself before getting out of the car. The man froze in the middle of the road, shell-shocked. She stared at him. For a moment, she thought that he was on his way home from some sort of medieval festival. He wore a white vest with white pants and a white cape with gold trim. A dirt stain took up the bulk of his cape, as if he had fallen on his back and smudged it.\n“Sir!” Cilantra said. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Should I call 911?”\n“Rapunzel?” the man said. “Is that you?”\n“My name’s Cilantra. Hold on… I can call an ambulance.”\n“You sound just like her,” the man said. “She always sang to me when we met in the tower. You must be a singer yourself. She has the same voice as you. If only I could see you…”\nThe man flailed his arms as if he were walking in a dark room. Cilantra gasped as she realized that the man couldn’t see.\n“My God… you’re blind? Don’t worry, I can take you wherever you need to go.”\nShe grabbed his hand and led him over to her car. She opened the passenger seat door and sat him down.\n“Ah, if only you could…” the man said.\n“What’s your name?” Cilantra asked.\n“Prince. Just Prince.”\n“You don’t have a last name?” Cilantra asked.\n“I do. Prince.”\n“You said you only have one name,” Cilantra said.\n“No. My name is Just Prince.”\nCilantra stared at Just. Her mouth hung open in bewilderment.\n“Don’t tell me your middle name starts with an A,” Cilantra said.\n“As a matter of fact,” Just said, “it does.”\nCilantra bit down on her fist as a severe case of the giggles overwhelmed her. She feigned a coughing fit.\n“Are you a real Prince?” Cilantra asked. “You know, like royalty?”\n“No,” Just said. “That would be a mouthful. Imagine having to write Prince Just A. Prince whenever you signed your name.”\nCilantra couldn’t think of a suitable response. Just filled the silence, oblivious to the fact that only by the reflexes of a 16-year-old girl did he not collide with a two-ton hunk of plastic traveling at 100 miles per hour.\n“It’s really quite beautiful how we met,” Just said. “I was riding along in the forest on my horse, Steed, and I heard a woman singing. It sounded like the voice of an angel calling to me. I followed the voice and came across a tower with no doors to enter it. I knew the voice was coming from the top of the tower, but I had no way to climb up.\n“Again and again, I came back to the tower. Each time, the woman serenaded me as if she knew she had an audience. One day, I saw a sorceress standing at the base of the tower. She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, ‘Rapunzel! Rapunzel! Let down your hair! That I may climb thy golden stair!’ At once, a rope of golden hair flew out of the window and down the side of the tower, allowing the sorceress to climb up. The next day, I called up to the woman and implored her to let down her hair. She did, and I climbed up.”\nCilantra winced as she imagined what it would feel like to support an entire human being with the roots of her hair. Just continued.\n“It was love at first sight. She wasn’t of noble birth, but she held herself like a princess. Her smile that never left her face, her delicate hands that fit perfectly in mine, her watery eyes that pulled me in and drowned me in love.\n“We devised a plan for her escape. Each time that I visited her, I brought a piece of cloth for her to weave into a ladder. But before the ladder was ready, we engaged in loving, tender s…”\n…\nMarcus sat up in excitement. He threw the covers aside. “Well? What happened next? What did they do?”\nMarcus’s father shook his head. He pushed himself off the chair and crossed the bedroom.\n“Next time, we’ll stick with the Fairy Books. Nightie night.”\nHe turned out the lights and shut the bedroom door." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dreamland\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1069\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "DREAMLAND\n“There you go, all tucked in.”\n“My pillow needs scrunched up, Daddy.”\n“Is that better?”\n“My covers are untucked, Daddy.”\n“If you quit squirming around, you won’t get untucked. Now close your eyes and go to sleep.”\n“But I’m not sleepy.”\n“It’s way past your bedtime; you should be sleepy. If you close your eyes, you’ll be off to Dreamland in no time.”\n“Where’s Dreamland?”\n“Dreamland is a magical place where Unicorns romp, bunnies hop, and Fairies play.”\n“Have you ever been to Dreamland?”\n“Oh, yes, many times when I was your age. But in my Dreamland, there were Dragons and Wizards. And I was a brave knight with a magic sword.”\n“Was there a Princess?”\n“There is always a Princess.”\n“Tell me about when you were in Dreamland.”\n“Another night. It’s getting late.”\n“Please!”\n“OK, but then you have to go to sleep.”\n“I promise.”\n“I was Sir Edmond.”\n“But your name’s not Edmond.”\n“In Dreamland, you can be whoever you want to be. Sir Edmond was the bravest knight in the whole kingdom. One day an evil Wizard---”\n“What was his name?”\n“Who?”\n“The Wizard.”\n“I don’t know. He was just an evil Wizard.”\n“He has to have a name. What was it?”\n“It was, I don’t know, Blodwyn. As I said, Blodwyn kidnapped the Princess and took her to his castle.”\n“What was her name?”\n“Princess Abba Doodle. You see, the Wizard loved the Princess and wanted her to be his wife, but she didn’t love him. She loved another.”\n“Who did she love, Daddy?”\n“She loved the brave knight Sir Edmond.”\n“A Princess loved you, Daddy?”\n“Only in Dreamland. King Daddy Doodle was very upset about what happened to his daughter, so he called all his knights together and sent them on a quest to save the Princess.”\n“How many did the king have?”\n“He had five brave knights, and before you ask, their names were: Sir Anthony, Sir William, Sir Barkley, Sir Darwin, and Sir Edmond.\n“Sir Anthony was the first to go to the Dark Castle. He shouted for Blodwyn to come out and face him in combat, but the Wizard was too wise for that. He lowered the draw bridge and told Sir Anthony to come and get him. Sir Anthony was brave and could not ignore a challenge, so he got off his horse and stepped onto the draw bridge.”\n“What was its name?”\n“The horse? It was Rover.”\n“That’s a dumb name for a horse.”\n“What would you name it?”\n“Charlie.”\n“Why Charlie?”\n“I like Charlie.”\n“Anyway, Sir Anthony tripped over Charlie’s reigns, fell in the moat, and drowned.”\n“Sir Anthony must have been pretty clumsy.”\n“His nickname was Stumblefoot.”\n“That’s funny.”\n“The next to try was Sir William. His nickname was Smartypants. Smartypants devised a way to catapult himself over the moat and the castle wall. But his calculations were off; he hit the parapet and fell into the moat.”\n“You had funny dreams, Daddy.”\n“Yeah, I guess I did. Do you want a drink of water tucked in or something?”\n“No, Daddy!”\n“I just thought I’d ask.”\n“Who tried next? Was it Sir Edmond?”\n“No, it was Sir Barkley. The knights called him Big-Headed Barkley. Waving his sword over his head, Sir Barkley charged over the draw bridge and into the courtyard of Blodwyn’s castle. The Wizard was waiting and rained magic fireballs down on Barkley. Since a sword is no match for magic fireballs, the embarrassed knight left and returned to the King’s castle.\n“Poor Sir Barkley. Now, was it Sir Edmond’s turn?”\n“Not exactly.”\n“When does Sir Edmond get a chance?”\n“Sir Darwin was next, but he was a bit of a scaredy-cat and didn’t want to face the Wizard alone, so he suggested Sir Edmond go with him.”\n“But you said the King would let whoever saved the Princess marry her.”\n“That’s right.”\n“How could Sir Darwin and Sir Edmond both marry the Princess?”\n“The story’s not over yet. Wait for the end. The knights sat down to formulate a plan, but they couldn’t think of anything that would work. It’s not easy to fool a Wizard. Just when they thought it couldn’t be done, Sir Edmond’s Squire, Thinksalot, said he knew what to do. ‘One of the knights should go to the castle gate and challenge Blodwyn to come out and fight. The Wizard won’t leave the castle walls and will try to entice the knight inside.\n“The knight will, of course, refuse, and while he keeps Blodwyn busy, the second knight will be in the back. He will fire a grappling hook over the top of the castle wall, swing himself over the moat, and climb up. He will find the Princess, and the two will escape the same way.’ Both knights were shocked that a squire could think up such a great plan.”\n“Does Sir Edmond climb up and save the Princess, Daddy?”\n“They couldn’t decide who would go to the front and who would go to the back. Either place would be dangerous, and both knights wanted to marry the Princess. Again, Squire Thinksalot found the solution; they should play Rock, Paper, and Scissors. So that is what they did. Sir Edmond’s rock broke Sir Anthony’s scissors on the first try. The second time Sir Anthony’s paper covered Sir Edmond’s rock. The third and final time, Sir Anthony’s scissors cut Sir Edmond’s paper, so Sir Anthony would rescue the Princess.”\n“No, Sir Edmond should save the Princess, Daddy.”\n“While Sir Edmond kept Blodwyn busy at the gate, Sir Anthony swung over the moat and got to the top of the castle wall, but there was a soldier there who shouted for help. Blodwyn realized he was being duped and rushed to the back. Sir Edmond saw his chance, entered the castle, found the Princess, and left.”\n“Did Sir Anthony get hurt, Daddy?”\n“When Sir Anthony saw all those soldiers with Blodwyn in front running at him, he slid down the rope, swam the moat, and rode away. When the King heard about Sir Anthony’s bravery, he gave his knight some land and made him a Lord.”\n“Did Sir Edmond and the Princess get married?”\n“They did, and they had a little girl that wouldn’t go to sleep. Just like a little girl, I know. Now close your eyes and keep them closed.”\n“Good night Daddy.”\n“Good night Princess.”\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: Dear God...\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1560\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "God?\nYES, MY DARLING?\nI don't want to live any more, can you please take me to Heaven?\nI'M REALLY SORRY, SWEETHEART, BUT IT’S NOT YOUR TIME, YOU HAVE MUCH TO DO. WHAT ARE YOU STRUGGLING WITH? MAYBE I CAN HELP.\nIt's just, you made me to do great things, I know you did. You helped me to excel in undergrad so that I got a degree in Special Education Cognitively Impaired. Then you helped me through a Master’s in Applied Behavior Analysis and a Board Certification to be a Behavior Analyst. I was gifted in these areas, and so prepared, but then you gave me a severe mental illness that made it impossible to live out. I think I literally have spent more time in hospitals and residential programs than I have working. Why would you give me these gifts just to take them all away when I needed them most?\nDO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE FIVE AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY SAT TOGETHER TO WATCH THE JERRY LEWIS TELETHON ON LABOR DAY WEEKEND AND I MOVED YOUR HEART? WHAT DID YOU SAY?\nWhen I grow up, I want to volunteer at Muscular Dystrophy Camp.\nAND DID YOU?\nYes, I started volunteering when I was sixteen years old. I loved it so much. I prayed for you to cure muscular dystrophy so many times. I took phone calls on the telethon. I learned so many skills regarding medical care. And I fell in love with so many kids who were grateful for just one day. But it didn't matter. My bipolar started showing up and I was dismissed after just ten years.\nJUST TEN YEARS?! DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY LIVES YOU TOUCHED IN THOSE TEN YEARS? HOW MANY PARENTS GOT TO TAKE BREAKS FROM GIVING TWENTY-FOUR HOUR CARE OR GOT TO SPEND SOME TIME WITH THEIR NONDISABLED CHILDREN? HOW MANY CAMPERS FELL IN LOVE WITH YOUR SMILE AND MOTHERLY PRESCENCE AND JUST KNEW YOU WOULD KEEP THEM SAFE? AND FOR GOODNESS SAKES, THE NUMBER OF FREE ICE CREAM CONES YOU ALL ATE JUST BECAUSE THERE WERE NO RULES? AND YOU KNOW THAT I HEARD YOUR PRAYERS BECAUSE THERE ARE SO MANY MORE TREATMENTS NOW AND PEOPLE WITH MD ARE LIVING MUCH LONGER.\nOh...\nAND DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST DAY AT THE GIFTED AND TALENTED SCHOOL WHEN YOU DISCOVERED THAT THE OTHER HALF OF THE SCHOOL WAS MODERATELY COGNITIVELY IMPAIRED?\nI was terrified.\nYES, BUT YOU'RE DREAM WAS TO BE A SERVICE SQUAD AND ALL THE GIFTED CLASSES WERE FULL SO YOUR ONLY CHOICE WAS TO SIGN UP FOR A SPECIAL ED CLASS?\nI was even more terrified.\nYES, BUT I KEPT NUDGING YOU AND YOU FELL IN LOVE WITH IT. YOU SIGNED UP FOR A SECOND YEAR AND BY THE END OF YOUR TIME THERE YOU HAD DECIDED THAT WHEN YOU GREW UP YOU WERE GOING TO BE A SPECIAL EDUCATION TEACHER.\nI know, and all through school I knew it was for me, but then I started teaching and my Bipolar got worse. I was hospitalized for the first times, and I was only able to keep teaching for about three years. I didn’t even make a bit of a difference.\nDIDN’T MAKE A DIFFERENCE?? DIDN’T MAKE A DIFFERENCE?! YOU WORKED WITH KIDS WHOM OTHERS HAD GIVEN UP ON. YOU USED EVERY SKILL YOU HAD LEARNED TO DESIGN INDIVIDUALIZED LESSON PLANS AND TEACH THOSE KIDS SKILLS THAT WOULD HELP THEM WITH THEIR DAILY LIVES. WHEN OTHERS CALLED IT GLORIFIED BABYSITTING, YOU WERE DETERMINED TO TEACH. EVERY CHILD THAT ENTERED YOUR CLASSROOM WALKED AWAY WITH SKILLS THAT THEY OTHERWISE WOULDN’T HAVE HAD, THAT MADE THEIR LIVES A LITTLE BETTER. THAT SURE SOUNDS LIKE A DIFFERENCE TO ME!\nOh..\nDO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE THREE AND YOU WERE WATCHING CHRISTMAS EVE ON SESAME STREET AND YOU SAW LINDA TEACH THE KIDS TO SIGN THE SONG “KEEP CHRISTMAS WITH YOU”? DO YOU REMEMBER HOW MUCH IT MOVED YOUR HEART AND HOW DETERMINED YOU WERE TO LEARN AMERICAN SIGN LANGUAGE ONE DAY?\nYes…I took an extra semester in college so that I could get as much ASL as possible. But what does it matter, I never used it, I don’t even know anyone that is Deaf!\nSOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO LOOK AT THINGS FROM MORE THAN ONE ANGLE. YOU HAVEN’T MET ANYONE WHO IS DEAF, BUT YOU USED THOSE SIGNS TO COMMUNICATE WITH KIDS WITH AUTISM WHO WERE OTHERWISE NONVERBAL. ALSO, WHEN YOU HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO GO TO AFRICA AND TEACH VACATION BIBLE SCHOOL AT AN ORPHANAGE FOR KIDS WITH SPECIAL NEEDS, YOU JUST KNEW YOU COULD TEACH THEM, EVEN THOUGH YOU DIDN’T SPEAK THEIR LANGUAGE. LEARNING SIGN LANGUAGE WASN’T ABOUT SPEAKING WITH KIDS WHO WERE DEAF, IT WAS ABOUT REALIZING THAT THERE ARE SO MANY WAYS TO COMMUNICATE AND THAT YOU NEED TO BE OPEN TO WHAT WAYS YOU CAN REACH THE CHILDREN THAT OTHERS CAN’T.\nOh…\nDO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU STARTED A MASTER’S IN AUTISM, BUT YOUR MENTAL ILLNESS WAS AT A ROUGH SPOT AND YOU DIDN’T THINK THERE WAS ANY WAY YOU COULD FINISH THE DEGREE? I SENT YOU AN AMAZING PROFESSOR AND FRIEND THAT HELPED YOU SEE THAT YOU WOULD BE GREAT AT APPLIED BEHAVIOR ANALYSIS, AND THAT MASTER’S YOU COULD GET WITH A DEGREE ONLINE, WHICH WOULD MUCH BETTER MEET YOUR NEEDS? DID YOU THINK THAT I SENT HER TO YOU JUST FOR FUNSIES? I SENT HER TO YOU BECAUSE I KNEW THAT SHE WOULD DIRECT YOU DOWN THE RIGHT PATH AND HELP YOU SEE HOW TALENTED YOU ARE.\nBut even after getting my Master’s and passing the boards I was only able to work for about three years. It was practically nothing.\nBUT IN THOSE THREE YEARS DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY LIVES YOU IMPACTED. YOU TAUGHT MANY YOUNG ADULTS TO LOVE THE FIELD OF ABA SO MUCH THAT THEY WENT BACK TO SCHOOL AND BECAME A BCBA, TOO. AND YOU GOT SO MANY YOUNG ONES WITH AUTISM SPECTRUM DISORDER ON THE PATH TO START LEARNING LIFE SKILLS AND BE ABLE TO COMMUNICATE IN WHICHEVER WAY WAS MEANT FOR THEM. I DON’T CALL THAT NOTHING!\nYeah, but then I was in such poor shape that I had to go to a short-term residential facility. I was at my lowest of lows. It was like I was starting over from square zero.\nYES…BUT DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT IT WAS LIKE AT THE END OF YOUR STAY. YOU WERE CO-FACILITATING PRACTICALLY EVERY GROUP YOU WERE IN AND YOU WERE RUNNING A SOCIAL GROUP SO THAT PEOPLE CAME OUT OF THEIR ROOMS AND PLAYED GAMES OR JUST CHATTED. I NEEDED YOU TO SEE THAT EVEN AT THE TIMES WHEN YOUR DISABILITY IS AT ITS WORST, YOU ARE STILL ABLE TO BE A TEACHER. YOU ARE STILL ABLE TO BE A MENTOR. YOU ARE STILL ABLE TO SUPPORT THE PEOPLE AROUND YOU AND SHOW THEM THAT THERE REALLY IS HOPE.\nHmmm…but what about now. I’ve been on disability for a few years, I know that I won’t be able to work full time, I still have been in and out of the hospital, and now that I’m not making very much money I have to go to the horrible hospitals!\nALL IN THE PLAN, MY DEAR. I NEEDED YOU TO SEE HOW DIFFERENT MEDICAL TREATMENT IS FOR PEOPLE WHO ARE ABLE TO WORK AND FOR THOSE THAT AREN’T, ESPECIALLY KNOWING THAT THE MORE SEVERE YOUR DISABILITY, THE LESS LIKELY YOU’LL BE ABLE TO WORK. IT IS AWFUL WHAT IS GOING ON DOWN THERE. I GAVE YOU THE POWER TO WRITE AND TO SPEAK, AND YOU ARE USING YOUR VOICE TO MAKE THINGS DIFFERENT. I KNOW YOU LOOK AT THE ANALYTICS OF YOUR WEBSITE, BUT THERE IS TRULY NO WAY FOR YOU TO KNOW HOW MUCH OF AN IMPACT YOU ARE HAVING ON THE WORLD. ONLY I CAN SEE THAT. I AM SO PROUD OF YOU, AND I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE WHAT YOU DO NEXT! SO PLEASE DON’T GIVE UP NOW. I KNOW YOUR LIFE IS DIFFICULT AND YOU ARE RUNNING LOW ON HOPE, BUT TRUST THAT I HAVE A PLAN FOR YOU AND THAT ONLY YOU CAN FULFILL IT. REMEMBER THAT IN MANY OF THESE INSTANCES IT WAS YEARS BETWEEN WHEN I GAVE YOU THE SKILL OR DESIRE AND WHEN YOU HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO USE THAT SKILL. MY PLANS ARE LONG TERM, WHILE YOU CAN ONLY SEE A FEW MOMENTS IN ADVANCE. YOU NEED TO TRUST ME, I AM ALWAYS PREPARING YOU FOR THE NEXT STEP…BIG OR SMALL. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?\nYes, I think so. If I end my life now, it’s probably in the middle of a plan, and it could mean that that plan was never fulfilled. I have to keep fighting…but I know that You will be with me.\nI WILL. I LOVE YOU WITH A LOVE THAT IS SO BIG YOU CAN’T EVEN UNDERSTAND, AND I AM SO SO PROUD OF YOU FOR CONTINUING TO FIGHT. YOUR BRAIN WILL TELL YOU IT’S TIME TO GIVE UP MANY MORE TIMES BEFORE IT’S TRUE, BUT REMEMBER THAT I AM HERE AND WE CAN ALWAYS TALK THROUGH IT. I’M ASKING YOU TO PLEASE NOT GIVE UP, AND I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT WHAT WILL COME NEXT!\nThank you, me, too. I love you.\nI LOVE YOU, TOO. NOW GO CHANGE THE WORLD!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lost in the Forest\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1313\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“What is that girl doing here?”\n“Shhh! She might hear you!”\n“Don’t shhh me! It is impossible for humans to hear or see us unless we want them to.”\n“Nothing is impossible, Edwina. This is the enchanted side of the forest that no human can find, and look, she’s walking in it.”\n“Hello? Is anyone here? My name is Maggie, and I’m lost…. hello?”\n“Maggie, what a lovely name. She’s a pretty little thing, and she looks familiar. If she’s lost, we need to help her find her way out of the forest, especially before dark. Let’s make ourselves known to her.”\n“No!”\n“And why not?”\n“You know perfectly well, why not! Whenever we encounter a human anywhere, you always want to get friendly and chat and let them know everything about us. Half the time, they think you are just a crazy old bat!”\n“Yes, but I always erase their memory of our meeting before I leave them. I love chatting with humans to see what is happening in their world. Such complicated creatures. Anyway, we can’t just leave her here.”\n“She’ll eventually find her way out. Maybe you can leave her some breadcrumbs to follow.”\nYou know, you’re not funny.”\n“Hello? Is someone here?”\n“I will not let this poor young lady keep yelling for help when I know no one will come to her rescue. If we leave her and night falls, there are the trolls to deal with. Arghh… they are such ghoulish creatures, enough to scare anybody. No, we must help her, and if you want to stay invisible, that’s fine with me. You don’t have to show yourself, but I’m going to.” \n“Fiona, if you insist upon being visible and helping her, then at least hide your wings and become human size.”\n“Yes, that might be a good idea. Thank you, Edwina. Ahhhh… now that’s better.”\n“Fiona, what is that rag around your neck?”\n“It’s called a scarf; humans wear them all the time. I just want to be relatable. I don’t need a critique from you; either stay invisible or move along. I’m going to let her see me now.”\n“Humph!”\n“Hello? Anybody?”\n“Hello dear. Are you lost?”\n“Huh? Oh hi! I thought I heard voices but didn’t see you standing there. Anyway, I sure am happy to see you. I was following this extraordinary blue butterfly, forgot which direction I came from, and got lost. Can you point me toward getting out of the forest?”\n“Of course, dear girl!”\n“That’s a beautiful scarf you’re wearing.”\n“Why, thank you for noticing.”\n“It’s so ……colorful.”\n“Yes, isn’t it? Now, where exactly do you live?”\n“I’m staying with my uncle for the summer at Yorkshire Manor off Pivey Road.”\n“Yorkshire Manor? Arthur Matheson is your uncle?\n“Yes, you know him?”\n“I’ve heard of him. He’s a professor at York College. I’m surprised your uncle allowed you to venture off to the forest alone.”\n“Well, he doesn’t know I’m here and warned me never to enter the forest. But, he never said why and curiosity got the better of me.”\n“Curiosity killed the cat.”\n“Excuse me? Oh, hello, I didn’t see you either. Were you standing there all along?” \n“Of course, I’ve been standing here all along! Are you nearsighted?”\n“Please excuse my sister’s manners. My name is Fiona, and this is my sister Edwina. She is not used to interacting with……..people. What’s your name, dear?”\n“Magalyn Matheson, but everyone calls me Maggie.”\n“What a lovely name. Nice to meet you, Maggie.”\n“Nice to meet you. The forest is so beautiful, peaceful, and serene. I don’t understand why my uncle doesn’t want me here.”\n“It’s because humans are not welcomed on this side of the forest.”\n“Edwina! Good gracious, don’t be so rude. We are good fairies of the glen, and behavior like that is the character of a troll.”\n“You are fairies?” \n“Well, now you have let the cat out of the bag, Fiona! You’re lucky Sirus isn’t here; he would be upset with you again.”\n“We are both lucky as he would not like you saying humans are not welco……”\n“What is going on here?”\n“Sirus! We were just about to call out to you.”\n“I doubt that. Good Lord, what is this human being doing by herself on this side of the forest?”\n“Are you a fairy too?”\n“Fairy? Did she just ask me if I was a fairy? What is going on here? Fiona? Edwina?”\n“Maggie, here, got lost, and we were helping her to find her way out of the forest safely.”\n“And you helped her by telling her you were fairies?”\n“Not me, Sirus, loose lips here, did.” \n“She’s the niece of Arthur Matheson.”\n“Arthur would never let his niece come into the forest.”\n“He doesn’t know.”\n“She cannot be here. Who brought her here?”\n“Don’t look at us. She found her way here all on her own.”\n“Humph...Well, transport her back now, and remember, THIS WAS ALL A DREAM! Do I make myself clear?”\n“Yes, Sirus. Edwina and I are on it.”\n“Whoa…..Who is that guy? And, how did he just disappear into thin air?”\n“Never mind, dear. Edwina and I will guide you back to your uncle’s home.”\n“Why is grumpy pants upset that I’m in the forest?”\n“He is head of the fairy council, a very prestigious but stressful position, and no humans are allowed in the enchanted side of the forest.”\n“Fiona!”\n“What difference does it make? She won’t remember a thing, which I think is unfair. I mean, she should know about her heritage.”\n“You know I’m standing right here, and I can hear you. And, what do you mean I should know about my heritage?”