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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: Invasion\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1186\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a home alarm system going off." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The one night I set the alarm, they show up. I think there are three. Three would be a good number. There are always three burglars in the movies. The smart one, the muscle, and the one who panics and dies at the hand of the protagonist--sometimes by happy accident. I shouldn’t project. I shouldn’t start all this by projecting. I’m bound to let myself down if I do that. They might run now that the alarm has been sounded. They might flee. I would flee if I were them. No point in dealing with the hassle of an alarm.\nBack when I was at the top of my game, I still would never push past an alarm. If I tripped one up, which didn’t happen often, I would calmly walk away. The baseball cap goes on. The jacket gets zipped up. I make my way to the idling car, and I pull away quickly, but not hysterically. You’d have to be bold to keep going after all that noise and bombast rattles your bones. I hope the men downstairs aren’t as savvy as I was. It won’t be any fun if they are. I know the point is to beat the best, but I’m not as young as I once was. Now, I need slower men. Men who depend on their own hubris. I need them to believe they can handle anything. I’ll throw a few softballs their way to bolster their confidence. I like it when they’re confident. I like knowing there won’t be any fear in their blood when I find the first vein.\nIf I hadn’t been so hungry, I doubt I even would have gotten into home invasion. I don’t like breaking things. I don’t like destruction. What I do is not about harm. The ghouls who do harm are tucked away in the closet or perched on a tree outside the window of a scared little boy or girl. I come from a place that doesn’t believe in the linear aspect of a horror story. Standard blood-suckers take what they need only to retire back to dirt. I do not enjoy dirt. I won’t sleep in it. And I adore sunshine. I’m out all day. There’s nothing vampyric in this house. This is something more elegant. It’s a passion.\nEvery evening I pour myself a glass of Cabernet and I begin to post on message boards all over the darker parts of the Dark Web. I put down my address. I write that the person living there is an old woman. I’m not lying. I am old. I’m older than most people on this planet. Where I come from, a human lifetime is gone in the blink of an eye and the rest of us progress. We shift small parts of ourselves to adapt. The trouble is, in order to do so, we need fresh plasma. Sorry for all the vernacular. I know it might cause you to doze off. You might want to anyway. The next few parts are not pleasant to watch. The men will come upstairs after they figure out how to turn off the alarm, and I’ll have to collaborate with them.\nMy jaw will unhinge a bit so I can get the biggest part of their jugular into my mouth. The suction tubes will unfold. I’ll take what I need, but I won’t kill them. I won’t even harm them. Subjects have told me after the fact that the sensation is rather soothing. It simply doesn’t appear so from the outside. From the outside, it appears violent and detrimental. The moment when I have to shed my outer layer of skin directly after consuming the amount of plasma that I need is always disturbing as well. I wish there was an easier way to do all this, but there simply isn’t. Longevity has a cost. Most things do.\nYou arrived because of the post you saw, didn’t you? You believed the part about the cash I keep here at the house. You believed there was a safe. You fell right into my little In Cold Blood immersion. You came alone. I admire that. I really do. I also used to work alone, but then, I knew what I was getting myself into when I entered a home. Sleeping bodies deep in REM. Family photos on the walls and on lace doilies on hall tables. Every so often, I’d pick up one of those photos and feel jealous that the family I was about to collaborate with was going to feel something I haven’t felt since my third puberty. Where I’m from, moonrises signal maturity. When the third moon rises on your two hundredth birthday, you enter into the beginning of the end of your childhood. You are expected to sustain yourself from that point on.\nYou are expected to hunt.\nI was never much of a hunter, but I was something of an invader. Once you’ve maneuvered a ship the size of a comet past the ozone and the radar and the spying eyes that seem to be everywhere these days, getting inside a common home is no challenge.\nUnless there’s an alarm. I never messed with the alarms.\nYou look so comfortable in that cocoon I made you. Making the cocoons is always my favorite part. After the paralysis, the time I take constructing a vessel for growth is something I really cherish. The older you get, the sturdier your cocoons. The stronger the vessel, the brighter the emerging creature. When the time comes, you’ll see what I mean. You’ll burst forth and this room will glow with your unstoppable luminescence.\nI will be rejuvenated with the gift you’ve given me in the form of a simple liquid, but you will be given something so much greater. For me to be like me--\nFor something as majestic as I am to bestow that same genetic code to you, who would have enjoyed nothing more than a blink of a lifetime on this planet, it is amazing to you that you do not spend the rest of your existence riddled with guilt that you cannot ever repay me for my generosity. Luckily, creatures such as us do not believe in guilt. If we did, it would slow us down immeasurably.