\n“Maggie dear, you are part Fae.”\n“You have gone too far this time, Fiona!”\n“Fae? What’s a Fae?”\n“You have fairy blood. Your great-grandmother was Sorrel Astor of Thistle, one of the most powerful fairies of her time. She ran away with a human and gave birth to your grandmother Ella. But tragedy hit, and Sorrel and her human husband were killed, leaving Ella to be raised by her human grandparents. So, the secret was buried with the understanding that Ella and any of her decedents should never know their lineage to the Fae world. Is your grandmother Ella still alive?”\n“No. She passed away before I was born. But I don’t understand why I can’t know my lineage?”\n“If humans were to discover that the fairy realm is real, their greed for riches and power could destroy us, so it should remain in fairytales.” \n“Does my uncle know?”\n“Of course he does. Being a professor of folklore at a prestigious college, he understands the chaos that would follow if the Fae world was discovered. Ella was your father and uncle’s mother, and both want it to remain folklore and fairytales.”\n“That’s not fair. Shouldn’t I have the right to choose to know about my lineage?”\n“You should, but you don’t. Enough of this storytelling, Fiona! Let’s get her back to her uncle’s home now!”\n“I’ll just ask my uncle then.”\n“See, that’s exactly what Sirus did not want!”\n“Dear Maggie, take this special tiger lily and keep it as a memento of your time here in the enchanted side of the forest.”\n“That’s very kind of you, Fiona. Thank you.”\n“No! No mementos!”\n“Don’t listen to Edwina. Take a sniff of the beautiful fragrance like no other.”\n“Oh my, that smells amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever smelt anything so beautiful. But I won’t forget, and I will ask my uncle more questions. I..…..ahhhh-hhaaaaaa…Gosh, sorry, I didn’t mean to yawn in your face. All of a sudden, I feel very tired. Would you mind if I took a short nap before we left? I can barely keep my eyes op…en…….”\n“Of course, Maggie, we don’t mind at all. Sweet dreams dear………….”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Mike's Gasoline Alley\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1036\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone walking into a gas station." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Mike's Gasoline Alley\nWhew, it's scorching out there today, and Betsy is running hot! Is Mac here today?\n\"What, you didn't know Mac retired.\"\nThis isn't Mac's gas station anymore? Wow, I thought Mac would die under a chassis before retiring.\n\"He almost did; Paul found him unconscious two weeks ago in the bay, barely clinging to life, suffering from a heart attack. Lucky too, because I wasn't working that day. No telling how long he had been down there. God was looking out that day. Danny is negotiating a buyout with his father and trying to keep it in the family. The doctor told him he was the first one he had treated who survived a widow maker after being down five minutes or more.\"\nDamn, I have been bringing my cars, trucks, and vans to Mac since 1978. When he dropped my car off, he even fixed my lawnmower once when he saw me struggling with it. My parents used to say you never leave a great mechanic or hairdresser. Mac kept his rates reasonable, had the best gas, and could diagnose all engines by hearing them cranked up and running for a minute.\nI remember when he bought this place in 1980, so many said don't do it; nothing has survived in that location. I think that it was his saving grace. He could focus on repairing and restoration because he was behind other gas stations on the busy road. Word of mouth and quality work has kept his business flourishing.\nIn 1990, everyone assumed he would call it quits when the motor mounts dropped a 2-ton block on him, shattering all the bones below his waist. Not Mac, while in rehab, he was redesigning his garage and hiring contractors to get it ready for his return. I asked him why? He said, \"Why not? I was born a grease monkey and will die a grease monkey; that is all I know and love.\"\nI wondered why the garage was named Mike's Gasoline Alley once, and I asked Mac about the significance of the name. He explained that he was paying homage to his father, whose sacrifice made it possible. His father, Michael Moody MacArthur, didn't want to overshadow his children by naming anyone junior. His firstborn brother was Kevin Michael, and he is John Michael; his mother was Michelle, so everyone's name is a version of Mike (gender neutral) l and is represented in the name.\nHe told me he was following his father's lead; he had been drafted by Uncle Sam's army and worked on the jeeps and tanks. So, when his father returned home, he could rebuild anything with wheels but could not read an invoice or a parts catalog. So, he would work part-time after school, and his mom did the business books and the ordering, and no one ever doubted the work between them. He purchased the garage with his family's blessings, using the inheritance from his father's insurance and severance package from the government.\nMac was a force to be reckoned with. After hurricane season, his business took off and was a prominent restoration establishment in the 2000s. Hurricane Katrina was a category five that caused 1,392 fatalities and caused damage estimated between $97.4 billion to $145.5 billion in late August 2005, particularly in New Orleans. Some people look for ways to scam anyone who doesn't know better. Car dealers purchased flood-damaged vehicles and resold them to those they scammed to buy their possessions for pennies on the dollar. Markups were double the worth, and they got away with it often because the owner was displaced and could not show proof of ownership. For the people who were relocated to Virginia that owned a vehicle in Louisiana, Mac did everything he could to find their car and restore it to working order and only charged for parts. He didn't charge anything several times because the owner helped him in the gas station or the garage or became an employee.\nThat is how I got my first car when I took a vehicle to be inspected for its worth… Mac would inspect the potential purchase for $25 and check things outside, inside, underneath, and everything bumper to bumper. He was thorough and would advise you on the recalls, damages, and whether it was priced reasonably. Mac told me to take it back and run, don't walk. Mac knew the kind of vehicle I was looking for, and after I brought in another lemon, he agreed to help me find a good car the upcoming weekend. We went to a police auction on Saturday morning and bought a cute little custom Camaro that I would have never considered possible. I wondered why he insisted we go in his wrecker truck. He said, \"There is always a method to my madness.\" The price tag said $5000, but after Mac worked his magic, we walked away with it for half the asking price and another car I had to promise to ride with him to pick up later that afternoon. I think he found a clunker not worth buying and got it thrown in for a little bit of nothing, and he added the rest of the 2500.00.\nI didn't mind helping Mac out, and we dropped my dream car in my driveway, turned around, and headed back to Richmond twice. Each time we brought back a vehicle for nothing but a handshake, a goofy look from me, and light banter between us and the man in charge. Mac was well known by the police auctioneer. On the ride back, I asked what had happened and how much I still owed him for the car. The answer floored me… when we pulled up behind the Camaro in my yard, he handed my $2500 back to me and went over to it, put up the hood, fiddled with something, started it up, gave me the keys and said: \"the dealer tags expire in 30 days put full coverage on it Monday and you're straight after that.\"\nI hugged him and thanked him for being a great mechanic and a wonderful friend!\nThis story is in loving memory of John Michael \"Mac\" MacArthur!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Mouse!\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1184\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that formally utilizes a mathematical sequence; e.g., the Fibonacci sequence could determine the number of words in each paragraph, or start with a number and work backwards. Make sure the formula is made clear, either within the story, or before or after it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(This uses a triangular sequence to determine the number of words per line, and per paragraph https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triangular_number. A couple of the longer lines seem to wrap as well - not clear how to resolve that with this editor.)\n\n\n\n\nMouse!\n\n\n\n\nIn\nmy house.\n\n\n\n\nI\nknow not\nwhence it came.\n\n\n\n\nEyes\nbeady eyes\nglare at me\nand whiskers chuff away.\n\n\n\n\n“Shoo!”\nI shout\nand heavily stomp.\n“Get you gone now,\nbeast, and forever hie away.”\n\n\n\n\n“No,”\nit squeaks;\nits nose twitches,\n“It cannot be done,\nI’m so sorry to say.”\nAnd I’m perplexed and ever vexed.\n\n\n\n\n“What?”\nI wonder.\n“How dare you?\nWhat insolence is this?”\nSuch a cheeky little mouse\ndefying me in my own house,\nI simply cannot stomach this at all.\n\n\n\n\n“Cheese,\nplease sir,\nI beg you,”\nsays the fluffy runt.\n“I am poor and famished,\nand you have so much bounty.\nJust a little nibble, tittle, and jot,\na slice of yellow heaven, a pungent triangle.”\n\n\n\n\nCheese,\nof course\nit’s always cheese.\nI feel pity swell.\nI cut a cheddar chunk,\nan orange sliver, crumbly and sharp,\nand hand it to the starving rodent.\n“There there, of course, a triangle is fair.\nAnd now you’ve had your fill my friend, adieu.”\n\n\n\n\n“Thanks,”\nit says,\nand then: “But.”\nBut? Is there more?\n“What of my wife, sir?\nShe’s dwindling fast, the poor lass,\nand dearly needs a bite as well.”\nA hungry wife? Well that’s certainly no good.\nI grab my knife and measure the cheddar anew.\n“Camembert, sir, if you please. Her tastes are quite refined.”\n\n\n\n\nAgain\nI slice,\nand give away.\n“Is that all then?”\nThe mouse pockets the cheese\nand squeaks, “I’ve two children also.”\nI sigh and raise my knife again.\n“Gouda for my girl Eileen, her favourite kind,\nand brie, my boy Maurice – he can’t do without.”\nI cut again and once more, my cupboard running bare,\nmy plans for French soup abandoned, and my toast left unadorned.\n\n\n\n\n“More,”\nhe squeaks.\n“I’ve cousins some,\narriving from all over,\nand aunts and uncles too.\nA mouse-ish wedding we will have\nso cut and cut more triangles, sir,\nof edam, feta, parmesan, and gruyere and blue,\nand for the kids, a queso sauce, and cream–”\nI scream! My shaking hand cramps from the endless cutting.\n“How many more?” I fretfully ask. “How many kin have you?”\n“Oh more, sir, a great deal so, from countries far and wide.”\n\n\n\n\nSqueaks\nand chitters\nfill the air,\na thousand tiny feet.\nAround me are a legion,\na million mice carpet my home\nand drape the walls with beady eyes\nand swishing cobra tails. They sniff and whisker\nand debate which cheeses are best, and argue ceaselessly.\nThen I hear my guest, “Keep cutting sir! More cheese!\nWe need halloumi by the load and much Havarti and Swiss.\nCottage by the bucket, and Muenster by the barrel. And above all\nwe need the cheese – that glorious, sumptuous, blissful cheese – that everyone calls cake.”\n\n\n\n\nSweat\ndrips into\nmy sorry eyes,\nI hack my knife\nso hard the counter splits.\nThe mice, they cheer and jeer\nand hurry me along. Each new cheese\nI cut into a slice and then again\ndiagonally; two perfect triangles filling the mice with glee.\n“More!” they shout, their squeak a roar, a deafening tide\nof joy. “More, sir, don’t lag behind! We hunger ever so!”\nThey pass me a new, bigger knife, and tip my fridge over,\nand produce a better cutting board – big, industrial and made of stainless steel\n– and shout “Our appetite keeps growing! Just cut and cut again, another cheesy triangle!”\n\n\n\n\nAnother\ncheesy triangle!?\nWhat to do?\nMy arm goes numb\nand my back aches so.\nI cannot keep this pace up,\nbut my guests do goad me on.\nI fear what happens when I run out\nthe last of all my cheese. Will that sate\nthe little beasts? Or will their hunger just keep growing?\nEach time I blink there’s even more mice by the dozen.\nThey walk on stilts and fill the air, hanging from tiny ropes,\na million million eyes on me. They bet each time another triangle’s cut\nto see who gets the prize; and those who don’t just roar their ire:\n“Cut faster, man, and harder! More triangles for us today! You’ve done okay so far.”\n\n\n\n\n“Mouse!”\nI cry.\n“How much more?”\n“More and ever more,”\nhe says, and they cheer.\n“I’ve given you an inch already–”\n“–and we’ll have a mile. You see,\nwe like your home and we’d simply hate\nif we had to chew the walls. You agree?”\nI don’t want them in my walls, yes, I concur\nthat cheese is the better of the two. “And,” he says,\n“a small known fact: that mice, though small, are fond of meat.”\nOf meat? I wonder what they mean. What next? A slice of ham?\nOr chicken drumstick, turkey leg, bacon rasher, sausage, steak or big tin of spam?\nMy fridge is nearly empty as it is, and held little more than my cheese.\nI may have a can or two of sardines in the basement, or tuna and beans.\n\n\n\n\nSilence,\nI note\nall around me.\nNot a single squeak,\npeep, chirp, snuffle, or twitch.\nAll ten billion eyes on me.\n“Meat,” says the mouse, “my good sir.”\nAnd all their mouths drip with fresh saliva.\n“No hard feelings, sir, but we’ll have our fill.\nKeep the triangles of cheese coming, and cut them well,\nor we’ll gnaw the cutter who’s surpassed his purpose. It’s recycling.”\nMy throat’s gone dry, I swallow hard, and get back to slicing.\nI feel their eyes crawl on my skin and hear their slobber drip.\nHow did I get into this mess? How did the day turn so awry?\nThe sun was nice this morning and I never feared that today I would die.\nI ponder all the plans left unfulfilled, as I cut another triangle and toss it to\nthe mass of mice. Another dozen slices of smooth mozzarella, another score or two of crumbly asiago –\n\n\n\n\nOut.\nOf cheese.\nI swallow hard.\nThe tense mice shift,\nmy fridge a barren void.\n“Thank you, sir,” says the mouse.\n“You’ve done quite well, but that’s all.\nWe’d love more cheese, but now we’ll feast–”\n“Wait!” I cry, interrupting the beast. “A moment please.”\n“Well?” he arches an irritated eyebrow. “What is it then?\nHurry now, for our stomachs rumble so, and our young hunger.”\nThink fast! I think I’ve done my good deed for the day\nand don’t relish ending up a mousy meal. But what can I do?\nThere’s a billion billion of them, stacked so tight they run floor to ceiling.\nIf only I had more cheese for just another triangle or two. But that’s it!\n“Mouse!” I say. “There is more cheese!” He frowns and scans the fridge, empty and lifeless.\n“Not here, but at the store! I’ll grab my wallet and drive down, and return with more!”\nThe mice agree, and I flee across the sea. And the house, I put up for sale, as-is." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Journey Awaits\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1018\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story of fragments. Many options here: no verbs, sentence fragments, short sections, nothing but objects, etc. The fragments should relate to one another obliquely, hesitantly, subtly, ambiguously, preposterously, marvelously." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Child peers under bed. World of magic awaits! Excitement fills heart. Door, barely visible in shadows. Turns knob and steps inside. Immersed in new realm. Color. Wonders beyond imagination. Everywhere, creatures scurry. Paths lined with exotic plants. Sparkle like diamonds touched by moonlight. Cautiously wander further until ancient tree. Green and alive. Full of secrets carved into trunk. Quickly climbs up through foliage thick like velvet against skin. Presence danger lurking nearby!\nFeeling danger. Hiding in shadows, watching. Leaping off into clearing. Sound of laughter! Sweet, inviting. Sparkles like stars on dark night sky! Creatures gathering around large fire. Warmth and safety radiating outward. Noticed figure standing beyond flames: Tall. Eyes glimmering gold and silver. Mysterious smile beckoning closer...\nSettled in circle, enchanted by stories. Voice soothing like summer breeze; words whispered from ancient language - forgotten. Felt peace and joy. Nothing else matters. Time stopped. Lost in moment forever... Until sharp crack! Fire blazing fiercely. Out of control! Screams echoing through air. Creatures scrambling for safety. Gold and silver eyes watching with knowing gaze…\nOminous eyes latch on gold and silver. Fire expands. Child terrified, tries to flee. Held in place by unknown force! Panic rising as fire closes. Intense heat singeing skin. Glances up. No help here. Eyes gone cold and distant.\nClosing in. Smoke obscuring vision. Flames licking flesh - searing pain! Desperate for salvation. Reached out to figure with last ounce of strength... Suddenly felt embrace like cool breeze on burning skin. Lifted away from destruction.\nEyes of gold and silver shimmering. Magic swirling around figure. Warm embrace calming fear. Whispers, \"Come with me.\" Whisper as powerful as yell. But gentle. Guiding away from danger. Unknown future. Adventure awaits child! Follows without hesitation.\nUnfamiliar path ahead; anticipation rising. Wind whistling, carrying secrets of unknown journey. Glimpsed creatures beyond horizon - spirits dancing in moonlight? Steps quickening with every turn; heart racing faster and faster. Suddenly stopped! Wise figure blocking way forwards.\nGazed into eyes; saw truth of journey ahead. Glowed with knowledge, courage, and strength. Told to remember - life is adventure! Never ending! Felt power within heart swell. Ready for new challenge... Turned towards horizon.\nGlimpse of future. Bright and full of promise. Taking first step. Fear forgotten. Only excitement remains. Creatures alongside now, guiding way forward. Appreciating beauty. Sunsets more vibrant. Onward to destination.\nVenturing further, discovering new wonders. Feeling stronger, every step. Spirits singing in night sky. Magic filling air! Excitement growing. Destiny comes closer. Starlight illuminates path.\nDemon spirit looms ahead. Eyes blazing with hatred. Reaching out to consume. Summoned all courage, stepped forward. Child's face strong. Felt power surging within. Magic coursing through veins.\nSpirits gathering around, amplifying strength. Face of determination. Raised hand towards Demon Spirit. Unleashed power. Roaring like thunder! Felt victory coursing through body. Enemy dissipated to nothingness. Joyful cheers echoed from creatures in night sky...\nChild steps forward, uncertain; spirits fade away. Wanders through desolate land - fear gripping heart. Darkness closing in like fog on cold winter night. Lost and alone, searching for way home... Voice calling from distant mountainside! Follows sound blindly into unknown wilderness -- hope burning bright inside chest.\nVoice calling again, echoing through darkness. Closer now with every step; hope strengthens resolve. Emerges from shadows into clearing - voice louder than ever before! Standing at edge of cliff. Emptiness. Imagination or dark omen? Again, alone on desolate road.\nHeard whisper on wind: \"Follow the stars.\"; looked up - sky ablaze with twinkling lights. Reached out, touched one star -- felt pulse of energy! Guided by light to distant mountain peak. Found entrance hidden in shadows; opened door cautiously, stepped inside.\nLight glowed from within. Sparkles of energy danced. Followed deeper into chamber. Walls adorned with symbols. Glowing orbs illuminating. Stopped at threshold of throne room. Figure seated on throne. Face shrouded in shadows! Voice echoed: \"Welcome home.\" Child stepped close. Chair lifted; home appeared. Looking through from under bed. Moon light touching floorboards.\nChild turned away. Must help creatures. Adventure still awaits. Ready to face challenge. Back out into world, filled with magic and mystery! Stepped froward. Desolate, unknown realm. Continued until trees broke horizon.\nSenses sharpened. Wind whistling through canopy. Glimpsed movement in shadows. Creatures scurrying away. Unexplained fear gripped heart. Continued bravely on. Ever forward. Mossy path winding ever closer. Eyes searching. Fog gripped foliage. Echoing laughter eerie yet inviting. Child beckoned forward.\nMysterious laughter growing louder. More enticing. Path opened. Fire lit in center. Dancing shadows cast upon decaying trees. Ancient tree tall amidst circle of creatures. Branches beckoned closer. Gripped branch. Felt power surging through tree. Attempted to resist the call. Ancient energy too strong! Branches became fire.\nFought against demon's will. Flames raging. Hand held firm. Fingers restraining flames. Mind engulfed by flames. No escape! Felt heat rise. Strength drained. Summoned courage, held on tight. focused power within. Mind emptied to only points of gold and silver. Demon spirit retreated with roar. Fire draining. Child stepped forward into circle. Released branch to ground.\nAbsence of light, now darkness formed. Growing stronger. Growing bolder. Darkness absorbed trees. Absorbed creatures. Child focuses. Foliage begins to glow. Spirits within awaken. Screams of shadow. The air softens. The path forward illuminates.\nTrees bow in reverence. Creatures singing. Wind caresses face - comfort and warmth. Glittering webs lay ahead, sparks alight on fingertips. Fear fades away. Child surrounded by creatures. Felt warmth. Friendship to their savior. Words failed - tears streaming down cheeks. Smiles shone brighter than stars. Whispered secrets passed between them. Felt peace that never existed before...\nPath winding. Creatures scurrying alongside. Glittering webs ahead, secrets of unknown realm. Fear forgotten. Friendship shared. Wind caressing face with warmth and comfort. Magic coursing through veins, power surging within soul!\nLonging for familiar. Aching for home. Past life fading away. Fading away with each passing day. Unfamiliar faces and places. Glimpses of unknown future ahead. Longing for what once was.\nPath fades away. Ahead the figure. Gold and silver grow. Gold eye becomes door. Child, stepping through. Crawls from under bed. Light of silver eye illuminates. World again at rest." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Confidences\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1049\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Jan, do you think you’ve met your future husband yet?”\n“You know, I think so. I think the timing just hasn’t been right yet, but some time soon, I’ll start going out with him.”\n“Are you thinking of one guy in particular?”\n“I’m not sure.”\n“How about you, Elsa?\n“No, I don’t think I have. At least, I hope not.”\n“What are you looking for?”\n“He’ll have to love films, and be funny.”\n“Funny like Mr. Bean?”\n“He’d have to have some form of appreciation of Mr. Bean!”\n“Remember that Mr. Bean where he brought a raw fish with him to place in a pan to see if it was the right size to buy, ha ha ?!” \n“Yes! That Rowan Atkinson is an original!”\n“I think I like the Christmas one best where the girlfriend thinks she’s getting an engagement ring, and it turns out to be a round hanger for the silly poster of an engagement!”\n“Classic!”\n“I don’t care about having a big ring like some women do.”\n“I don’t know. If he can afford it, I would like a nice one.”\n“Els, I really feel like Kramer from Seinfeld, always coming over here to hang out with you and your sister, when I have my own place.”\n“Don’t feel like that. We all love to see you as often as you can spare.”\n“Thanks! I love being here. It’s like a home away from home.”\n“Fred’s inviting us all to go salsa dancing.”\n“Oh how fun! I never did learn salsa properly, but it can’t be that hard.”\n“I ran into your old boyfriend John the other day. He was so happy to show me he was with another girl. The girl was ugly, really bad skin.”\n“Poor girl. I don’t think John knows how to date, so that won’t last long. I regret not giving him advice about it when he asked me. I felt the weirdness of being seven years younger, rather clueless, and giving advice.”\n“I can see that.”\n“Here’s where John went wrong. When you date, you should be putting your best qualities forward, not calling yourself a worm, or telling your date how others are better than you. Maybe he was trying to look humble, but he was really losing my respect.”\n“Of course!”\n“He also had this weird way of smiling when he was angry with me. We went to a party and I found myself talking to a guy named Mark, who I found more attractive than John. John was right there, and tried to take my hand, but I wouldn’t let him. Later that night, through a gritted smile, he told me that he was angry with me for it. It’s a bad sign, when almost everyone else seems more attractive to you than the person that you’re dating.”\n“Ha! Definitely a red flag.”\n“I had that feeling again, taking some ballroom dance lessons with him, my brother-in-law, and my friend Steve and his wife. I found myself preferring to dance with either of the other two guys than with John. We were doomed.”\n“Oh, I never knew about that!”\n“That reminds me, another dating no-no is talking bitterly about an ex-date like Max did when we went out on our own date! I just wanted to get away as he confided in me about how Mary didn’t understand him.”\n“Yikes!”\n“I really don’t know how this rather plain Mary was as popular as she was. She had many admirers, from what I could tell.”\n“Mary who?”\n“Mary Haloran.”\n“Oh really? That is surprising. Sometimes admiration spreads because others admire.”\n“I guess.”\n“Mostly, I want a guy who will fit into my weird family.”\n“Your family isn’t weird.”\n“Oh yes we are. He’ll have to know Spanish. That’s a must have.”\n“Loads of people know Spanish, Fred for one.”\n“Yes, I like Fred.”\n“Well, when is this salsa outing?”\n“Next Saturday.”\n“Good, I can make it.”\n“Do you know, Fred is really funny?”\n“Really? I’ve never seen that side of him.”\n“There was a talent show. Fred can sing really well. Do you remember that guy who took the tune of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” and changed it to a politically correct, milquetoast song?”\n“Yes, I remember!”\n“Well, Fred did the same thing, changing the words to “Glamour Boys” by In Living Colour!”\n“Please tell me there is a video! I need to see that!”\n“Maybe we could ask Fred.”\n“Who else is coming?”\n“Gretchen, Diane, my sister Maria of course and Penny and Paul.”\n“Oh Paul, I don’t think I like him.”\n“Why not?”\n“Just an instinct. And once he was critical that I ordered deep dish spinach pizza, calling it a waste. Gretchen came to my defense, but he doubled down.”\n“Oh well.”\n“Honestly though, I don’t think he’s a good match for Penny, or for any nice girl.”\n“Well, Penny has her wise mother who can steer her right.”\n“True, I love Penny’s mom! Wish she was my mom.”\n“Do you remember when we found her on her front lawn, dancing the Macarena?”\n“I’ll never forget it. I also remember all the good advice she’s given us over the years.”\n“Remember when she had David put makeup on you, and we were all gathered round.”\n“Young David from Spain, I forgot about that!”\n“I hope we’ll all always be friends.”\n“Me too.”\n“You and Maria are very special to me since we were kids taking piano lessons at that convent.”\n“Yes, we go way back, over a decade now.”\n“Now let’s talk about what kind of house you’d like to own someday.”\n“Well, growing up having a pool was always fun. I’m sad to see my mother has filled it all in with dirt, and made a massive garden.”\n“I was sad to see it go too. I swam there a lot over the years. For me, I’d like a spiral staircase and a library with dark shelves and warm lighting.”\n“Oh that sounds good. I’d be okay without stairs, just a large ranch would be fine by me.”\n“I feel like these little slumber parties might soon be coming to an end somehow.”\n“Oh, how sad. These are the years of change, our twenties.”\n“Hope there are even better days to come.”\n“Definitely.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hissing Caverns\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1081\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Cut!... let's take a ten-minute break…\n\n\"Mom, you looked relaxed, confident, and beautifully in your element in front of the camera, but how do you feel?\"\nI'm good. I did a breathing treatment, although I was worried before we started. I'm glad I wore my scarf around my head, shoulders, neck, and long johns underneath this outfit. All the lights on me are an excellent heat source… ha, ha, ha…\n(Mom thinking) …We will face our fears for our children…, right? Inhaler in hand, nervous system on blast, and eyes wide open, I entered the cozy cavernous space this morning with reservations. I guess I was trying to overcome my fear for two reasons; myself and my son, who is directing this documentary.\n\"Let me know if you need a break or anything. I'm not trying to have my first film be your last.\"\nMe either (I thought)\nI've been told that Hissing Caverns are like Luray Caverns in Virginia, where I am from. My son's first field trip and my first asthma attack happened in the middle of Luray, Virginia. We followed Mr. Fearless and his classmates into a narrow passage beneath the light of day. I don't know if the cool dampness or excitement caused my chest to tighten, but I made it out in the nick of time. An ambulance was waiting at the exit, and I was given my first Nebulizer treatment on the way to Luray General Memorial Hospital in June of 1991.\nI left thinking…WOW, how majestic!\n It's beautiful. If this would be the last thing I should see, I've seen Heaven on Earth. It would be a fun place to film a movie with blue and red glasses that makes everything 3D or holograms…\nHere we are thirty-two years later…\nThe name gave me chills, but I had to have this cave, this town, and the people of Hissing Caverns in our film. It's rumored to be the original settling site of the first Wyoming settlers. We are exploring the first place on earth known to exist in Wyoming's hillbilly junction. The men who settled on the name in the 1700s named it because of the sound the wind made when dancing passed the opening of the largest cave.\nThe sheriff calls it Hooch Alley based on the moonshine production of two families, the Coopers and the Crawford. They were a modern version of the Hatfield and the McCoy; like the Hatfield and McCoy feud, theirs was over a love affair and which family owned a particular piece of land. Their farms were side by side on Route 33; on both sides, the stretch of pine trees on the left between the two ponds marked the boundary lines; until the ponds connected.\nForgive me…I love history and could explore, talk about, and educate people about genealogy, geography, and generational interactions all day. Ten years ago, I was hired as the town historian of Hissing Caverns, and last year Wyoming asked me to update the state maps. Because my job with Wyoming is a double position takes me all over the state to every city, county, hamlet, borough, and every pig poke and patch of grass to make sure you can find it on a map. No matter how afraid of heights or depths I am, I must record the population and the layout.\nCaves are fascinating places full of mysterious wonders that nature provides in brilliant colors and sizes. The floor of the cave is a stalagmite. Stalagmite is a mound or tapering column of Calcium salt that seems to rise from the floor and is deposited by dripping water. Scientifically the same type of deposit hanging from the ceiling is called Stalactite.\nCut…\n\"Mom, let's look at the playback…. I love to hear you tell the stories about your explorations, but I want to listen to my ten-year-old mom experience it with me for the first time in this cave as you did in Luray. Remember the excitement we felt reading the explanation cards when we reached each exhibit, even if we heard the guide say his quick speech as he passed.\n\"You sound winded.\"\n(Listen up, everyone!) let's wrap for lunch. Be back by 2.\n (I feel scared! Trying not to look like ten-year-old me, she's breathing like she had that first field trip day.)\n\"Mom, let's get medical to do a listen and a breathing treatment. They are on their way. Here sit down in the warmth of the car's back seat. Lean back, relax, and take a few cleansing deep breaths. Take a couple of puffs of your inhalers until medical gets here. Guess what…Aria is pregnant.\"\nReally?\n\"Yes, we have been waiting for the perfect time to tell you…now is as good as any.\"\n(feeling her pulse) good, it is rising\n(handing the medicine to the paramedics.) \"Mom needs a Nebulizer treatment, please. Here is the solution.\"\n (Son praying) 'Lord, we need help here. I need her to be okay. We can't do this without the rock of this family. Each treatment doesn't last as long as they used to. This baby will be her first grandchild. I don't want anyone else to be my leading lady in my first cinematic attempt.\"\n(update) Your mother is not responding as well as we would like to the treatment, so we are taking her in. We suspect there is a respiratory infection brewing in her right lung. I hear some rails in the lower lobe. Will you be riding with us?\n\"No, but I will be right behind you.\"\n\"Monica, Monica, can you let the crew know what is happening and to take the next three days off? Mom's asthma is in overdrive today, so she's getting admitted to Wyoming General. I will keep you informed. You should study the notes that Mom made for the film. See you Monday regardless.\"\n(Monica nodding) \"I will and prayers to you, and don't worry.\"\n(phone ringing) \"Hello\"\n\"Baby, Mom nearly collapsed on the set today, I noticed, and shut down immediately. I'm on my way to Wyoming General. When I know anything, I will call you back. Is your morning sickness getting better? I tried to distract Mom earlier and told her you are pregnant…. Forgive me, I know that we were waiting for the best time to tell her together, but I needed to get her thoughts in a new place. I'm at the hospital, so I love you, Aria.\n(call disconnected)" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: He Swallowed His Fire\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1954\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a dragon who doesn’t know what to do with their hoard anymore." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Once upon a time in a faraway land, high on a mountaintop overlooking the tiny village of Elderberry, lived a fire-breathing dragon named Fillibert.” Legend had it that Fillibert had been hatched from an egg that glittered like an enormous crystal in the sunlight. The crystal was said to have given Fillibert his ferocious fire.\nDragons are, by nature, hoarders, so, often their lairs became as thick as berry brambles with treasures! Fillibert didn’t hoard gold or art or magic like other dragons. Fillibert’s special weakness was hats. How he first came to love “tops,” as he called them, he couldn’t really say. But suspected this love derived from his great, tall, handsome Great Grandfather Dragon, for Great Grandfather Dragon was always dapper in his fine herringbone fedora, so high up it sometimes stuck through the clouds!\nWhile other young dragons wanted magic stars plucked from the night sky or pots of gold gathered from the ends of rainbows, even precious works of art collected throughout the centuries, all Fillibert ever requested for his birthday gift was a brand new hat.\nOnce, Fillibert’s best friend, Montaclur Dragon, received a soft, pastel painting by a Frenchman named Claude Monet, and another by his friend Edgar Degas. It was of pretty ballerinas stretching and preening before the dance. Oh!” Fillibert blinked at these marvels and wondered if he might create a hat as frothy and sublime as Degas’ ballerina tutus. Soon it would be Mother Dragon’s nine hundredth and ninety-nineth birthday, and he wanted to make a special hat for her. His fingers fairly itched!\nSo, Fillibert got out his shimmering ribbons and swaths of frothy tulle and snippets of this and snatches of that, his scissors and silken threads and fancy trims and began to cut, and to piece, his mind afire. Fillibert worked and worked until the stars came out and his lids dropped. But come morning, he was back at his worktable, his dragon claws cutting and twisting and fluffing and tucking. How elegant Mother Dragon would be in the annual Dragon Day Parade!\nNever had Mother Dragon thought Fillibert’s love of hats odd or peculiar or turn down her mouth at him or wagged a finger and “tut, tut, tut” him. Instead, whenever Mother Dragon saw Fillibert debut one of his new creations, she would lift her high, smooth silky neck and smile. Mother Dragon knew Fillibert had special gifts.\nEarly one morning, tugging the warm woolen muffs of the reindeer knit down over his small dragon ears, Fillibert stood out on the frozen ledge in front of his lair watching the shivering, bare-headed children way down below trudge through the snow toward the school bell. He snorted out two lines of fire and kicked his foot at the children. Remembering back to their terrified faces the moment they caught sight of him, he smiled from ear-to-ear. How they screamed and threw up their hands and scattered like mice. This was always hellish good fun! He saw himself laughing and slapping his knee. Ever since he was a very small dragon, he had always strived to win the medal for “The Most Malevolent Dragon of the Year,” but, because all young dragons are taught increasingly clever child- scaring strategies in Dragon Training School, competition was stiff.\nThat afternoon, puffing out a plume of fire, Fillibert made up his mind. The very next day he would thunder down into the village and scare the wits out of the children the moment they walked out of the schoolhouse. Wearing a devilish grin, he returned to his lair to primp and to dance around in his hat-cluttered lair. Taking in his multitudinous hats, his small yellow-green dragon eyes glowed with delight. Hats were everywhere! Piled on shelves, stacked along the floor. Hats overflowed trunks and boxes and hung on the walls. There were hats in cabinets and stored beneath the bed. Hats even hung from the chandelier! If wealth were counted in hats, Fillibert was a very rich dragon!\nHead held high; chest puffed out, trying on one hat after the other, Fillibert admired himself in the wall mirror. Sometimes he wore three, even four hats at a time, and had to dip to pass through the door! He placed a bright red hat with a Goldfinch feather on his head, and then a black and white polka dot bowler and then, balanced a violet hat with chartreuse and royal blue stripes on top. Excellent!” he exclaimed. “How fine!\nBut then, suddenly, the next day, Fillibert’s fire went out, and he had to take to his bed for a whole week. Miserable, he tossed and turned and snuffled and sneezed and coughed, and he could not get warm no matter what! “I’m dying,” he thought - but dragons don’ die! His fire could not go out! Every day he awoke, he groaned, “No fire! No fire! No fire!” Puffing out a tepid puff of smoke, and because dragons are, by nature, very, very hot, Fillibert began to worry that his fire would never come back. He simply did not know what to do!”\nAnd then one morning, he opened his eyes and coughed - his fire was back! It raged out of his mouth as red and flaming as a Chinese ribbon. So, he went to the cupboard and took down the beautiful tall, gold brocade hat his father had given to him on his hundredth birthday and placed it on his head. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. “How fine!” And again he went and looked down over the mountain at the freezing shivering children pushing their way through the wet snow. But, now, watching the miserable children wasn’t fun anymore. He knew how they felt as they made their way to school, and a soft, sad feeling mixed with guilt wavered in his breast like a chilled troubling wind. He saw himself rampaging through the village terrorizing every child in sight, even gleefully scaring the very ancients hobbling along on canes, and he shook his head. Then he remembered his laughing face and his hands slapping his knees until his ribs hurt.\nTo try and make up for his heartless rampages, Fillibert decided, “I will give those children hats!” But just as quickly he shook his head angrily and thundered at the troubling wind coursing through him, “Why? Why, why, why should I give those children my hats! What a screwball idea! It’s taken hundreds of birthdays and lots of hard work to fill my lair! Let those scaredy cats get their own!”\nHowever, early the next morning, Fillibert found himself standing in front of his lair watching the children way off in the distance. It had stormed during the night, and the snow was deep and nearly blocking the cottage doors and hung around the windows like swaths of white lace. Two blonde pig-tailed girls had fallen behind the line of others and were beginning to whimper and cry. A red-faced boy had turned back and was trying to help them along. “I’m tellin’ ya, Bita,”Fillibert could hear the boy admonish, breathing hard, “if’n ya don’t catch up, yer ears’ll freeze off! An’ yer nose too! So c’mon Lizzie and Malina, hurry! Ya never know when that dragon’ll come! ”\n Hearing the boy, Fillibert could not help but smile, and he let out a fearsome roar, threw up his hands and muttered angrily to himself, “Let their ears fall off! And their noses too! But then, he noticed a strange wavering in his voice, and frowned and returned to his lair. To put the children out of his mind, he dillied and dallied with his ribbons and bows and all the blindingly bright satin hats, the pinks and reds, and yellowy greens. As hard as he tried to keep the cold wind from whispering, its low, commanding voice just kept getting louder and louder until it thundered in his head, “Fillibert, you’re being selfish! Give those children your hats!” Just as if there were rocks in his pockets, Fillibert’s guilt began weighing him down.\nThere was plenty of time before he would go down into the village to tear about, roaring great orange streaks of fire, his tremendous tail knocking everything helter skelter, sending the villagers flurrying in fear. “I’ll just do a quick tidying up,” he thought. “That’ll stop that nagging wind!”\nIn a sudden fit of energy, surprising himself, Fillibert, dashed outside, grabbed the old wooden wagon from around the back of the mountain and parked it in front of his lair and started stacking hats along the bottom, thick woolens first, embroidered on top. “Oh no!” he exclaimed, standing back. “Those hats won’t do! They’re way too big! And he raced back inside and looked around. “The perfect size!” he thought spotting the little hats he had made his dragon dolls.\nAt once, Fillibert started grabbing hats off the dolls and neatly stacking them in the wagon. “Just a couple more oughta do it,” he thought and dropped to his knees and began pawing dolls out from beneath the bed. His eyes fixed on the lavender felt hat his mother had given him for his first birthday and he snatched it too, in case he decided to wear two!\n After balancing a full box of warm-looking doll caps atop the others, Fillibert nodded with satisfaction. The sun was going down and everywhere purple shadows lay on the snow like exhausted trees. The village women would be preparing suppers, the men not yet home, the children about to let out from school. Muffled up in his plaid woolen scarf, long red overcoat, and tall red and green paisley top hat, almost running with excitement, wagon bumping, Fillibert pulled his load down the mountain trail and tiptoed over to the school house door. Just as he did, a little boy of about eight door stepped outside. He gasped, stared up at Fillibert, and started screaming.\nOut of natural ferocity, a flicker of dynamite sparked in Fillibert’s heart. Just about to flash his dagger sharp teeth at the boy and thrash his monstrous tail, he paused. He considered the boy’s thin, miserable clothes, his blue terrified eyes, his face twisting with fear. He had never been so close to a human child before. As soon as they saw him coming, they always screamed and ran away so fast, he never actually felt the children’s’ fear. Just then, tenderheartedness seemed to have taken hold in Fillibert, for he did not feel mean anymore. He did not feel fierce. He did not feel scary. He just felt sorry.\nThat’s when Fillibert swallowed his fire. And he started swishing his great green tail and whirling around like one of the ballerinas in Mr. Edgar Degas’s beautiful painting. The little boy began to laugh and laugh, and the other children rushed to the door and lifted their eyes up to Fillibert’s smiling face, the line of his mouth, a great big upturned curve, and they started laughing too, because none had ever seen a smiling, pirouetting dragon.\nFillibert bent his enormous scaled body forward, and took the boy’s small hand in his gigantic paw and began to whirl him around and around.\nThe following day, the sky blue and low, the snow still flurrying, doll hats of every kind, fury caps and woolen hats and French chapeaus and others with funny shapes made hundreds of years ago when they were “high style” bobbed gaily toward the schoolhouse. Watching and smiling, Fillibert stood on his ledge. And then he went back inside, picked up his pot of glue and began to whistle.\nAs it turned out, Fillibert was not a heartless dragon after all. He was just Fillibert, just Fillibert." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fantastic Voyages of the World\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1246\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Time is a seamstress. She stitches importance into the otherwise mundane. Coffee shops on our favorite street, the bridge where we had our first kiss, and in my case, a book that my grandpa read me on his knee. It was always the calm quiet during a loud thunderstorm or a nice way of passing a summer afternoon. As the years turned into double digits, however, those stories took on a new shape, a new importance.\nShame on me, I let the book fall into disrepair and neglect. The cover was coated with dust, but in my mind’s eye, the stories shone brilliantly like the book was fresh off the shelf. Every stroke of the gold lace was like a time machine, taking me back to the first time my grandpa took me to strange and wonderful worlds. No matter how many times I said the title in my head, the grandeur didn’t fade: Fantastic Voyages of the World.\nI had a bad case of Mandela Effect reading the title. For years, I thought it was Voyages of the Fantastic World, but by all rights, this was at most a minor inconvenience. The stories were the same as they had always been. The part I had to be afraid of was whether or not they’d hold up after years of going unscrutinized.\nScared but excited, I brushed off the dust and flipped to an old classic, “Birdmen,” a story of prejudice, freedom and trust!\nEvander, Elio, and Rachel had nowhere to go but out. They were enemies of their own home, treated as villains by the real ones who should have been looking in the mirror. Sadly, there was no use disagreeing, and so their options became very simple: death or flight (in every sense of the term). The dynamic trio could go up, forward, or (Heaven forbid) down, but not back. \nThey had long known this day would come, so they had one place in their minds: Noah’s \nCrags, a large ravine separating humans from what might be considered ‘beasts,’ humanoids with defects that cause the normal ones’ blood to boil. Many nights were spent fantasizing about what laid on the other side of that divide, the lookalikes they’d dance in the sky with.