\nAh, the alarm’s gone off. They must have seen the note I left by the door. The poor old woman who needs to write down her alarm code and mark it as such, because she’s so forgetful. She’s so sad. Look how vulnerable she makes herself in this big house with drawers of cash and a safe full of who-knows-what?\nThey’ll be up the stairs any minute now.\nI hope they take their time. I hope they can have another moment or two of humanity--no matter how flawed it may be.\nI hope they slow down and appreciate the last scoops of air they’ll inhale before I release my underteeth and welcome them to the cocoon.\nI hope they don’t rush, but they always do.\nFor whatever reason, they just can’t get here fast enough." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Way Home\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2263\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who realizes they're on the wrong path." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Angel sniffed the ground. He'd been here before. He lifted his small face to look at the split path in front of him, trying to decide. He'd been gone for two weeks. He missed his home, the warmth, the free food, the affection from his human housemates. Life on the road was fun, and for an alpha cat like him, it was a part of life. Angel lived for adventure. A lone traveler, despite sharing a house with two other cats, both bigger and stronger than him. Neither of them had more experience though, being five years younger and infinitely more spoiled, and it was that experience that would help Angel choose a path. Ever the wise old man, he knew he had to choose carefully. For one path led straight home, with no danger or obstacles to speak of. And the other... Well the other was different.\nIt was all instinct really. There was no way to know for sure. In the end, Angel had only his gut to listen to. The thing is, he'd been down both paths before, and recently too. His scent trails ran all over the place, he was an adventurer after all. Finally, after concluding that there was no easy way to make the choice, right or left, he chose right and made his peace with it. \nThe problem was, both paths began about the same. They ran for two whole miles, these well-maintained trails through the fields, separated by a thick layer of trees. The safe path let out near the highway and straight home. The other led to the river, where Angel wasn't the most welcome cat. If he made a mistake, he wouldn't know until it was too late to turn back. But there he went, trotting along the path he'd chosen, head held high and confident, sniffing periodically, shifting his gaze in all directions, remaining vigilant. He was on the path home, and that was all the encouragement he needed.\nHe chose the wrong path, of course. There wouldn't be much of a story if he didn't. And he realized it as soon as his ears perked up to the sound of water trickling over rocks in the distance. The river. More of a stream really. But to Angel, it was a mighty, flowing signal of danger. He froze for a moment, his padded feet stuck to the grass, his ears high, listening for anything, everything. He felt his resolve start to slip, but then just as quickly, he gathered himself, stowed away all fear, and resumed walking. He knew what this meant for him. A rough night. Maybe he should go back? Travel the two miles in the wrong direction and take the other path? But that meant another night out, and he wouldn't be home until the next day. He was so sick of hunting, eating in the fields, as much as he enjoyed it. Hunting was one of his greatest pleasures. But when the thrill was gone and he was tired, he just wanted the free stuff from his food bowl, and the feel of gentle hands on his fur. He wanted heated rooms and the guaranteed safety of being indoors. Could he do it? Sure. But did he want to?\nThe river was flowing faster than normal. The recent rain made sure of that. Angel approached it calmly, but without letting his guard down. He lowered his head slightly, just enough to get a quick drink. Another two miles home. All was quiet. Just the occasional bird overhead. He continued along the river a bit longer, thinking that perhaps there would be no trouble after all. But then, from behind a brush, they appeared.\nAngel had met these cats before. No good hoods who like to lurk in this part of the woods. These cats weren't like Angel. They weren't domesticated, had no homes, no family or love. Only each other, and a penchant for trouble. It was a gang of five, as always. And they knew Angel as well as he knew them. They slowly and confidently surrounded him, as he lowered himself into a defensive stance. It was almost as if they were laughing at him, the way they circled and hissed, waiting for an opportunity when his guard was down, when one could get the drop on him. Angel wasn't an easy mark though, and he was familiar with their tactics. The gang puffed their tails, lowered their ears, and continued to circle Angel while hissing threatening words at him, trying to intimidate him. But Angel stood fast.