\nFaster and faster they ran. Their wings were light, but their hearts were heavy. Doubt weighed them down, but they had to find it in themselves to run, jump, and fly! With a heave and a ho, their feet left the ground! Evander, Elio, and Rachel all made the world look small beneath them. Evander was nervous before taking the leap, but as the fields of green came into view, his nerves were swallowed by excitement. \nEvander was the first to touch down on the grass across the divide. With wings aloft, he bounded through the radiant green grass, enjoying the fruits of his new life beyond the reach of prodding swords and judging eyes. There was something wrong, however. There was something –someone– missing. Evander was the first one across, but he was also the last one. Alas, the doubt in the hearts of his friends gave their wings weight. In an ending they wrote for themselves, Evander’s brother and sister achieved a higher form of freedom, but at what cost?\nI… I think I liked it more when grandpa read it. Whenever he was the one who told the story, they would always make it to the other side without issue. I liked the version where they made it to the other side, where their weightless bodies bounded freely like Spirit at the end of Stallion of the Cimarron.\n“Let’s go to a different story,” I said to myself, “one that I highly doubt would have anything that dark in it.”\nI remembered my grandfather also would read a story where a grandson traveled across the Gobi Desert to find a fountain of youth. Reading the synopsis now, it sounded like something that could honestly be its own book, but grandpa found a way to make it short, mostly being read in a dramatic voice. The main character, Timothy, didn’t just have to deal with dangerous snakes and scorching heat. He had to deal with DANGEROUS snakes and SCORCHING heat en route to mysterious treasure. Gramps had a bit of a growl to him, trying to add flavor to the story.\n Although as I read through, my memory was tested further. There was a scene in a hotel that I had never been read before. Though I will admit, the more I read, the more I wanted to learn about this exotic dancer named “Jezebel,” who cuffed him to his own bed and made off with his rupees in the dead of the night. I was angered reading this, but it made me think the two reconcile by the end, if they become lovers or have a grand confrontation. Either way, I always get a laugh out of Tim saying, “This is why I always pay with debit.” I didn’t remember this joke from my childhood, but I remember my gramps laugh while reading over it. It makes sense he didn’t read it, honestly, cuz it wouldn’t have made any sense to me as a child. \nI’ll admit, I was nervous about reading this story before skimming to it. I was afraid that rereading this book would result in me having a corrupted view of a book I enjoyed in my childhood, ESPECIALLY after I read the ending to “Birdmen.” So call me a coward, but I skipped right to the ending where Tim sees his grandfather again, where he holds another person’s literal life in his hand. Ah, the memories this part brought, how my grandpa would always pretend he was ill, and the only way for me to save him was for me to read the last passage.\n“Grandpa! I found it! I found the fountain! I’ve crossed rivers and climbed mountains barehanded! All for this vial, wherein 20 years of life lie! Drink this panacea whole, and you will be cured of all your ailments!” Grandpa had to help me at a couple points when I was younger, especially with the word ‘panacea.’ I’d end up saying penis each time and pretending I didn’t know what I was doing (I did). In a strange twist, what I thought was one of my funniest things I had come up with became one of my greatest regrets. Funny how things change as you get older. I just hope there weren’t too many parts of my childhood that I’d regret remembering.\nClosing the cover on an old chapter of my life (pardon the nauseatingly cliche metaphor), I shut the book with a tear in my eye. The tear wasn’t because my childhood had been left in ruins, but because there were memories born from this silly little book that couldn’t be rewritten. How grandpa and I had interacted with the book, no matter what new details I found, could never be replaced. I had to let go of a family member, and that took me a year to get over, I didn’t know how I could ever get rid of this book, this silly little time machine that sat neglected in my grandpa’s attic for years. Nobody had to explain what I had to do. That ‘silly little book’ by Gillian Phillips (a name with a lot of straight lines for letters) deserved better. My grandfather’s memory deserved better." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 a Room\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1482\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "He sat wrapped in a black sheet. The chair was his mother's, it cracked and splintered and creaked with the slightest movement. A sickly yellow firelight came from the lantern beside him, dangerously atop a pile of books with indiscernible spines. He had finished a painting on his wall underneath the stripping wall paper. Only half of it could be seen now that the wall paper had floated back to a comfortable position, and a wavering shadow was fast by the flame over top the remaining image of the painting. He squinted, feeling his face tug like leather, and relaxed his jaw letting it dangle. Drool escaped out of a corner and then quickly turned to a steady stream. Somewhere, in the guts of his house, a grandfather clock chimed and ticked and crunched it's old gears. Two chimes, three chimes, four. Hours he had been staring at the color on the wall. The chair screeched as he leaned closer and squinted to make out more of the painting. It was a red smear, piled with texture, but there lay a hand gripping a knife somewhere in the highlights of it. \n“1975 red car. Next to the porn store.” \nHe looked around the room. The voice in the walls. Unconsciously, he began to twirl a wispy thread of his remaining hair. He rose slowly out of the chair, his knees buckling for a moment, the old arm rests taking the little of his weight. The black sheet piled at his ankles and dropped around his shoulders making him look like a priest in shadow. He snatched up a pack of cigarettes from a crevice in the bookshelf, his hand flapping around like an electric shock had been sent through him, but it was just a symptom of his degeneration.\nWith a cigarette in mouth he murmured, “Hmm 1975…” And he put the lighter to the cigarette. “I saw the car down the road…I did.” He said. Creeping closer to the painting, he kept one arm under the sheet and used the other to gently hold up the peeling wall paper. “I knew it was you. Mhm I knew it was.” He said with smoke puffing under each word.\n“It was you!” \nHe looked around the room again. That bastard in the walls was back. It always came back after a new painting, or was it before?\nHe bit down, ripping the cigarette in half and filling his mouth with tobacco. “No, no! It was you, you rotten bastard! Come out here! COME OUT HERE!” He said.\nA terrible sound like bone and skin rupturing came from the walls and with it came a face and six hands that waved all out of sync. The number “372” was carved into the face's forehead. “IT WAS YOU!” The face said. \nThe man rushed over to the wall and got so close to the face they were breathing into each other's mouths. With an accusatory finger he said, “You be careful this time and don't knock over the lantern!” He shot a glance at a black pillar burned into the room’s red doorway. “I want you to understand how you have hurt me! This time! THIS TIME I WILL MAKE YOU UNDERSTAND!”\nThe face's fingers all rolled like a centipede's legs. “The defendant would like to bring out their witness!” The door knob began to rattle.\n“Don’t you dare! Don't you dare!” The man said, and clamped down on the door knob. He placed his weight into the door to hold it shut and layed there long after the door knob stopped rattling. “This is between us! Us, and those filthy hands of yours! \n“Another one!” The face said with a smile! Suddenly it's eyes rolled to the back of it's head then began to spiral like a slot machine. The sound of a knife carving wood scratched it's way into the air as the number on its forehead changed from 372 to 373. “Keep feeding me and I will grow more limbs! Remember when I was just a face in the back of your mind? Or before that when I was just a voice in your gut that made-”\n“That made me sick. Yes, I am very aware of how you have made me feel. Always a reminder.” The man said, sitting back in his chair. He began to kick at random piles of books and trinkets. Porcelain shattered on the ground, a book that had been turned into an ashtray spilled it's contents, and some container of weeks old food let out a rotten smell. It all joined the rest in the manigery of disillusion.\nThe face in the wall rubbed it's hands together as if it was waiting to collect a reward. “Pretty soon I will come out of this wall and devour you whole.” \n“Yes,” The man put another cigarette in his mouth, “I've wondered long if I have been in your belly, Cronos.”\n“Since then?”\n“Yes, since that night. It's funny how your intuition warns you again and again where your decisions are leading you. Every night I went to that store…that filthy store, and I looked at the man behind the counter and I thought…I thought…I didn't want to be like him. I didn't want to be the way I was anymore. Perhaps, what I did to him was the only way I could recreate myself. Maybe my intuition was telling me to continue. I don't know.” \nThe face rubbed it's temples as if to ease a headache. “Close,” it whispered, “You are very close. How old are you now? 67? Still you don't know? With all this art, all these books, all this studying and expression, and you are still stuck. You know it doesn't end here, right? This room, you will stay here, but just a layer deeper. It will be harder and harder to get out.”\nThe walls hummed and vibrated and danced with a wild wobble and for a moment the man forgot entirely what walls were, what a room was, and the difference between here and there. The wall paper, the bit that dangled over the painting, curled upwards shyly. The flame in the lantern roared as if gasoline was tossed on top of it, densely illuminating the whole room; and the painting was now clear as a mirror. The man shielded his eyes. \n“Just look.” Said the face in the wall.\nThrough the slits of his fingers, the old man peered at his creation.\nIt was a red beauty. A freeing honesty. A weightlessness in his legs. A motivation to his hands. A distance from the darkness. A place without shame. It was a man dead under a knife. \nThe door knob rattled - it opened. The face laughed and breathed out a red mist. The number on its head read: “0”. The grandfather clock chimed five times. A silhouette hunched under the doorframe. It held a shimmering silver scythe in its hands. The man stood from his chair and tossed down the black sheet that kept him warm. His cold skin shriveled and he held his arms in front of him, hands fat sides up. The silhouette extended its weapon, its arms seemingly growing out of the darkness, and let the scythe slip from its hands. The man caught it, he expected it to be heavy, but it was light as snow. The silhouette closed the door gently and was gone. The man sat naked in his chair, scythe in hand.\nThe grandfather clock chimed twelve times. \nThe face in the wall looked neutral, with perhaps a hidden envy, and it's hands drooped freely. \nRubbing his palm across the scythe’s smooth surface, the man said: “Would you like to come out of the wall now?”\nThe face smiled something fowl, and it used its hands to tear at the wallpaper that was it's skin. Once it was naked, it fell to the ground, a centipede with a human face. It walked on its hands, closer and closer to the man in the chair. The man stood proud and began to swing the scythe wildly. He swiped and swiped and the light pulled with him against the metal of the weapon and he closed his eyes and laughed, but something was wrong. There was no feeling in the blade, no resistance, it did not feel like the first time. He opened his eyes and the centipede stood before him without a single cut. The man clenched his scythe tightly and cowered. Slowly, the face opened its mouth and swallowed the man whole. \nIn the stomach he was warm. There was nothing to see, and he never heard the clock again. There were no walls to paint, and his hands could only feel the scythe. \nThe centipede stayed in the room, and the room in the house, and the house waited to be found." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dying to be Beautiful\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1015\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who develops a special ritual to cope with something." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Dying to be Beautiful\nI have known Samantha P, K, and O since Kindergarten. I am Samantha R, but that isn’t our only likeness. Samantha O is Asian, maybe Vietnamese. Samantha P is American Caucasian. Samantha K is a proud Korean, and I am a “black china doll,” according to the others. For some reason, the school district decided to do alphabetical classes for two years, which stunk. Class A in every grade had, yup, you guessed it, the A’s from Aaron to Aza, the last names of every person, and so on with every other letter. So, the confusion of having the same first name was usually eliminated by the middle name, but there are combinations that just automatically go together, like Samantha Jo and Samantha Leigh; we had two of both.\nBy the second grade, the district reevaluated and returned to random selection. Samantha P and I were classmates until high school. Maybe that is why our friendship blossomed, or it was just familiarity. Samantha P eventually adopted the nickname Sammy, for convenience. She had an accident driving in a snowfall the weekend before Christmas 89. She spent the following year in and out of the hospital for rehabilitation and surgery. Her car was totaled, but she walked away with only a scratch on the chin.\nThe crash messed with her mind. She became paranoid and obsessed with the small scar. An already beautiful person couldn’t believe that she was still beautiful. She began asking everyone about their beauty secrets. Any ritual, no matter how crazy, she tried it. I told her I only used plain warm water, no soap to clean my face, and Vaseline to moisturize when needed. That is all my Grandma Rainey ever used her whole life, and she looked forty on her deathbed. It worked for her, so that is my only ritual, also.\nUnfortunately, Sammy didn’t get the help she needed after the accident because her boyfriend convinced her that counseling was for the weak-minded. He didn’t see her struggling as I did. Talking to them was difficult. I was the enemy that didn’t know how it was.\nReally… being in a wheelchair since childhood gave me an inside look but not to anyone looking at my perfect skin.\nHer family didn’t make it any better by giving in to her every wish when she said her face was hideous. Three plastic surgeries later, the doctor nicked a nerve. Now she has a permanent droop on the left side of her face, no boyfriend, and people are laughing.\n I had to learn to ignore the ignorant. Children will tease to avoid having their flaws highlighted. I cried many nights over missing out on school dances and bond fires before the Friday night games. Everyone would be talking about the fun they had or witnessed on Monday.\nIt took me until middle school…\nI met a teacher who had been in a wheelchair her whole life. Like me, she was breech when her Mom’s labor began. Something happened when the doctor attempted to turn me, and I was paralyzed from my waist down. I thank my Mom and a few teachers who refused to treat me like I was disabled. Of course, I can’t walk without braces and a battery pack, but they looked at my abilities… like my humor—how I can ease people’s fears of the wheelchairs, my gift of gab, and my writing ability.\nMy mother didn’t know how to deal with me because she thought the injuries I sustained at birth were her fault for something that she did or didn’t do… she was advised to have a C-Section but was afraid of surgery and being put under. I don’t know if my Mom requested my placement in Mrs. Green’s class, but it was the best thing to ever happen to me and my ego. I realized that if she could go to college, and become a teacher, author, and mother, so could I.\nMrs. Green has written two books… her memoir: Pictures of Me, and a poetry book: Pieces of Sand. I asked her about the titles once and why they were so close in wording. She said:\n“People are made up of atoms, the smallest particles of matter, and a grain of sand is the smallest particle on the beach, and it was the only way I could make the comparison without writing it out.”.\nI didn’t quite understand it, but it stuck with me…\nSome years later, I googled Mrs. Green and purchased her books, vowing to read them for research. I found them to be informative, engaging, and relatable. She spoke candidly about her challenges with brachial palsy. She shared how at each stage of life, the paralysis added new challenges. She told how the people in her life reacted, came into, or left when they could not cope. Everything I have dealt with all my life was laid out page by page, even my mother’s feelings. I understood my life better and gained insight into paralysis, personal growth, and achievement.\nMrs. Green saved my life in more ways than one. Although I never attempted suicide, I believe I was headed down a dark road before meeting Susanna Green. I recognized the symptoms of depression as I read her life unfolding on the pages, and it helped me to see how blessed I was. Now that I have written some books, it’s beginning to make more sense. The more I pen my thoughts about anything, the more I gain insight about myself. I named my memoir: Blessed Beyond Belief: From Childhood to Death and Back, and my poetry books are a series called Loose Purls. You only write your memoirs once. Any poems, short stories, or tasty recipes I decide to share can be put together in the Loose series.\nI majored in Psychology and minored in education in college. Now I work as the school guidance counselor in the same high school I attended when Samantha “Sammy” Palls committed suicide—hoping to help the next young person dying to be beautiful." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Dragon and His Village\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2990\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a dragon who doesn’t know what to do with their hoard anymore." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Somewhere within a distant mountain sat a dragon atop a pile of gold. This was not a scary dragon, with rows of razor sharp teeth and talons the size of full grown men. This dragon had claws which it could at best use to scratch the scales behind its pointy ears, and while it did have sharp teeth, it had developed a liking for vegetarian options, particularly bounties of fruits and steamed root vegetables. It liked to add in the occasional pot roast or succulent grilled chicken, but on the whole it preferred the colorful, leafy kind of food.\nThis dragon was named Sam, and his mountain was Etenmoot in the north of a green land. The halls in which it basked were grandiose, with thick columns supporting vaulted ceilings and little walkways criss-crossing from place to place. Now, you may say you’ve never seen such a mountain, much less one filled with gold and jewels. Well, you’d be right. But Etenmoot was not a mountain like many others. In a bygone age, dwarves - yes, dwarves! had trudged along those walkways and carved out these great halls. There had been parties of mythical magnificence thrown here. Now, dwarves have long since left the world to an unknown fate, and Sam had stumbled upon this ancient city while exploring the mountain range for homes. \n“Pure serendipity,” said Edward - his dragon-friend.\nThe serendipity meant Sam had lived a long, fruitful life. Dragons can live for thousands of years, and in those years a village had sprung up in the valley below Sam’s abode. For some time, Sam had watched its people mingle about their days, building a mill upon the river, clearing out little bits of forest for their crops. Not being particularly hungry, Sam never thought to approach them. However, one day a strong breeze was blowing up from the valley, and the scent of freshly baked garlic asparagus and sweet potatoes wafted up to the entrance of his cave. \n“My, what an enchanting aroma!” Sam said, and he felt hunger gnaw at him. Without thinking, he unfurled his wings and glided down to the village. \nChaos ensued, for even though Sam was perfectly pleasant, the sight of his giant body descending from the mountains was enough to make even the most lion-hearted man panic. He soon found himself staring down about sixty men with an assortment of pitchforks, swords, and bows, none of which would have hurt him in the slightest. \n“Dragon!” cried the largest of the men, who also wore a golden circlet on his head. \nSam raised his eyebrows and said, “Wait! I mean you no harm.” \nSurprised to find that a dragon could speak their language, the villagers paused and looked to their leader. “What do you want?” he asked suspiciously. \nAbashed, Sam said, “Something smelled good down here, such that I have never smelled before.” \n“What would that be? The scent of humans?” \nSam shook his large head. “No, no… something roasted on a fire.” \nThe leader looked to his men. “Was anyone preparing for the feast tonight?” \nOne man raised a trembling hand. “My wife was making asparagus and sweet potatoes.”\n“Bring them here,” barked the leader. \n“Now, now, there’s no need for that tone,” reproached Sam. \nSoon, a woman came out of a little hut bearing a tray of sizzling food. As soon as the steam hit Sam’s wide nose, he smiled and said, “Yes, that’s it! So this is called asparagus and sweet potatoes?” \n“Yes it is,” said the leader. “Now, if we relent to give you this food, will you leave us forever?” \n“Oh I would not dream of taking it from you,” said Sam. He used his claws to dig at the scales on his underbelly, from which a shower of gold coins fell to the ground. The villagers gaped and Sam said, “I would be happy to pay for it, and for your friendship, if you’d like.” \n“Friendship?” said the leader haughtily. “No village I have ever heard of has become friends with a dragon.” \n“Yes,” said Sam sadly. “My fellow dragons do not like the warmth this far south-” a cold breeze made the men shiver, “-but I find it tolerable. Besides, the dwarven gold deposit is something I could not deny.” \n“Gold?” \n“Well yes; where do you think all of this came from?” asked Sam, gesturing at the glittering stuff underneath him. “It gets caught in my scales a lot… Quite a bother, actually.” \nPerhaps it was a mark of the strength of this man that he did not immediately raise his men to raid the cave, for they most certainly would have been destroyed in the fight, but instead chose to extend his hand and said, “I am William, and this is the village Stera, our home. We would be delighted to make your acquaintance.” \nSam gingerly extended a single talon and shook William’s tiny hand. The villagers gave him the food in exchange for the heap of gold, and so the relationship was bound. \nNow of course, as with all relationships there are moments of hardship, but for the most part Sam was able to watch the village prosper over the years into a large city. It had survived wars in which kings had implored Sam to rain fire down upon their enemies, which he did not do, and there had been many attempts by thieves to get the gold from Sam’s cave. However, the path to the cave’s entrance was treacherous at best, and so only three men had ever survived to see the dwarven city, and none held their ground if Sam so much as looked at them. \nNow the time had come for the next in William’s line to lead the city, which was now the capital of a kingdom. Sam had learned a lot about men in his centuries watching over the people of Stera, and most of it had made him sad, for the gold that Sam hoarded in his mountain was no longer of great intrigue to him. Even for a dragon, he was getting old, and he knew the time would come soon where he would return north to die with his kind. \nThe gold in his mountain would have doubled the wealth of the nation below, but he had deliberately stopped himself from giving them great sums, instead choosing to let them have little trickles of gold in exchange for things like roast vegetables, for he knew that above all, greed festered in the hearts of humans. \nHe had seen every new king be crowned, and tomorrow he would see it again, and every last one had asked for a large chunk of gold. Some disguised it by saying they wanted no more, but none refused and all held Sam in great regard for his wealth. \nWhat was he to do? His friend Edward had visited again just a week prior and had advised him to bring the gold northward to their dragon-home, where it could be enjoyed by all dragons, young and old alike, who coveted shiny things. But how was Sam to carry it? Even after centuries of giving it remained sizable enough for him to sleep on as a rounded mattress. \n“Trust me,” Edward had said, “the men down there don’t deserve this gold.” \nBut he offered no solution to the problem of carrying it hundreds of miles north, so Sam bade his friend goodbye and returned to pondering his dilemma. \nThe people of Stera relied on the gold from Sam to continue their lives, so would it really be wrong to give it all to them? Perhaps not, but he was no longer convinced of their altruism as he had been during the days of William the First. When the village had little more than a few paddocks of animals and some rows of crops, there was no harm which could afoul the hearts of the men who resided there. Yet after centuries of wars and expansion, Sam had seen the kings of Stera destroy villages all over the countryside, enveloping them into their land. Did he really want to fuel the fire of war? \nSam flew down from his cave on the next day to see King Richard crowned. A special place had been made for him in what was called the Hall of Dragons. It was made of white stone and had pillars as tall as those in the dwarven city. Sam sat in his usual seat, hundreds of civilians craning their necks to see over the armor of tall soldiers as the king walked down a long carpet. His father, now quite old, sat upon the throne with the crown in his hands. \nTrumpets played a hopeful melody, and the old King, helped to his feet by his top advisors, placed the crown upon his kneeling son’s head. \nThere was some speech about honor, valor, and humility. Sam had heard many such speeches and was trying not to fall asleep. As was custom, the new King came up to him after the ceremony and bowed deeply, and for this Sam was obligated to bestow upon them several hundred gold coins from his scales as a present. \nHis eyes met Richard’s, and he caught himself in the moment looking at a young man with tenacity, and a will to do what was right. This gave him pause, for he had been so used to kings having the veiled greed in their gaze as they looked upon the rich dragon. It seemed that Richard lacked this trait. \nThe dragon did not stay for the evening’s revelries; he took his large ration of his favorite foods back up to his cave and enjoyed them in silence. It wasn’t until later that night, when sleep was just beginning to wash over him, that he was awoken by a ringing sound on the rock. Sam stood on his haunches, recognizing the sound as boots upon stone, and he thought that once again some robber had come to quarrel over his lot. He used one of his claws to push a button on the right side of the hall. By the ingenuity of dwarves, sparks lit several hundred lanterns along the walls and on the ceiling in quick succession, bathing the hall in a warm yellow glow only amplified by the pile of gold. \nSam’s eyes searched for the intruder for a while. He was looking near the shadowy edges of the room - near all the pillars and stairwells. That was where criminals usually lingered, after all. However, a light at the center quickly drew his gaze. Before him, to his great surprise, stood King Richard, a torch in one hand and his other raised in a gesture of peace. \nHe wasn’t wearing any kingly clothes - just a black coat over dark trousers and climbing boots. He bowed to Sam and said, “Please, excuse my interruption.” \n“Never before has a King of Stera come here,” said Sam dubiously. “The way is dangerous.” \nRichard shrugged. “I spent my early years climbing everything I could get my hands on, away from my mother’s prying eyes, of course.” \n“I was under the assumption that Kings are usually well-guarded. How did you slip away?” \n“It was not easy. I had to wait until the zenith of the night’s darkness, and fortunately it’s a new moon and the stars are veiled by clouds.” \nThe next question was perhaps the most pertinent to Sam. “Why have you come, Richard?” \n“I know what you think,” said Richard candidly, putting down his free hand. “You think I am here for your gold - that I come to beseech upon you a case of charity.” \n“Yes, that is what I think,” said Sam. “Or at least, I do not think you are here to clear away my empty trays of food.” \nRichard smiled. “You are right on the second count, but I am not here to seek your gold. In fact, I am here to be rid of it.” \n“Oh?” Sam’s heart thudded under his hard scales. \nNodding, Richard said, “Indeed. I have studied dragons for many years. They are not common in this part of the country. I was under the impression that most of your kind live in the far, far north, past the glaciers of ice and the frozen mountains which render our kind at an impasse.” \n“That is correct,” said Sam. “Naradhas, we call it. The cold quells the fires of young dragons and steels the hearts of the elders until it is time for them to pass on.” \n“And I have also studied all the records of your residence here,” said Richard. “You are getting quite old for a dragon, are you not?” \n“Old, but still spry,” said Sam. \nRichard gave a dry laugh and said, “Indeed.”\n“What does this have to do with the gold?” \n“Quite simply, I know you must be wondering what to do with it, for in this century or the next your life will end, and with it will end any protection upon this wealth. The way may be dangerous for us now, but I’m sure once the first man comes back with a bag full of gold unperturbed by your death, then hordes of others will attempt it. I fear for that day, for I know what men can be when greed drives them. I have seen it in my father and his father…” He looked at a loss for words, but then added, “I have spent my entire adult life trying to make Stera a rich kingdom, independent of your influence.” \n“But your family still accepted my gifts,” said Sam. \n“Of course, and I will too, if you do not accept my proposal, but know that I succeeded.” A glint of pride lined Richard’s blue eyes. “We do not need your charity to thrive as a kingdom anymore - not that we don’t appreciate it.” \n“So that means-” \n“That means, my dear dragon, that you are free of any burden to help us,” said Richard proudly. \nSam frowned, his teeth showing at the front of his mouth. To be sure, he did not know how to feel about this information, for while the issue of his gold had been troubling him for a while, he had grown used to this relationship with Stera, where he showered them with occasional gold and they gave to him the best food he could ask for. To hear that it was no longer necessary hurt him in some way, but he quickly put on a smile and said, “I am happy for you. That can’t have been easy.” \n“It wasn’t, and as I said, if you choose to continue your gift-giving I will gladly accept, but know that it will only be used to further the opulence of already gilded halls, which I hardly think is a noble cause.” \n“You mentioned you had a proposal,” said Sam. “What is it?” \n“Ah, yes,” Richard grinned. “Now, I want you to be with your family when you… are in the last stages of your life. So, I propose you take whatever gold and jewels there are here and melt them.” \n“Melt them?” repeated Sam, tilting his head. \n“The world knows no fire hotter than dragon-fire. It can melt even jewels. So, before you go, use your fire to melt all the gold in this city. Make it run through the halls and through any crevices in the rock. Then, smash these columns as you leave.” Richard pointed to the columns around the chamber. “It is sure to bring the rocks down upon this treasure.” \n“How can my last act in this city, which I have seen grow from such humble beginnings, be of violence?” asked Sam. He did not want to destroy much of anything these days. \n“It must be,” said Richard. “I will inform the citizens of Stera that it was a quake which destroyed the hall, and that you took your leave with me in private. It may be a little difficult for them to understand how a dragon secured a private meeting with me, but I can convince them of it. I will tell them the truth; that you have moved on to live with your kind as you… prepare for your next journey. Years will pass as men try to ascend the mountain. Decades will pass before they learn the wealth they seek lies behind solid rock, and still more will pass before our mining tools are good enough to break through to any new veins of gold you have created here. I may not even be king anymore, then.” \n“But if they still find my- ah,” said Sam, finally understanding. “You wish for them to find it slowly, and with decades of hard work behind it.” \n“I have been over the plan in my head many times,” said Richard. “It’s sure to work.” \nSam looked past the young king now and envisioned that home he hadn’t seen in over a thousand years. He could almost feel the comforting chill of that ice on his scales again. He turned back to Richard and said, “You are wise beyond your years, young man. I accept your offer, and am glad to have had the opportunity to know you.” \nRichard bowed deeply. “It is I who should be grateful to you, Sam. Without you, this kingdom would not be what it is now.” \n“Then I will take my leave in the early morning,” said Sam. “No sense in lingering on goodbyes.” \n“Goodbye then, noble dragon.” \n“Goodbye, Richard.” \nAnd so the king made his way back down to his people, still cloaked against prying eyes, and in the wee hours of the morning, as dawn was just creeping over the horizon, Stera felt the ground shake as Sam slipped out of Etenmoot, unfurling his wings and beginning the long, humble flight northward, to his home." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Passage\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1422\n\nPrompt:\n\nMake your protagonist go through a rite of passage." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trigger Warning: This story references female mutilation.\nOlivette sat and listened to her mother tell the stories.\n The bondo devils would come and they would celebrate, Folami would say. They would come, with their long robes adorned with strips of many colored-fabrics, and the black-wood masks atop their heads, increasing their height by at least a foot. They would dance in the dirt roads, the bondo devils, shrieking and wailing their song, as the villagers pranced behind them, joyous and exuberant.\n Her mother would tell her the stories and she would smile, but it was a bleak slash that crossed her face and rendered it dark. As Folami spoke, she gestured and pointed with her hands. “When the devils come, there will be revelry in the streets. The men will want you, and your sisters will be jealous. We will eat for many days, and our bellies will be full.” Sometimes her mother would weave her tales in front of the big black pot while she cooked the stew, the steam floating in front of her face. It drifted before her like a smoky screen, obscuring her mother’s eyes and making them impossible to read. Olivette imagined that her mother’s eyes were filled with the same trepidation that the stories aroused in her.\n Her mother shared the stories with a tone that was alternatively grim yet hopeful, but Olivette feared her tales. As her mother recounted the traditions, Olivette’s stomach clenched in fear. She would nod as appropriate when Folami spoke, but inside, her heart pounded dread in her chest, much like the old drums that would beat in time of war. Late at night, in the quiet of the hut, when everyone was asleep, Olivette would lie awake, watching the final embers of the dying fire cast shadows on the walls. \n Her mother had said the bondo devils would dance in the streets, but Olivette saw their spirits lurking in the shadows, their long, ominous forms beckoning to her.\n “Olivette…” They would chant in the crackle and hiss of the fire, and no matter what her mother had said about joy and elation, she knew that these spirits of the bondo were evil.\n Her days were spent in preparation. Her mother and her aunts went to the woods to prepare the ceremonial hut. They gathered the necessary herbs and prepared them accordingly. They taught Olivette the differences between the herbs, and the purpose of each.\n And they sang. They sang the songs that would call the devils, and they were merry.\n But Olivette did not share their happiness; rather, she held a solemn fear. She remembered Aminata, her older sister, who had bled when the devils came for her.\n Aminata had screamed and screamed. For days she had been covered in a sheath of her own sweat and tears, but despite the heat, she shivered with cold. In those few moments when she did not scream, she muttered her words and shook both with pain and fear. \n One day, she extended a weak and shaky hand to Olivette. “The devils...will come…for you, too, Olivette. Then you…will know,” Aminata told her sister in a hoarse whisper. The light in her eyes was diminishing, and her skin held no color other than the pallid green of sickness.\n Her mother, her aunts, and her grandmother had said the prayers, and the bondo devils had come. “This will pass, and we will rejoice.”\n But it did not pass. The bleeding did not stop, and eventually Aminata spoke no more.\n Folami cried, but Olivette’s aunts comforted their sister. Sometimes the devils took their daughters, they told her mother. Sometimes the sin was too great. When the bondo came again, they took Aminata’s body; because her spirit was unsettled, her body could not stay in the compound. They buried her in the brush, far beyond the walls of the compound enclosure.\n At night, in the quiet of the hut, Olivette was sure she saw her dead sister. She lurked in the shadows with the devils, and she called to Olivette. “Olivette, it is time…”\n In her bed of straw and brush, Olivette trembled under her goat skin covering. Her sister knew of Olivette’s sin, and wanted Olivette to join her. But the dark world her sister inhabited with the devils frightened her. “Join us, Olivette…” \n Olivette clapped her hands over her ears, shut her eyes, and wished the spirits to leave. \n Folami went to the market and with great care, gathered the ingredients for the feast. There would be dried fish, goat, ground nut, and kola nut. Her mother and her aunts began the cook, and for two days the air carried the aroma of ground nut stew and palm oil. Folami and her sisters argued over how best to prepare the fish; the fish would be offered to the devils.\n Olivette stole a kola, split it open and pulled the nuts from the shell. She would leave the nuts for the bondo so that perhaps they would stay away. But when night fell, the plate of nuts that she laid by the fire remained untouched. In the long shadows cast upon the walls, the haphazard shape of Aminata flittered about, the dark silhouette of her head thrown back in laughter. The devils danced with her, their darkened shapes bobbing up and down. “Olivette, it is not the nuts he wants…” Olivette trembled in fear.\n Her mother and sisters and grandmother argued over what instrument to use. One of her mother’s sisters had a piece of onyx with a shiny black tip, the same that was used on Aminata. But Folami was superstitious and refused. To use the same instrument on one daughter that was used on the other, the first, would bring anger to the devils. Instead, Folami found an old, rusted blade. She went to the river and washed the blade; near her, two men urinated into the water.\n Olivette no longer slept at night. Her mother had said the devils would come during the day, to bring jubilation, but instead, Olivette was plagued by their suggestion. Their spirits hid in the shadows, Aminata among them, and they whispered to her incessantly about the nature of her sin. At night, the silhouettes reached for Olivette, and she would scream, but her mother would tell her to quiet her sleep.\n When at last the day came and the preparations were done, the handmaidens of the devils appeared first. They wore white dresses, and their dark skin was made light with white chalk. Like ghosts, they escorted the devils. They came for Olivette.\n She screamed and struggled and fought. But her mother and her aunts and her grandmother betrayed her; they helped the handmaidens take her to the hut. Inside, they laid her on the jute rug, and handmaidens sat on the floor on either side of her. They grabbed her legs and pulled them apart. Olivette jerked and twisted, but her mother and her aunts held her down by her midriff.\n On an old rock was the blade and near that, a small fire burned. Her grandmother placed the blade in the fire, and then positioned herself between her granddaughter’s legs, where her vagina was exposed and spread to reveal the sin of her womanhood.\n As her grandmother prepared to make the first cut, Olivette heard the song of the bondo devils outside the hut. They cried and wailed their song, and Olivette knew she heard her sister’s voice among them.\n “He’s coming for you, Olivette…you’ll be with him soon …”\n “Please!” Olivette screeched. “Please! I am sorry for my sin! I am sorry for it! I will be chaste! I will be good!”\n But her pleas were drowned out by the chants, the songs, and the catcalls of the devils outside.\n And after her grandmother was done, after she had cut and cut and cut and the sin of her organ was removed, she sewed the wound closed. Then the women celebrated.\n Olivette was unconscious, passed out from the pain. She did not hear when her mother, her aunts and her grandmother declared her a woman. Now that she was pure, as was the tradition, they asked the devils to spare her.\n But hours later, when Olivette came to in the darkened hut, she shuddered and shivered from fever, from shock, from loss of blood. In the weak glow of the fire, she saw the shadows waiting, felt the cold hand of death caress her cheek, and she knew the devils had come for her." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Steak Diane\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1165\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character has to decide whether to press the button or not." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "And tonight I remembered all over again that some things are more important than finishing the last drag of your cigarette while staring out at empty space.\n\nYes, or no.\n\nLike remembering you feel haunted.\n\nBy spiders in your hair. Rats in your apartment you never realised existed. Until after a prolonged stay on Base Alpha that you never planned for.\n\nBy memories you never got to have.\n\nFrom a past you never knew you’d regret.\n\nFrom a childhood you never knew you’d wanted.\n\nA gross sense of ennui that you’re not about to let diminish and swell into panic.\n\nYes, or No.\n\nOk or... cancel.\n\nNot a question, but a choice.\n\nA binary decision.\n\n0 or 1.\n\nHow gauche.\n\nWhen did life become a series of choices anyway? \n\nI mean, obviously once you reach a certain point, that's all life is - a series of choices. And you just have to hope you choose correctly in the moment.\n\nWe're all just trying our hardest.\n\nUgh, Russel Brand? No, I do not need you in my head right now. Please kindly fuck off.\n\nThank you.\n\nOk, so... Ok or Cancel. That is my choice.\n\nYes, or no.\n\nSo at what point does it become your own series of choices?\n\nAre they ever really your choices?\nWhen did I stop choosing that last drag, and when did I start needing it?\n\nWhen did I stop lying awake out of choice, and when did it become necessary?\n\nWhy did I decide to leave earth for the moon, and was it really necessary?\n\nYes, or no.\n\nWhen you're a baby, you're basically a little slug with arms. Base instinct. Or not even.\n\nEverything is decided for you. And in some parts of the world, you get stomped on before you have a chance to realise what that even means. Snuffed.\n\nSigh. Wouldn't that be nice.\n\nBut then you gradually start to make your own decisions.\n\nThe red dress or the green dress. Yes, or no.\n\nBut those decisions are still within the construct of schools, or your parents, or karate, or exams, or capitalism. Or in the case of others, socialism or communism. Or in the case of others still, bartering or whatever it's called when people just help each other out.\n\nUtopia? No, that can't be right.\n\nSo are our choices ever really our own? No one can ever really do whatever they want. Not even Jeff Bezos. He's still a human… ostensibly.\n\nEven he can't see and interpret infrared rays with his own eyes. He can't fly, not with his own arms. He can't live forever. Even with limitless wealth his choices are still bound by mortality.\n\nEven if he did build a secret base on the moon. Surprise kiddos, this is where all your Amazon shit really comes from! Robot drones on the moon.\n\nThough they haven’t quite nailed how to do their own upkeep.\n\nJesus Christ-\n\n-yes, he was a mere mortal too, sort of-\n\n-it should not be this hard to decide whether or not to purchase a new pair of shoes.\n\nWhat is wrong with me?\n\nWhat is really keeping me here? Why do I really not want to go to this party?\n\nAnd then I remembered all over again it’s not about the party, it’s about the people.\n\nAnd being haunted by the ghosts of friends I never had.\n\nYes, or no.\n\nBy memories I never got to experience. With peers and people who never really saw or understood me, because I didn’t know how to give them the chance. I didn’t know how to let them see me. I didn’t even know that was an option.\n\nI spent so much of my time hiding in plain sight that now I was crippled by a simple decision.\n\nDo I stay, or do I go?\n\nUgh. Wrong decade, Abigail.\n\nGet your shit together. Spiders in your hair?\n\nNo. \n\nIf there are spiders in your hair, you’re in the wrong universe, you quietly remind yourself.\n\nGross.\n\nIt’s 2:44am and the deadline has technically already been over for one hundred and sixty four minutes.\n\nBut they will probably make an exception, you think to yourself. Nobody’s that heartless. \n\nUgh. Another meaningless movie quote from something you don’t remember.\n\nYes, or no. \n\nShoes, or no shoes. Do I stay at home on my couch watching shitty TV with my outsider boyfriend, or do I go and hang out with a bunch of people I don’t care about in two months time?