\nGrowing impatient, one of the weaker cats lunged at Angel from behind. Angel saw it coming, ducked and rolled with the cat, and sent him flying over him with a fresh set of scratches deep in his face. One down, four to go. Two others leapt onto him, pinning him down. Angel caught one with a swipe as he was coming in, and bit the other one hard on the leg before finishing him with two quick swipes with his one free paw. They backed off for a moment, adjusted their strategy, and came at him again, this time with a third friend. Angel was outnumbered and had to think quickly. He turned to his right and ran up a nearby tree with all three cats hot on his tail. He made it to the lowest branch and went out as far as he could, forcing the pursuers to come after him in a single file line. They approached cautiously. The first one got within swiping range. He hesitated, and then swiped twice, attempting to hit Angel in the face, missing both times. Angel countered and knocked the cat over. The cat caught himself and dangled from the branch as his friend behind him took his spot. He came in fast and caught Angel three good times, almost taking him out. Angel recovered quickly, and caught the cat with an unexpected right, knocking him clean out of the tree to hit the ground with a sickening thud. Angel then struck the dangling cat, finishing him off. The third cat chose not to approach, and instead went back down, joining the others in escaping. Angel leapt to the ground in victory, but to find the fifth cat, the leader, who had been watching the whole time, waiting for him.\nThey stared each other down. This was the only cat who had ever beaten Angel in a fight. Angel lost a small chunk of his right ear in that scrap, but left a mark of his own, a scar over the cat's eye. This was the only cat in these parts besides Angel who once had a home, and Angel had heard his name being called once upon a time. Memphis. A big broad, darkly blue-coated cat. A natural leader, and Angel's nemesis. Memphis must have outweighed Angel by seven pounds, and had a tail twice as long as Angel's. He was meaner, and older by a year. But Angel had something Memphis hadn't known for a long time. A home to fight for.\nThey stood facing each other, both prepared for the inevitable. To Memphis, Angel represented everything he once held dear before it was taken from him. To Angel, Memphis was just in the way. He didn't hate Memphis. He didn't want harm to befall him. But he would do anything to get home. \nAngel pointed his tail straight up and relaxed himself, hoping Memphis would take this as a sign of peace and call it a day. Memphis wanted no part of it and puffed himself up. He began to approach Angel, letting out a deep growl. Angel backed up and prepared himself for the attack. Just as Memphis was closing the last few inches of space between them...\n\"Aaawooooooo!!!! Yip, yip!\"\nBoth cats started at the familiar sound. For a moment, they forgot each other. Their hair stood up. The blood turned inside their bodies. Every emotion felt between them gave way to fear. It took a moment for them to gather themselves and remember why they were there. They turned their attention back towards each other and made a silent agreement. Their confrontation would have to wait. They both had bigger problems now. \nCoyotes.\nMemphis looked at Angel with a mixture of anger and amusement. Angel was lucky this time, but they'd meet again. Memphis backed away slowly, not taking his eyes off of Angel, and then finally turned to run into the brush from where he came. Angel was alone now, the confrontation finally over. But then...\n\"Yip, yip, yip. Aaawoooooo!!!\"\nCloser this time. Angel found the river again quickly. He could hear the breaking of twigs and the rustling of bushes. He didn't have long. He ran along the river towards his destination. Behind him, the rustling grew louder and louder. He ran faster now. The sky was getting dark. Padded feet landed heavy on the ground behind him. He stopped for a moment to look back.\nThree coyotes emerged from the trees. Angel froze in fear. They locked eyes. The coyotes snarled and growled. Saliva pooled up in the corners of their mouths and dripped out. They took a few small steps forward, snarling harder. Angel snapped out of his daze and took off running. The coyotes took off behind him. They barked and threatened, gaining on Angel quickly. Angel ran as fast as his legs would take him. He was unsure about whether he was still following the river or not. He tried in vain to listen past the barking to find the sound of water. At that point, the only right direction was away from his attackers. He only hoped it would take him home as well.\nThe coyotes were just behind him now, and Angel was tired. His legs were close to giving out. If not from exhaustion, then from fear. It was wearing him out and he could hear the distance closing behind him. He might not make it home this time. \n\"Bark, bark! Yip, yip, yip!\"\nHe thought about his food bowls. How much he had looked forward to that free cat food. His humans always provided the good stuff. And that fancy water fountain. So cool on his tongue.\n*snarl* \"BARK, BARK, BARK!!!!\" The footsteps were heavy in his ears.\nHe thought about all the nice warm surfaces he loved to sleep on. The space heater. The back of the couch. The bed where his humans slept. Ahh, his humans. They sure weren't perfect but they tried their best. They never appreciated all the mice and moles he brought them for dinner but that never stopped him from trying. He would miss them.\n\"BARK, BARK!!! *snarl* *growl* He could feel their breath on his tail. This was it.\nWait! What was this? A break in the trees? Could it be? Yes! The fence! Those big dogs couldn't make it over the fence!