\n\nMake a choice, dumb dumb. Make a decision. You’re not in highschool anymore.\n\nAnd even if you were, those people were so wrapped up in their own lives that they probably didn’t notice how weird you were. And you know for a fact that some of them even liked you far more than you realised at the time.\n\nSo just do it. Hit the button.\n\nDo the least worst thing. \n\nChoose the path of least regret. You can always weasel out and cancel later. Sort of.\n\n\nEspecially if you give them enough notice. You’ve worked in catering before. They only ever really confirm the numbers the day before. This is just to give the organisers a sense of how many seats they need.\n\nHell, they might not have even chosen the venue yet. Or the seating arrangements anyway. \n\nUgh. Fine. \n\n‘Click.’\n\nThey are pretty epic shoes. Jeffrey Campbells. Beautiful pump action heels with spikes all over. Down the back. And around the front. \n\nI could kill a man with these shoes, you think to yourself as you spend another $187 you don’t have on shoes you don’t really need.\n\nGood for two weeks before back to Base Alpha. In space, pretty spikey shoes are not allowed. Sigh, I always think about pop culture more when deciding if I should to go home. And I always say no anyway. \n\nBut these babies will make you feel dangerous, you tell yourself. Powerfull. Like a ninja. A goddess. A vampire queen.\n\nDone.\n\nOk so… yes, or no.\n\n03:15:32.\n\nBrain, we are experiencing technical difficulties. A system error. A catastrophic malfunction. A serious case of over dramatisation.\n\nJust hit the button Abbi and get it over with. Go to bed. Crawl back into your rack. And imagine crawling back into your silk sheets after a quick debrief, Base Down Actual. \n\nThe sheets that always feel warm, even after a long absence. Go and get yourself back to safety. Even if the latest reports show there is a bit of an infestation. I’ll have to get Dave to look into that for her.\n\nThe only thing you need to know at any given point in time, is what to do next.\n\nUgh. Thank you Jason Seagull. Do I follow my divine nonchalance?\n\nWhat does that even mean?\n\nIt means yes, or no, woman. Just make a bloody decision already.\n\n‘Click.’\n\nOk. Done.\n\nMan, steak sounds delicious. \n\nI’ll have to bring a bunch back with me for the deep freeze." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Destination...Nowhere\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1126\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a Western-inspired story in a new genre or setting (e.g. a space western, fantasy western, etc.)" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Mom was a type 1 diabetic who lost her only pregnancy in the second trimester, in the late 50s, and she had to continue carrying the child until she naturally aborted. That was so traumatizing that she never wanted to attempt to have another child; depression set in soon after. Although happy with their life, Dad suggested becoming foster parents and adopting to get Mom to smile again. He wanted a son; the baby would have been named Warner had he survived. They started the applications for both programs at the same time. There were classes for the foster care program and background checks for both. Believe it or not, it was easier to adopt than to become a foster care home. The state required a home inspection for the foster care process, and an inspector from the state had to sign off on the structural soundness of the home where the foster children would be living.\nThe day they went to the adoption fair, they often told me how I chose them. I was almost three but in no hurry to walk. I wore a cute white dress but knew how to crawl without getting dirty. I had learned to “crawk” combine crawling and walking; it’s the way of walking on all 4; hands and feet. I called it camel walking when my children did it because their butt resembles a hump. All the children, infant to four statewide, were in that room. In another room were the fives to twelves and another thirteen and up. While waiting for their social worker to return to the room, I approached them, pulled up on my future Dad’s leg, and reached up and touched his goatee. Mom’s heart melted when she saw the huge smile on his face; so much for the son notion; I had chosen them. I couldn’t go with the Walkers that day, but Monday, June 3, 1968, two days before my third birthday, I was on my way to my final destination as a child. That day I started my life as Kimberly W. Walker.\nBy the way, my parents loved me and thought I deserved all the happiness in life…\nMy Dad and his best friend purchased and restored a 72 Ford Van in 75. They tinkered with the motor and customized the interior for three weekends. Our first jaunt after the restoration was the Saturday before my tenth birthday. Have you ever just jumped in your car and driven without a destination? That was our Saturday or Sunday routine for a year. We had become bored with the usual family outings, like the movies, mini golf, eating at the Mouse’s restaurant, or standing in long lines in an overpriced theme park. Since I was an only child, my parents would team up with the Jarrell family, who had three children: two rough-and-tumble boys and a daughter close to my age. The boys were typical boys who only wanted to torture us girls. I don’t think things worked as the parents had hoped because I was more tomboyish than a girly girl. I loved fishing better than cooking. I’d rather play baseball or basketball than dolls. Unfortunately, I had more in common with the boys than the daughter.\nNow that the van was operational, the two families could ride together. Well, we all pile into the van, and off we go…. At the end of the driveway, Dad asked me which way. Every time we came to a stop sign, left or right was the question. As young children looking for an adventure around every turn, this was enormous fun. One Sunday, after twenty-five left turns, we ended up at an abandoned mining company’s dig site and explored. Little did we know that our parents were having fun lying to us about where we were…Luray Caverns. They told us the rocks that looked like fried eggs were a cave family’s leftover breakfast. Gullible children we were… came up with fifty follow-up questions but bought the lie hook, line, and sinker.\nOur parents loved to sneak education into our weekend fun. My father was a pulpwood logger Monday through Friday, and Mr. Jarrell worked for the United States Postal Services in fleet maintenance. The mothers worked also, and the weekend was the only time they had for everything else. So, being older parents, my parents wanted to make every moment count, and it was informative. We went to the Smithsonian Museum probably twice a year because the exhibits kept growing and getting better. The Metropolitan Zoo was another place where we were dragged too often. Although they are exciting places, we would never ask to visit them as children.\nThis one time in 1976, we rode the American Freedom Train. The American Freedom Train celebrated the United States Bicentennial.\nAnother time we took only right turns and ended up in a Western town. It looked like we had driven through a time warp into the 1800s before cars, during the time of cowboys, saloons, stagecoaches, gun fights, and horse-drawn carriages. After the dust settled, people approached, wearing period clothing. While inside the van, we looked normal, but as soon as we stepped out, our clothing magically turned into the same type of period clothing. I included the females in ankle-length dresses and head scarves; the males wore dungarees, cowboy hats, and boots. We didn’t know if we were still in Virginia.\nDad looked confused for the first time; as he said, “However, we ended up here in the middle of town, and in the middle of what seemed to be a gunfight, the van was running hot and needed to cool down for two hours. Then he warned us not to talk about the place and time we were from because it might change our 1977. This made us anxious to find out where we were and the date. The newspaper was the Dallas Daily Commercial. The date was November 8, 1877.\nTwo hours later…\nThe evening addition reported…The headline read: The Deadliest Dentist Dead! John Henry Holliday died at the Hotel Glenwood from Tuberculosis.\nOr did He… Did Doc Holliday travel to our 1977 when we emerged from the warp?\nThink about it… Never had one of our weekend trips time warped before, so maybe he needed to get out of town quickly and thought that at the very moment, the portal was open.\nAs we attempted to put the last three hours of the craziness behind us and out of our minds, we jumped back in the van, taking the reverse turns until we escaped the wormhole back to route 250 and back in Virginia…Puzzled, we all agreed never to speak about what happened ever again…Things that make you go, hmmm!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Bass Reeves: Judgement Day\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 3049\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone seeking revenge for a past wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "BASS REEVES\nThe setting sun dappled the land in a golden haze. Three horsemen plodded up a small incline into a stand of Cottonwoods and Scrub Oak. On the other side of this wooded island, a vast expanse of land stretched out before them, waist high buffalo grass swayed like ocean waves between them and to the next island of shrubbery and trees.\nThe lead rider, Charles Running Dog, pulled his tall gelding to a halt, the others two riders did the same. As a full-blooded Cherokee, The United States Marshals hired Charles as a tracker. Behind him rode Bass Reeves, the marshal in charge, and bringing up the rear, US Marshal Trip Banks on his first manhunt.\nCharles dropped to the ground, looped his reins around the saddle’s pummel. His horse bent down nibbling on patches of grass. Charles studied the ground. He hunched down for closer inspection.\n“What’cha got, Charlie?” asked Bass.\nCharles remained silent, scooped up a pile of what looked like dirt, smelled it, crumpled it back to the ground, and slapped his hands against his thighs, dusting them off.\n“Horses,” he said and pointed to a smaller clump of what looked like dried mud. “Human.”\nNext, he walked over to his horse, pulled out a field telescope and stood at the edge of the tree stand. Bass was a tall, rangy black man. He wore a tan vest over his black long- sleeved shirt. A shoulder holster filled with his Colt .38 six-shooter, and he sported a Colt .45 revolver on his waist in a conventional cross-draw holster.\n“See somethin’?” he asked, climbing down from his gray stallion, walking over to the tracker. Without a word Charles handed the glasses to Bass and pointed across the huge expanse of the field of undulating grass.\n“There, just past tree line, above tree tops.”\nBass adjusted the glasses.\n“What the hell y’all lookin’ at?” asked Trip.\nCharles turned to him and sliced his lips with his finger asking for silence. Bass still searched for what Charles pointed out, the only sound, the rustling wind through the Cottonwoods the only sound. Finally, he spotted what Charles saw. Smoke. A thin plume drifting about the tree tops.\n“I’ll be damned,” said Bass.\n“What?” demanded Trip.\nCharles signaled him to come over. He dismounted and approached them. Bass handed him the glasses. “Straight ahead, just yonder above them trees.”\n“That them?”\n“You best believe it.”\n“Jesus H. Christ,” said Trip. “They certainly is full of themselves, ain’t they? Doin’ what they done and lightin’ fires, hardly even tryin’ to hide.”\n“Hell,” said Bass, “they don’t know we on ‘em. They think they got clean away. Think we won’t go after ‘em ‘cause they in the Badlands.”\nTrip headed back to his horse.\n“Where you goin’?”\n“Ain’t we gon’ go get ‘em?”\n“Not now.”\n“Whaddaya mean not now?”\n“That smoke maybe three, four miles away. They see us comin’ and they get to movin’ again.”\n“But it’s been three days, they still got Mrs. Talley with ‘em.”\nBass looked at the anguish in Trip’s eyes, the hurt and rage playing out all at the same time. His first manhunt and he had to bite the bullet and stand down. Charles showed no emotion whatsoever, willing to let white men have their own way. But Bass was different. It was hard to understand how a black man could manage feelings and emotions concerning white people, but then again he was working for them. He didn’t have to understand them, just do his job. Charles guessed Bass had his own reasons and let it go at that.\n“I know, Trip, I know. But if they see us comin’, they jest might decide to lighten they load before they rabbit outta there.”\n“But God only know what they been doin’ to that poor woman.”\n“God ain’t the only one, son. Believe me. We know. They done shot that li’l Ramirez boy and his grandma, stole those Arabians and took Mrs. Talley. We know what they been doin’, but it will stop tomorrow. I promise.\n“We camp here tonight and move before light. Take ‘em before they awake.”\n“What if they place a guard?”\n“They lightin’ fires and got them a woman. Ain’t gon’ be no guard. Dry camp, fellas, no fires. We move out before dawn.”\nThe three men broke the meeting. They unsaddled and rubbed down their mounts. Charles kept an eye on the smoke above the tree line in the distance.\n _____________\nAcross the plain underneath that tree line sat four men, huddled around a small campfire; dirty, filthy, more the worse for wear. Draped in the shadows was a frightened, horrified Victoria Talley; clothes ragged, skin bruised, feet bare and swollen, blood coagulating in small and large cuts, eyes dried out from useless crying and begging. She’s early forties, slim and fit despite the damage caused during this nightmare. What beauty she possessed was tossed aside on the trail bit by bit with every mile and every degradation she endured. Those hazel eyes were now so dull and listless, trying to distance herself from her reality.\nBodeen Pitts lounged near the fire, meanness carved in his eyes and etched throughout his entire being; a big, gruff man with an uneven, matted beard hanging on him like mange on a dog. Yellowish, brown crooked teeth sparsely populated his mouth.\nNext to him was his younger brother, Bobby Joe; early twenties, equally big and distasteful, just as filthy. Their cousin, Pat Hooks, a slimmer version of the two brothers, but worse, sat across from them next to his sixteen-year-old son, Delmore, who looked like he would rather be anywhere on earth than where he was. Acne peppered his face giving it the texture of a hand puppet he once saw at a Punch ‘N Judy show in Texarkana. His Adam’s apple was as big as the real thing. A dirty bottle of cheap whiskey made the rounds. Pat tilted it greedily into his mouth, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, continually talking. \n“What’re you catterwallin’ about, Pat?” said Bodeen spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the fire causing it to hiss and sizzle.\n“I’m sayin’ it’s my turn with this bitch.”\n“The hell it is,” said Bobby Joe. “You done poked her twice already. I’m climbin’ that hill tonight.”\n“Delmore here ain’t had no turn yet,” Pat said kicking at his son who barely got out of the way.\n“That be Delmore’s business. Ain’t no givin’ turns away now is there? ‘Specially cooze.”\nBodeen quietly listened to this interchange, really not caring and just pissed about all the fuss this woman was causing with this constant bickering. He should have put a bullet in her head from the start, but he felt pussy was scarce out here, so he put up with the bitching. But after his next turn he just might blow her brains out and end all this quarrelling.\nHe felt he had to keep an eye on Pat. Cousins or not Pat couldn’t be trusted in any situation. Bodeen eased his hand closer to his holstered pistol and slipped the tie off the hammer as Pat continued his plea.\n“Delmore ain’t never had none. Don’t know what to do with it. I’m his daddy. I’m pokin’ that bitch and Delmore gon’ watch; learn what a man do.”\nBobby Joe burst out laughing, joined by his big brother. They laughed until tears formed in their eyes. Pat seethed at the disrespect. He hated being the butt of their jokes.\n“You gon’ show him? Shit! Like you poked that whore in Elsinore? Couldn’t git your whacker hard.”\n“Hell,” said Bodeen. “That ain’t surprised me none. Pat’s pecker been in some mighty filthy holes; some strange ones too when they ain’t no whores around.”\nAngered, Pat went for his gun, but Bodeen was ready. He whipped his Navy Arms out and clicked back the hammer.\n“Ain’t gon’ be nunna that, Pat. You had a go and if Delmore cain’t cut it, he just skipped. No giveaways.”\nThe cocked and aimed Navy Arms simmered Pat down, but the fury bubbled beneath his skin. As he sat back down, he looked at his son, hauled off and backhanded him across his face. Delmore’s head snapped straight back and he fell hard on the ground. Pat towered over him.\n“Tommora, before we head out, you gon’ mount that bitch like a man and I’m gon’ make sure you do. Gon’ make a man of you yet, goddamnit!”\nBobby Joe snickered out loud. He stood and snatched Victoria up onto her feet. She wailed and cried weakly trying to resist the inevitable. “Please, I – I can’t. Please, I just – “\nBobby Joe yanked her closer and slapped her across the face.\n“Shuddup! You ain’t here to talk. I’m gon’ put that mouth of yours to real good use real soon. Now c’mon!”\nThey vanished into the shadows, Bobby Joe dragging her along into the brush and trees behind the campsite. Pat sulked near the fire, poured the rest of the bottle down his throat.\nBodeen spat another stream of juice into the flames making it crackle again. Delmore remained on the ground glaring at this father’s back, not wishing he was someplace else, instead wishing his father would simply cease to exist.\nFrom the bushes Victoria cried, squealed, and begged while Bobby Joe grunted like a pig.\n ________________\nDawn spilled out gray and feathery revealing the Marshals slipping through the grass approaching the thicket where their quarry waited. At the edges they dismounted and spread out with Charlie leading his horse to the back. Bass moved to the right, while Trip stayed in front. On Bass’ signal they tied their horses down, and proceeded towards their target.\nInside the thicket, Bodeen slept fitfully near the smoldering embers of the campfire. Across from him Pat, mouth opened, drool pouring out. Delmore was awake, saw Trip and Bass advance, but never uttered a warning, just raised his hands.\nTrip loomed over Bodeen, nudged him with the toe of his boot. All Bodeen did was mumble turning in his sleep. Next Trip kicked him hard in the ribs lifting him up off the ground. Bodeen shot straight up cursing and fumbled for his gun. Trip pointed his Sharp’s .50 caliber buffalo rifle right between his eyes. “Go on, draw down if you want. I’d like that jest fine.”\nBass pulled out his .38 and fired a shot in the air. Pat jumped up off the ground, the barrel of Bass’s .38 looking like a huge tunnel with no light shining from the other end.\nFrom the rear of the small clearing, Charles came through pushing Bobby Joe in front of him. Bobby Joe trying to hold up his unfastened, filthy pants, as Charles ushered him towards the group. The confusion on his face was beginning to surrender replacing it with anger.\n“What the hell is this shit?” asked Bodeen.\n“Where’s Mrs. Talley?” asked Bass.\n Pat looked up at this black man standing in front of him asking about a white woman. “What’s it to you, nigger?”\nCharles shoved Bobby Joe into the fray of the moment. “She’s in back,” said Charles. “Bad shape, but said she’d be out soon. She was with this one.” Charles shoved Bobby Joe into the middle, where he fell to the ground.\nBodeen gathered himself together and said, “What y’all want? We ain’t done nuthn’.”\nBass turned to face him. “Y’all boys kidnapped Mrs. Talley from her ranch four days ago, kilt her cook, Graciella Flores, and Miss Flores’ grandson, Miguel, then stole them Arabians you got tied up over yonder.”\n“We done bought them horses, and the woman came with us ‘cause she wanted to. Don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout no killins.”\n“We’ll let the courts settle that,” said Bass.\n“I ain’t doin’ nuthin’ some nigger say,” declared Bodeen. With that Trip took a step forward and slammed the butt of his Sharps into Bodeen’s face breaking his nose, blood splattering all over his face and chest.\n“Damn! You done broke my nose,” he screamed, sprawled out on the ground.\n“This here is U S Marshal Bass Reeves out of Fort Smith, Arkansas.”\n“Arkansas!” barked Pat. “You dumb assholes, we in Oklahoma. This ain’t Arkansas. You ain’t got no say here.”\n“You stupid sumbitch,” said Trip. I said U S Marshal. U S stands for United States.”\nBobby Joe laughed out loud. “Hell, what makes you think some nigger, some wet-behind-the-ear nigger lover, and a half-breed Injun Joe gon’ get all four of us back to Fort Smith? That be a long travel.”\n“We’ll make do,” said Bass. As if on cue, Charles reached into the bag he had slung over his shoulder and brought out a handful of iron shackles and tossed them on the ground.\nPat eyed the manacles and spoke. “It ain’t gon’ be no easy trip for you, nigger. We gon’ see to that.”\nTrip stepped back while Charles stepped in to start manacling the prisoners. As he began his task, a single gunshot exploded in the back where Mrs. Talley remained. The sound and singularity of the shot silenced and froze everyone.\nCharles immediately drew his gun and raced back towards the gunshot. Seconds became minutes and seemed like hours before he emerged carrying the limp dead body of Victoria Tally, with Bobby Joe’s gun belt looped around his neck.\nA pall drifted over the marshals and young Delmore as Charles gently laid her down.\n“That poor woman,” said Delmore. “She ain’t done nuthin’ to nobody.” He openly cried. Pat reached out and backhanded Delmore across his face. “What kinda man is you? Cryin’ like some little girl. Goddamn you!” Then without regard to where he was or who he was with, Delmore charged his father, taking him by complete surprise, drove him to the ground and started beating him relentlessly. Pat was too stunned to move or react. \nFinally, Trip pulled him off his father. Delmore shook Trip off and stood over Mrs. Talley’s body crying unashamedly. \nDespite his broken nose Bodeen smiled then spoke, “Now you ain’t got no witnesses to what we was supposed to did. Shit, so take us back goddamnit! You got a handfulla nuthin’.”\nBobby Joe managed a smile also. “Hell, she wasn’t even a good fuck. I paid two dollars for better pussy in lots of nastier places.”\nHis words stirred a morose Trip Banks, his face contorted in a mixture of hate and rage. By the time Bobby Joe pulled himself up to a kneeling position, Trip scrambled over and stood over him, brought the Sharps around and pulled the trigger, splashing blood, brain matter, and skull fragments all over the ground and his brother.\nEveryone stood around in shock. Trip was immobile, frozen in time, finger still on the trigger. Charles walked over to him and helped lower the gun.\nBodeen was beside himself with rage. He charged Trip only to be knocked down by Bass. “What you done! He my baby brother! What you done! Now we got sumthin’ to tell that judge back in Fort Smith. Goddamnit! Take us there, you done murdered my brother and you gon’ pay for it now, yessir, you gon’ pay for this.”\nQuietly, Bass approached Trip. The Sharps still leaked smoke from the breech and muzzle. The smell of cordite wafted in the small area. Bass could see the anger in Trip dissipating, being eaten away by guilt and shame.\n“My God, what the hell have I done? Sweet Jesus.”\nBass eased the rifle out of his hands and said, “You ain’t done nuthin’ that didn’t need doin’.”\n“I just lost it. I done murdered an unarmed man.”\n“Yes, indeed, he was unarmed, but murder and man may not be the proper words here.”\n“What’s gonna happen now?”\n“Don’t worry about it. We gon’ take care of this.”\nBodeen stood again. “Damn right you gon’ take care of this! I’m gon’ see to it! You gon’ shackle him too? Like you gon’ do us? Goddamnit, you better do somethin’.”\nBass turned, eyed him with no expression whatsoever. “Don’t worry,” he said. “That be exactly what we gon’ do.”\n _____________________\nA few hours later, the sum climbed to its summit in a cloudless sky. The rays bounced through the thick tree cover, splattering sunlight on the small gathering. They clustered around the rock covered mound as Delbert finished hammering in the rough-hewed cross at the head of the grave. Bass turned to him.\n“Would you like to say somethin’, son?”\nDelbert looked up, eyes still streaming tears. “I don’t have the words,” he said.\nWithout hesitation, Charles Running Dog spoke a few words in his native tongue as Delbert delivered the final stroke to anchor the cross in the ground.\n“Any ideas of what you gonna do?” asked Bass.\n“I might have blood down near Hazleton. Farmers I think. My daddy wasn’t too welcome most places.”\n“I understand.”\nTrip walked over leading a small mustang pinto, saddled with bags strapped to the rear. He handed Delbert two canteens of water. “I put a few days-worth of food in the bags. Should tide you over for a bit.”\n“Thank you, sir.”\n“No need. Just get on with your livin’ and be somethin’.”\n“I’ll try.”\nDelbert shook hands all around. Even Charles offered his with a non-committal grunt. Delbert climbed aboard and softly nudged the paint west out of the thicket.\n“He gonna be okay,” said Bass. “I can tell. He gon’ be alright.”\nTrip looked away over Bass’ shoulder. “What about them?”\nBass turned to view the three bodies hanging from the thick branch of a Cottonwood, swaying in the breeze, the branch creaking with each undulation.\n“They can stay right where they be. Don’t want them touching the ground where Mrs. Talley is resting.”\n“Why we hang that Bobby Joe. I already kilt him?”\nBass spat on the ground before speaking. “If anyone deserved to be kilt twice, it was him.” Bass spat again. All three men mounted up, stringing the Arabians behind them. They each gave a cautionary glance back at the grave of Victoria Talley, each man figuring justice was served, rough as it 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 Man With No Face\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1322\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone seeking revenge for a past wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Warning: Contains graphic scene and language\n“See the thing with a n— like me is that n—-s are confused as to if I am really a n—- n—-uh or a just a plain ol’ albino n—--. And I ain’t gon beat ‘rund the bush no mo’. If your boy haddn dun this 90 years go … f—-in slang my brain with that chayain and fry ma face over the grill like a charred hickory ol’ babacue sauce man… f— no. I ain’t square dancin here nay neithuh I am tap dancin’. I came for his rusty a— and I want that m—----ers head on a nice ol dish… nuh scratch that on a silver platter of one of them Elizabethan silver sterlin marks.”\nErnie stared at him for fifteen seconds as he vented in front of the counter where a glass separated them at the saloon. Clearly the gentleman had much on his plate. And yes, he is right. You couldn’t tell if he is black or had skin-color disorientation behind the partial covering of a bandanna facemask under a Stetson hat. \nThing is things have changed. It is no longer 1887 of wild, wild West. People have settled down and the town is starting to heal. As a sheriff, Ernie can’t possibly let it all loose like a free-for-all buffet down at the Vinny’s. People have families. Jobs. Past no longer holds them in guilt manacles. \n“All cuz uh wat? Cuz y’all found yassef a n—-. A n—-- on a leash. That won’t listen to nunna yar bullshat even though half o yo’ life you had his uncle tortured, maimed, brutalized, mayhemed and what not like a f—-in a man in an iron maiden ni—a. N—--! All cuz of his what? Skin coloh? And then when someone like me had the nerv… AUDACITY to interject. INTERVENE. Is that good’ enuff for you? Is that EDUCATED ‘nuff for you you illiterate n—--s…. When he had the… or as we say down south cojones to stick his neck up…. You scorched his face. You scoundrels scarred him for life. \n“Now this n—-- can’t get no jooub. No p—---y. No f—----in bank ‘ccount. Nothin’. Nada.”\n“You have some balls to come here and speak like this in front of my children.” The man with the bronze face wearing a bushy mustache finally couldn’t hold it together. His voice boomed and the whole room turned around. It is clear who held the authority here. \nOld Billy Wily, or also known as the Faceless Man, The Man With No Face or The Fastest Draw in Texas kept rambling on. Yes it is true: he is probably the only black person in town. And it is also true, by the time Sheriff Ernie Rodriguez can even think of reaching for his holster, the man could easily split his skull in an eye blink.\nIt takes less than a second for a Rosette-Nosed Pygmy Chameleon to flick its tongue at a prey at 8,500 feet. In that same instance, Old Billy Wily can shatter the glass partition with the bullet spinning at enough angular momentum for a hollow point damage to Ernie whose misfire will cue the chandelier and the drip pan that will befell on a wretched witch who would get what she deserved for being the insufferable shrew that she has been for the last two years to Lil’ David Tim…. - as well as turn around to render incapacitate the furthest two guardsman as well as Mean Nick sitting at the corner behind Nacogdoches Gazette and burst through the barn door, leap on his Quarter Horse and ride to the dust-bowl trail to an incoming locomotive within a 5 second precision of synchrony.\n“You are hurting my child.” Ernie was old enough to possess the wisdom to know when to yield and diffuse the situation. “The past has been past. ‘For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you don't forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.’ ” He paused. “I believe you are a man of scripture?”\n“That I am.” Billy conceded. “That..I a..m.” He spoke slowly. As if pondering a deep, Gordian riddle. \n“Look,” Ernie intuited he had an opening… “I can’t bring the person for you. Besides it will take days to dig up the old records. I reckon, why don’t I take you to Father Smith over there… and you may unburden your soul, my son.”\n“F—- that. I ain’t doin’ nunna that. I want that m—---ers head… and I want him now. And his name… his NAME is Lil Johnny Jims… or as his friends called him “Bonez”. Thass right. His name Johnny “Bonez” Jims. How F—--- difficult is it to dig that up?”\n“Look man I am trying to help you here.”\n“Goddamn right you are partner. And guess howut? Pigs get fat and hogs get slaughtered.”\n“What the hell is that ‘posed to mean?”\n“I ma show you what that’s ‘psed to mean…n—a!”\nHaving said that Old Billy Wily zoomed past the doors and started walking as his dark colt slowly cantered on behind him with the elegance of a dressage. People were walking by as no one hardly bothered to pay attention. Although people knew there was a newcomer in town, most were busy with their day-to-day lives to express any concern. Some politely nodded and doffed their hats; Old Billy Wily kept waltzing on. \nHe soon came by a solitary yew that guarded a white steeple which stood against the backdrop of distant mountains like a castle. Billy tied Breezy by a wooden bollard and idled inside the church. He walked past the pews and found himself in the confessional. \nHe sat motionless for few seconds. And finally began. Began his saga. How his uncle Jim died an unfair death, how he was tortured and brutalized and left stranded in an ocean of Time only to hold on a barge of splinters and wooden fragments of a broken psyche all tempered, galvanized and honed like a harpoon for an one-pointed mission - a mission in life- to avenge the injustice. The injustice that plagued this country and yet far too often people assume one must take the high road of compassion and forgiveness shrugging it off.\n“You are hurting my son.” The Father echoed what the sheriff figured out. “It is best to forgive.”\n“Hah! Forgiveness. Forgiveness Father?” Old Billy spat and scoffed. His mouth salivated with spite and contempt. “And what good has that ever wrohought ‘xaccly, Father?”\n“Jesus suffered way worse. As did Joseph. And Noah. And Moses. I can go on and on. Scripture is replete with benevolence triumphing over evil.”\n“Oh cut it Father. Cut it.” \n“And what exactly will you do to him once you find this… certain Jimmy?”\n“I am gun slit his head right out and then make them Maoris play boyol with’m. Is that good enough response for you Father? Is that GOOD ENOUGH RESPONSE FOR YOU FATHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”\nOld Billy Wily exploded. He shot up straight from his seat and beat his chest like a gorilla. His eyes were about to pop off and his neck veins about to tear. Suddenly his whole body contorted like a voodoo doll. He clutched his heart and the man with more than thirty years of experience of gun-slinging intuitively reached for his 7.63mm Mannlicher. Yet, the fastest draw to ever live could hardly make a thimble contact with the ice-cold steely component in his belt. \nHe fell on the floor on his back with the head cracking half open as he landed. Blood immediately coagulated as the Father got up, touched his rosary and made a sign of cross in the air. \n“Anger is a sin, my son.”\nLittle did Old Billy Wily know that within three-feet distance of his was the very man who tortured him for years." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Briefly by the counter.\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1516\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two opposites finding themselves surprisingly attracted to one another." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was his legs that drew her attention.\nHe seemed to have put on odd legs as he started the day. One was well calved, the other thinner and shapeless. His shorts – that came to his knees - made their appearance even odder. The one leg of the pants coming just below the knee, the other, cuff backed, fell mid-knee. His black socks, too, differed. The one covering the ankle of the fatter leg was lower than the other; the other, pulled high, exaggerating the thinness of that limb.\nHer eyes travelled up his body. The football shirt was of the sort worn by so many men of a certain age who liked one to think they were regular attendees at premier league matches - and fitness fanatics, despite their too round tummies; though he, she noted, lacked the tummy. But the head that peeped above the aged neckline belonged to a much older man. Dark grey hair formed a two inch frill to his bald head and as he moved his head a degree or two she saw that his sideburns and light stubble covered more of his face than his hair covered his head. He was a singularly unattractive man and yet he held a certain fascination. He was smiling cheerfully, openly, inviting the help of the teller behind the counter.\nShe hadn’t meant to stare. She had been sitting somewhat primly in her neat, going-somewhere-important, colour coordinated outfit, on the plastic-leather chair awaiting her appointment. She had arrived a little earlier than she needed to as parking had not proved as difficult as she had expected. The wait was tedious in the picture less space, and the leaflets of no interest to her, so that she had amused herself making up biographies of the various queueing customers until, that is, her gaze fell on the queer looking chap at the counter.\nThe teller smiled and nodded her response. There was a familiarity between them; perhaps he was a regular customer. The young woman moved away to deal with some measure he seemed to have needed her to attend to. The man looked around him and saw that she was watching him. He smiled and gave the slightest bow of his head in her direction. She quickly looked away, somewhat embarrassed, and tried to look as if their eyes had meet in what had been (and accidently) just a fleeting glance. She hoped that the colour she felt rising in her had not reached her cheeks. After a moment or two she looked back, in the hope that should he see her so doing he would believe that that was all she had been doing in the first place - allowing her eyes to wander idling among the customers. She saw that he was finishing his business, acknowledging the teller. She shifted in her seat to face a different direction and struck what she hoped was a bored pose. She breathed deeply to regain her composure.\n‘Hello,’ said the most attractive voice she had ever heard, a moment later.\nWith eyes wide with amazement, she looked up to see the curious stranger looking gently, (caringly?) down at her.\n‘I saw you looking my way,’ he said with a lop-sided grin. ‘I wondered if we knew each other.’\nShe stammered, ‘No, no, no. I’m sorry; I was just waiting for my appointment and, and.’ (She thought quickly for a justifiable ‘and’). ‘And, well, my eyes… I must have looked your way without thinking.’ She stopped talking, afraid of sounding rude.\nHe sat down beside her. Again she shuffled in her seat. The situation was becoming more embarrassing. She couldn’t stand up and walk away, the appointment was too important to leave without attending.\n‘Waiting is so wearisome in a place like this. Have you long to wait?’ he asked.\nThe voice really was most pleasant, the smile calming and kindly.\n‘I was stupidly early,’ she said. ’Nothing to hold me up, you know how it can be. But it is now a little beyond my appointment time.’\n‘How trying.’ Such a sincere voice.\nThe manager appeared from her office.\n‘I’m so sorry I’ve kept you waiting,’ she said in the way well trained staff address customers they think they need to appease. ‘Would you like to come through?’ An odd thing to say. Not ‘come in’, but ‘come through’. ‘Through’ what? The doorway? A series of offices? A wall, maybe!\n She rose in response and turned slightly to the chap to nod a polite ‘good bye’. He had risen with her.\n‘I’ll be in the café across the street,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you when you’re done here.’\nShe tried to look disdainful or at least nonchalant as he turned towards the door to the street and she walked into the office. She smiled to herself. It was quite flattering (perhaps) this queer man with the, oh so charming, voice showing this interest, and a little amusing that he should assume so much without any encouragement. He had a pleasant voice. She had always been drawn by the timbre of a man’s voice. He was an odd looking chap. And that was that: a brief moment and over. She wouldn’t go of course, what a silly thought. Not that he would have meant to be taken seriously; not in the least.\nThe interview was a more longwinded affair than she had expected; modern privacy laws, corporations’ fear of being sued, not to mention the list of scams which needed to be pointed out, all made the gleaning of simple information a dreary business however friendly the personnel appeared to be. And the refusal of the initial ‘can I get you a coffee?’ proved a grave mistake after the best part of an hour in a small room.\nShe thanked the woman for her thoroughness and professionalism, shook hands and, gathering her belongings, headed for the street. It was good to get a breath of air. Looking around she thought what a great pity it was that the town council, having made this area traffic free, had not planted a tree or two, or a trough of flowers to brighten the spot. She breathed deeply and turned towards the off-road parking.\n‘Hello again,’ said that voice. ‘Please, sit down.’\nShe hadn’t seen him at the table in the sunshine. She hadn’t expected to; of course not. She hadn’t even glanced towards the café.\nShe turned without intending to. The queer looking chap with the appealing voice and the inviting smile was smiling his slightly crooked smile in her direction, his eyebrows questioning her, the tilt of his head reinforcing his invitation to – no! his expectation that she undoubtedly would! - join him.\nShe sat.\nAs he signalled to the waitress, he asked her, ‘coffee? Or, no! perhaps you’d prefer one of their lovely milkshakes?’\n‘What a pleasant idea,’ she’d thought. When had she last had a milkshake? Years ago. A girlish choice. Despite herself she smiled. ‘Banana,’ was all she said. There was no need to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’; she knew there was no place for such between them.\nThere were no introductions, no preambles. Despite her natural reserve, her protected privacy, she found herself chatting, yes, natural nattering, to this stranger whose peculiar appearance she should have found abhorrent. Looking down at the table she noted the title of the book he had been reading.\n‘Are you enjoying the read?’ she had asked. It was a book she had read, very much enjoyed and would have chosen for her Dessert Island.\n‘Not exactly enjoying it,’ he’d replied. ‘But such an interesting story and a unique take’\nAnd their talk simply flowed.\nSometime later, some long time later, after they had talked and argued of books and theatre, of philosophy and travel, and fitness (or lack of it), laughed a lot and pontificated greatly, she heard the church clock strike the hour and realised that she needed, after so very long, - had - to go.\n‘Oh dear, look at the time!’ she said. ‘I have enjoyed talking to you. Really. It was pleasant.’ She added the needless ‘thank you’; she had, after all, been well brought up. And this was, after all, their conclusion.\n‘I’ll see you next Friday, then,’ he said. ‘Here? Same sort of time?’\n ‘If that’s ok with you?’ he added quizzically. His eyes told her that it was his hope that it was ‘ok’ with her. His smile assured her that he believed it was.\nShe smiled but didn’t answer.\n‘Till then,’ he said, in that melodious, nice, voice.\nShe wouldn’t be there, of course. It had been pleasant. The odd looking fellow had so much to share; they had, surprisingly, so many interests in common even if seen from different angles; so much to give each other, to expand upon. But she wouldn’t repeat the encounter. Funny looking chap! She smiled to herself; looks could be so deceptive. And that voice! They would not meet again; of course not. She would not go.\nOr would she?" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Jupiter's Golden Stain\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1046\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who uses sarcasm as a defense mechanism." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jupiter's Golden Stain\n\nDoesn’t look special to me…\n\nThe words haunted him as he lay down to rest. Usually as soon as his head hit the pillow he found himself in a deep sleep.\n\nBut not today. Not tonight.\n\nDave couldn’t help but focus on his least favourite spot on the ceiling. It wasn’t a wet patch, but it looked like one.\n\nIt looked like a yellow stain. Like a cat had urinated on polystyrene. Like the cat had done it several times. Like it was the cat’s favourite place to take a slash. Like the urine was starting to eat through the ceiling after years of being a cat toilet.\n\nBut it wasn’t.\n\nDoesn’t look special to me…\n\nIt was actually stardust.\n\nSpecial…\n\nFrom a time when his girlfriend was staying over with him. A time when he had cute little glow stickers on the ceiling. To remind him of Abigail while she was at work overnight.\n\nSo he wouldn’t feel lonely when he missed her.\n\nThe weird little glow patch seemed like a spectre from another timeline. As much as he tried, he couldn’t look away. And the more he tried, the more he felt fixated upon that little spot.\n\nIt burned into his eyes.\n\nA faintly glowing patch of double sided tape. Tape that didn’t actually glow… it left a dark spot. A dark hole in his mind where Jupiter used to be.\n\nThe whole solar system, actually. With a messy bunch of stars surrounding the planets.\n\nJupiter was Abigail’s favourite.\n\n“Did you know that the big storm in Jupiter is actually called the Great Red Spot?” she had asked him this one night, after their afternoon picnic had turned into stargazing.\n\nThe night he learned about her passion for astronomy.\n\nDoesn’t look special to me…\n\n“Its real name is the Jovian Cloud and it's the largest known storm in the solar system. The wind in there gets to about 435 kilometres per hour,” she told him, as she lazily poured herself a glass of red wine, pretending to offer him some before jokingly pulling the bottle away.\n\n“Not so fast, Designated Dave,” she taunted, “you’ve got to drive me home first… or maybe back to your place?”\n\nThat was the night they first truly clicked. The first time Dave had ever really felt a genuine connection with someone if he was being honest. Something beyond a surface level friendship. Or romance.\n\nSpecial…\n\nAfter that night, he bought her some glow stars to put in her room. If she wanted… He didn’t know if a 20 something Night Manager would want stars on their roof when you couldn’t see them glow during the day. But he thought it was a fitting gift.\n\nAnd unbeknownst to Dave she had done exactly the same thing.\n\n“Just a little something so you don’t forget me!” she exclaimed, as she stood on his bed and jumped a little to make each planet and star stick.\n\nHe remembered being slightly annoyed… mostly because he didn’t know if the stars would come off and he was renting this apartment… but also because she ‘stole’ his idea.\n\nBut it was very cute, and it did make him remember her at night. It made him imagine what she was getting up to at the hotel.\n\nHow many plates of nachos will room 604 order tonight? he wondered.\n\nAnd with that thought, a deep sigh and a hollow moan escaped his body. Never in his life had he felt so empty.\n\nDoesn’t look special to me…\n\nHe regretted saying it instantly. More than instantly, even.\n\nAs soon as he opened his mouth, he knew it was wrong… but he couldn’t stop the words from surging out. The flood gates had opened.\n\nHe had crossed the rubicon. Unwittingly.\n\nSpecial…\n\nWhy did she have to show him her painting on that day of all days?\n\nA sick twist of fate.\n\nA cruel joke.\n\nThat she had shown him her artwork on the day his father died. Or the anniversary thereof anyway.\n\nI’d love to see your paintings Ab. I’ll show them to my dad, I’m sure he’ll love them. He always loves to see other artist’s work. Maybe he’ll give you a few pointers… though I doubt you’ll need them.\n\nThat’s what he had said.\n\nReferring to his imaginary father. Alive only in his mind.\n\nSpecial…\n\nAny other day he would have been able to brush it off as a joke.\n\n“Oh dad’s not in today, but it’s a gorgeous painting. You captured Jupiter’s soul perfectly Ab. The perfect omniscient eye of god,” he imagined he would have said.\n\nWhat he wished he’d said.\n\nDoesn’t look special to me…\n\nBut instead he’d cut her deep. Beyond deep.\n\nShe’d never shown him her artwork before.\n\nAnd instead of a beautiful night in bed with Abigail on her night off, Dave was lying stuck on his own, looking at slashed up stars on his roof.\n\nThe look of fear and confusion in her eyes before the tears spilled out, forever embedded into his mind.\n\nShe knew that Dave wasn’t quite himself at the time. So she took her painting and left without a word.\n\nHe knew she’d be back, but he couldn’t get himself together enough to process what had happened.\n\nSo instead the words kept rolling over and over in his mind.\n\nDoesn’t look special to me…\n\nSpecial…\n\nTears.\n\nConfusion.\n\nPain.\n\nAnger.\n\nHurt.\n\nAnd an afternoon of peeling stars off the roof so he wouldn’t feel guilty that night.\n\nBut instead he felt worse.\n\nNot only could he still see the patches on his ceiling, reminding him of her, but he felt as though he had desecrated her memory somehow. The memory of their love.\n\nBut he knew she’d be back tomorrow. Or whenever he worked up the courage to call her.\n\nAnd tell her about his dead father.\n\nAnd then, because they’re both adults - he told himself - everything would be ok.\n\nThings would be truly special again.\n\nAnd with that thought, he realised he could just put the stars back up in the morning.\n\nThough a hint of panic began to creep in as he realised he might not get his rental bond back.\n\nBut oh well.\n\nThat’s a thought for 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: See it. Say it. Sorted.\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1285\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who wishes they could just disappear — and then they do." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It started, unimaginatively enough, with someone looking up at the stars.\nThat someone was Laurie Entwistle, who instead of writing up a review of up and coming ska punk ensemble The Mucus Plugs, looking for new ways of saying that they “absolutely tore the bloody roof off” of local pub Dog & Gristle (a venue which truthfully remained quite intact), was actually stuck on making tweaks to her dating profile.\nFemale\nEarly 30s\nOccupation: journalist\nLikes: travel, reading, her sofa, art, photography, blueberry muffins, endless scrolling\nDislikes: punctuation mistakes, plants (especially ones that don’t respond to watering/plaintive beseeching), dogs that are too large/too small, flipflops\nLooking for:\n“What?” Laurie asked one of the brighter-looking stars. “What am I looking for exactly?”\nSomebody not in a band, she thought. Not with those egos. Nor a fellow journalist (egos in more sombre clothing). Not a toyboy. Not a DILF, either. “Do I even want a man at all”, was a thought that had been occupying more headspace recently, particularly after the last few shambolic dates. Maybe the love of my life is a woman? What if it’s a rice farmer on the other side of the globe, who I’ll likely never meet, and even if I did would speak another language that would require years to learn? What if I’m destined to be alone to devote more time to my first true love, music-writing?\nShe looked at the blinking cursor on the review in progress. Another band that would rotate the same dusty venues for a few years, with the same support acts, never moving up or down the scale, selling more t-shirts than songs, before wives and kids crept into the picture demanding more time and fixed salaries.\nNah. Perhaps not.\nLaurie wondered if her rice farmer was looking up at the same stars right now (minus the birdshit-streaked pane of glass in the way). Given it would be daylight on the other side of the planet, she guessed not.\nYet still.\nMaybe travel was the answer.\nShe logged into her employee portal, fingers flying faster than they had done all week (except perhaps for when ASOS had announced a 50% reduction in the price of ankle boots). After multiple failed logins, password reset and a two-factor authentication process that nearly had her throwing Martin from account’s ridiculous mascot (an oversized ‘lucky’ penny on a stick) at a picture of Pink Floyd album artwork (also Martin’s) she was in.\nTwo weeks of leave to take. “Yessss,” she hissed in delight.\nShe dashed off the rest of the review, borrowing from her secret spreadsheet of stock phrases/crowd-pleasers (‘unstoppable’, ‘unmissable’, ‘notoriously difficult sophomore album’, ‘roaring behemoth’, ‘will make your ears bleed – but in a good way’, ‘beautiful electronic soundscape’, ‘searing anthems’ and of course the winner: ‘you heard it here first’). The spreadsheet told her how many times and how recently she’d used them. Quite handy, really.\nEven if meeting the fabled farmer wasn’t on the cards, she just needed to disappear for a while.\nTo remember what it was like to be out in daylight, rather than skulking in shadows drenched with giddy gig-goers’ spilled pints. To not be glued to a screen, whether the big one or the small one. To get some vitamin D. (Reader’s choice of what the ‘D’ stands for there). To not be stuck on a tin snake filled with other people’s crisp dust where a voice bleated at intervals “See it. Say it. Sorted”, forever reminding her the act of a simple commute was a dance with death.\nTo get away from Martin, who had once found her profile on another dating site and who had had his messages left on read and got his own back by loudly quoting snippets of her profile to anyone who happened to be passing their desk (which given it was by the snack box, was many). “Watch it with waving that Milkybar around, Liz. Our Laurie here is lactose intolerant.” Capped with a drumroll of his little piggy gruntings. Ha bloody ha.\nLaurie looked up from where she was glowering again at the picture of the man on fire shaking hands, which was an act she committed so often she was surprised the whole picture and frame hadn’t combusted yet, distracted by a movement beyond the window.\nA shooting star.\nThat confirmed it. She filed her copy, booked a last minute sea and sunshine deal, then picked up her things. Time to go home and prepare to disappear.\n“See it, say it, sorted!” she declared, snapping her monitor off with a flourish.\n***\nMartin opened the door to his basement flat, an act that usually required a fair amount of jiggling and often a shoulder heave or two. It seemed some days that even his front door rejected him.\nHe said hello to Elizabeth the lizard then shuffled through his mail. The usual burger flyers, visitation notices from TV licencing. He discarded all but the solo cruise company’s latest brochure. He liked to look through the pictures, even if he never booked anything.\nHe fixed himself a decaf coffee, then punched in the key code to his basement-within-a-basement. The construction of which had taken him all of lockdown to complete.\nHis chair groaned in protest at contact with his derriere. He adjusted his headset, and switched on the PC he had also built himself. After multiple failed logins, password reset and a two-factor authentication process that nearly had him throwing the stiletto he’d stolen from under Laurie’s desk (on 23rd December 2022, when the distraction of the office Christmas party was in full swing) at a framed picture of Fred West, he was in.\nThe miniscule camera he’d pinned to the collar of her jacket when Laurie had gone for her usual extended trip to the bathroom after her traditional Wednesday burrito (spicy beef, naga sauce, refried beans, green rice, cheese and sour cream) had of course gone unnoticed by the wearer, who had adorned her jacket with so many feminist pins and band badges he was surprised she managed not to topple over face first whenever she put it on.\nIt worked perfectly. He had sharp Laurie-vision, which was of her fluffing her fringe in the reflection of the train window. Then a lipstick entered the shot. Martin’s stomach twisted as he guessed perhaps she was preparing for a date, a possibility he’d spent ages toying with in his calculations. It unknotted itself as he remembered in – he checked the timer on another screen – seven minutes it wouldn’t matter anymore.\nThere was a fast blur on the Laurie-vision cam. She was shrugging off her jacket. From the new angle, Martin could see the rucksack he’d planted on the luggage rack thirty-six minutes prior was waiting like an obedient, unobtrusive guard. When he’d spotted that shooting star earlier, he’d known then the plan was going to come together exquisitely, but hadn’t predicted such serendipity that the camouflaged device would be in shot. He felt a pang of remorse for his brave little soldier that he’d spent so much time helping create, that he would never get to thank.\nOne minute to go. Laurie-cam wobbled as she inevitably did that twisty thing she did to get comfortable, which always reminded him of a cat rotating until settling down to sleep.\nThirty seconds.\n“Goodnight, Laurie,” Martin whispered to the screen.\nFifteen seconds. Martin dabbed at the sweat on his brow with a scarf that Laurie had ‘lost’ on 2nd November 2022.\nFive. Four.\n“Three, two, one,” Martin chorused, and then a flash of bright white filled the screen. Then snow.\n“See it. Say it. Sorted.”\nHe snapped off the monitor with a flourish." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Forever Good Night\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1462\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a home alarm system going off." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“He forgot to turn the damn alarm off again.” She said this aloud through gritted teeth as she threw off the covers, but there was no one there to hear her.\n\nAs she stomped down the stairs, she tried to remember just how many times this had happened in the last month. Her husband always left for work early. He was the first one out of the bed in the morning, and she was the last one in it at night. It’d been that way since they married.\n\nShe entered the four-digit code and the alarm stopped. A voice from the base, which she referred to as “Bitchin’ Betty” said, “Alarm off. An alarm was triggered by an entry sensor.” Like she needed to be told one more time the details of this infuriating routine. She was mad, and when she finally found her phone, she let her husband know.\n\n“You forgot to turn off the alarm. Again.” That would show him.\n\nHe always responded with apologies, and occasionally a story about the circumstances that led to his having done so. But it didn’t seem to have any effect. He was in a season of forgetfulness.\n\nShe had explained to him several times that as a writer, she did her best work in the late hours of the evening or even the wee hours of the morning. And as a sleeper, she did her best work, usually, from a few hours before sunrise, to ten. Some mornings even later.\n\nWell, she’d had it. They were going to hash this out tonight. His morning work-focus was resulting in selfish inconsideration of her, and they were going to get into it tonight when he got home.\n\nIn her stewing, she realized the alarm was not the only thing she was upset about. His damnable snoring would either keep her awake, or wake her up through the night. They had talked. She had pleaded with him to have a sleep study so they could see if he needed a CPAP machine. He had made it clear he didn’t want to go to bed every night looking like a fighter pilot. But he had agreed to try a nose strip.\n\nIt was a flimsy metal strip covered in medical fabric. The strip had a very sticky side so it would adhere to the nose. He’d been wearing one for some time, and she’d even tried it. She breathed better through the night, but his wearing one didn’t help him all that much. Or her. She would admit his snoring didn’t wake her as often, but she rarely slept through the night.\n\nOr the morning. When he left without disarming the damn alarm.\n\nWhen he got home from work, she was waiting. And ready. But she postponed until they’d had dinner to raise her complaint. And then it was on.\n\nThey had never been any good at talking about the tough stuff. They just ended up fighting. And they were no good at that either. Words they never meant to say always spewed out and scratched each other’s hearts. And stuff they thought they’d forgiven were raised from the dead. They never really got anywhere. Oh, complaints about the alarm and the snoring were mentioned, but those couldn’t hold center stage very long, and their attention quickly went to some other gripe.\n\nIn the end, he stormed out for a walk. He’d do this when they’d hit the wall arguing. It was good for his health; well for them both. Their heartrates braked, and they were forced to spend some time apart.\n\nHe had come home just before his normal time for bed. After setting the alarm, which he regretted had caused all this trouble in the first place, they had a brief, but polite, no-eye-contact exchange.\n\n“Hi.”\n\n“Hi.”\n\n“I’m going to bed.”\n\n“Okay.”\n\nShe worked on her novel for a little over two hours. In the section she penned, the main character owned up to a mistake he’d made in a relationship. At least half her writing time had been spent trying to get her character to apologize, but he wouldn’t, at least, not in an acceptable way. Fatigued and defeated, she began climbing the stairs to her bedroom.\n\nWhen she opened the door, slowly, as to not disturb her sleeping husband, she realized the room was quiet. As fear can make one do, she had several thoughts before the door had moved even a few inches. Maybe her husband had jumped out the window? Could he have died of a heart attack? Would she find him stone cold in the bed?\n\nBut when the door was completely open, she discovered him lying awake, staring at his phone.\n\n“Hey, I couldn’t sleep,” he said to her.\n\n“Sorry,” was all she said as she walked by to the bathroom. While she brushed her teeth, she realized she would really like to stay mad, because he deserved a little wrath, but also that the steam had gone out of it. And his words had been about sleep, but his tone had been apology. She put on her nose strip and decided she was willing, if he was, to talk more rationally, about issues instead of feelings.\n\nThey spent the next hour sharing kindness from their hearts. She loved this man so, and knew he loved her, too. She thought about how she might have to get out of bed and turn the alarm off again in the morning, but at this moment, the thought didn’t make her angry. She was pretty sure she’d be able to do it out of love.\n\nWhen they felt sure they’d said all they needed to, she turned out her bedside lamp, casting the room into darkness. They laid, still, in the bed for a few minutes, then did the blanket cuddle, getting themselves into their best, individual, fall-asleep position. And then a few minutes later, they were both on their backs again, staring at the ceiling. He finally asked her if it would be too weird for them to go for a walk together. It didn’t seem weird to her at all.\n\nThey ambled down their street, hand in hand. At the intersection, they crossed over into one of the city’s parks; a favorite walking loop. Not long after they’d entered the park, her phone rang.\n\n“It’s two-thirty in the morning. Who could be calling me?” she said as she dug the phone from her jeans front pocket.\n\n“I’m not answering. I don’t know this number. It’s from New Jersey.”\n\nIt was probably fatigue, but there was a bit of frustration in her voice. They hadn’t taken 25 steps and it rang again. Same number. Even more frustration.\n\nThey continued the loop and when they had walked through the turnaround, they could see their house. And flashlights. And police cruisers. \n\n“It must have been the alarm company. We forgot to turn it off when we left the house,” he said as they picked up their pace.\n\nThey talked, a little breathlessly, about how they were going to walk up on two officers at two-something in the morning after they’d been called to a tripped home alarm.\n\nFrom a pretty good distance, she called out, “Officers.”\n\nShe had had to say it again to get their attention. There were two of them, and when they got into their driveway, each officer shone a light in one of their faces. She explained they were the home-owners and how they'd left the house without turning off the alarm. The policemen were understanding and wished them a safe and calm rest of the night.\n\nWhen they got inside, he had a sudden realization. “We must have been a sight,” he began, “walking up on them in the dark like that. And we still had our nose strips on!”\n\nThey got tickled over the thought. The late hour and the accompanying exhaustion turned the moment into the simples and they laughed so hard they were barely able to breathe, in spite of their nose-strips.\n\nHaving finally calmed down, they turned out the downstairs lights and made their way, together, to climb the stairs for the last time this evening. When they got to the base of the stairs, he thought she, being in front, would turn on the stairwell light. But instead, she took the first step, turned and faced him eye to eye, and said, “I love you, mister, I always will.”\n\nShe put her arms around him, and he returned the gesture. They kissed a few times and then held a long hug. He opened his eyes and pulled away so they could begin the climb, and that’s when he saw the dark figure dart from their bedroom across the hall to the guest 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: Poochie\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1150\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about lifelong best friends." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Kimberly W, Walker\n6/4/23\nRe: ER trip yesterday\nDear Hospital Administrator:\nYesterday I was discharged from room 413 in the ER department at the University of Virginia at 7 a.m., which was okay after being there from 3:30 p.m. the previous day. Because of my insurance and my paralysis, I have to be transported by ambulance to and from. Given that I am a quadriplegic, a specific protocol needs to be established not just for me but for the safety of all patients.\nFor:\n1. No one should be ignored when they have had to result to yelling. Please help me in 413 for assistance.\n2. Knowing each patient's situation or mental status and ability and putting in place ease of access measures such as a touchpad call bell or a sip and puff; simple comforts during their visit.\n3. Check on patients at least one time within 2 hours\n4. Never discharge from the system until actually leaving the building\nIf just these suggestions had been followed yesterday, I would have had a pleasant experience and would not feel the need to write this letter. After my yelling, can someone please help me in 413? Someone just closed the door without anyone asking what I needed. I laid there for 3 hours past my regular medication schedule without it. I would have been in serious trouble if I had not been given Toradol just at shift change for kidney stone pain (the results of my diagnosis…)\nI can understand that I had been discharged, but this is a risky practice to be discharged from the system before actually being able to leave the hospital. Although my nurse finally responded four hours into her shift, she was attentive, but by then, my pain was worse than when I arrived, and the friendly attitude angered me more because I knew she knew my problem. I didn’t appreciate the amount of time my cries went unanswered….\nI have been a resident of Charlottesville since 1983. I’ve worked for UVA-ER, and I know the standards UVA strives for, and unfortunately, yesterday, everyone working from 7 a.m. until my departure at 12:30 p.m. dropped the ball. Many people don’t have the luxury of seeking Care elsewhere, me included, so I felt the need to bring these suggestions to your attention.\nUnfortunately, this wasn’t the first time this kind of occurrence happened. I eagerly await your response to what will be done to change these practices. I chose to remain in Charlottesville some 38 years ago because it is pretty here, and I think UVA is a great teaching hospital. I don’t think a few unpleasant experiences are the norm, but I can’t be the only unhappy patron…\nSincerely upset,\nKim W.\n******************************REPLY***********************\nDear upset patient:\nI am as upset over your treatment as you! No written communication would be an appropriate reply, so please accept my invitation for a sit-down meeting to take the “obvious needed steps for reforms.” Set your time between the hours of 9-4 any M-F\nLooking forward to meeting with you,\nBetty Taylor\n***************************REPLY**************************\nCan we meet tomorrow, 6/5/23? It’ll be a fitting birthday gift. Can we do 1 p.m.? I need your address and any other information to inform Logistics Care about this appointment.\n****************************REPLY*************************\nHappy Birthday, in advance! That sounds great!\n****************************REPLY*************************\nAppointment: 1 p.m. With: Betty Taylor Where: West Complex of UVA-Third floor Room 3d Phone: 434--4-0900\n*************************REPLY****************************\nTHANK you, See You tomorrow!\n****************************************************************************\nWouldn’t you know it’s one of the last two offices on the old side of the original hospital, Accessible by traveling across a busy, nonstop unprotected crossover? Would it qualify as an emergency meeting or appointment? Appointment; I have to catch an ambulance.\n*************************REPLY****************************\n (calling Logistic Care) Logistic Care: I’m Caroline\nAppointment for: Kimberly W. Walker\nWhere: 1215 Lee Street Charlottesville, VA 22903\nPhone: 434-4-0900\nWhen: Tomorrow\nLogistic Care: I’m sorry to deny this because we require at least a day’s advance notice.\nHold on; it’s only 9 a.m. Sunday, June 4. I’ve given ample notice. My appointment was just made at 8:55 a.m., for 1 p.m. tomorrow. I’m sure you can check your schedule for any opening before 1 p.m. Please, tomorrow’s my Birthday, and no one would schedule a consult with an administrator on their Birthday if it were unnecessary!\n***********************REPLY******************************\nCaroline: Okay, Noon pickup Ref# 0001-6566. Happy Birthday in advance!\n***********************************************************\nThank You. I’ve heard that 3x already today!\n(A loud knock on my door!) 11:45\nOn my Birthday, Betty Taylor stands in my living room, saying: “I couldn’t wait until one o’clock if I were right! Or If I was wrong, I'd have time to get back. Well, I knew yesterday! Your voice sounds the same way, angry or happy! You’re the only one I know that can do that! Do you know how long I have been looking for you? I took a chance last night and sent you a FB Friend Request from my old account with my maiden name. After Pete grew up, I guess you didn’t have a reason to come home anymore.”\nShut up and hug me; You still talk too much! When you have something on your mind.\n(A 30-year overdue passionate embrace)\nGirl, not a day went by that I didn’t miss your quietness. Wait, I need to cancel my ride.\n(calling Logistic Care) Logistic Care: I’m Caroline\nWow! Caroline! I need to cancel my appointment at 1, please. My appointment was changed to a home visit.\nCaroline: Okay! Cancellation approved!\nThank You! (click) (Laughing among friends!)\nPete told me about your last name this morning… I sent you a FB Friend Request right before you walked up! Glad you did some investigation too! I kept in touch with Momma Tiller. You know she’ll always be a Hicks to me! She still calls me her daughter-in-law. No one will ever take the title away from me in her mind. You all are my forever sisters! Who would’ve thought you would become a hospital administrator? You hated Biology much more than…. I did!\nBetty chuckled,” Luckily, J passed it with a “C” my second time. I read your book, ...Blessed Beyond Belief……WOW! I loved it! Your details were impeccable, and you slept through the first and second periods, English and Spanish.”\nOsmosis…The baby took notes! Ha -ha -ha!\nAfter a month in a coma and a broken femur, I wrote that book when I was released from the hospital.\nWho would have thought one of us would be a Mrs. Taylor? Pete told me about your husband’s heart attack. How is his health now? \nHe will be okay if he sticks to his diet and takes his medicines. I can’t raise my husband like I did my son.\nGirl, you have not changed. You’ve been my best friend for 30 years, even when we were not in touch; you were on my mind…Poochie!" } ]