\nBut Angel could.\nJust as those dogs were about to snap him up, Angel found new strength in his legs. His stride got wider, his breath longer and deeper. He was going to make it home.\nHe ran faster than he'd ever run before. He could hear the barks getting more aggressive as they got farther away. The coyotes took the challenge and started to speed up as well. They grew louder and closer once more. But it didn't matter. Angel closed the last few feet, finally leaving the jungle behind him, and leapt! He soared high through the air, higher than a normal cat, as if his larger ancestors caught him in the air and pulled him higher. He flew straight over the fence with two feet to spare and landed safely on the other side. He heard the coyotes smack into the fence and yelp, falling back. He turned and gave them the slightest smirk. They snarled at him in defeat and turned to run back into the trees.\nAngel fell onto the ground, knowing he was safe. He rolled onto his back and looked at the stars for a minute while he caught his breath. \"Next time, go left\" he thought to himself.\nTwo weeks gone. He couldn't wait to get home. And he could see it in the distance. The brightly lit porch and the sounds of life inside. He jogged across the field, mice running in all directions at the sight of him. He continued through the front yard and finally made it to the porch. Everyone was inside and he could see his humans standing in the kitchen. He jumped into the rocking chair and stood up on the back of it so it would lean slightly forward and make a sharp *knock, knock!* on the window.\nHis humans turned to look out and nearly burst into tears when they saw his face. They rushed over and opened the window, trying to pick him up, blubbering about how long he'd been gone.\nAngel ignored them, jumped down onto the floor and walked straight over to his food bowl and began to eat. He didn't see what all the fuss was about. He was a grown man. And he'd made a man's journey. The truth is, it didn't matter which path he chose. Each path lead to the same destination. He had no way of knowing which path would be easy and which path would challenge him. He simply chose a path and, like a man, met whatever trials he faced. And in the end, he made it 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: Ain't No Mountain HIgh Enough...\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1913\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who has to “move mountains” to get what they want." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Ain’t No Mountain HIgh Enough…\nThere once was a girl called Lydia. She was pretty and sweet, but not the prettiest and sweetest. She was smart and clever, but not the smartest or most clever. She never won awards for her work in class. She was fit and active, and loved being outside, but she never excelled and got blue ribbons at contests…she preferred to just challenge herself. In fact, Lydia was quite content in her own little world; it was a beautiful place. She dreamed of mountains, and seas, and blue skies and birds that she chatted with would land on her finger and sing to her in her world. It was a magical place. But every once in a while, Lydia longed for the prizes and good grades her classmates would win. It didn’t seem fair, as she certainly tried hard, that she never got the accolades she so wanted and deserved. \nDuring recess, while the other kids screamed and yelled on the playground equipment, Lydia would go off in her world in the fresh air. She was quiet, and didn’t like yelling or screaming. It seemed so immature and counterproductive. Girls would hang upside down and show off, but the monkey bars only gave Lydia blisters; she couldn’t see the point. Boys would throw balls and hit each other, and occasionally an errant one would hit her; Lydia didn’t like being hit by things. In fact, because she was sweet and quiet, boys would bang into her, throw paper wads in her curly locks, or spill things on her during lunchtime. Her mother told her that’s how boys show they like you and want your attention. Lydia thought this a ludicrous way of getting it! Why not just say ‘hello’? Seemed to make a lot more sense. Lydia was usually lost in her beautiful world, singing songs back to the birds, but she wouldn’t mind sharing it. Or, because it could be quite lonely, she wouldn’t mind being invited to play with the other kids, but being hit seemed more an insult than an invite to her. Besides, the bigger, meaner girls in class would do similar things; drag her by her neck in the classroom when no one was looking. Stuff her into a stack of tires so she couldn’t get out. Her mother told her that’s because they wanted her to be their friend; Lydia thought that being dragged around by force was a funny way of showing that. Nothing ever happened to these kids as punishment. In fact, most of the red and blue ribbons were handed out to this lot come Game Day, so they were rewarded for being bigger and stronger. It seemed patently unfair to Lydia, so she just watched from the sidelines in her little world. It was a safe place to be…\nLydia’s mother sensed her daughter’s frustration and decided to enrol her in something she could excel in. Since she was graceful and loved to dance around the garden, she thought ballet would be a good fit. It wasn’t a team sport, there were no balls flying apart, it was silent so no screaming, and it was a magical activity. Since she was pretty and sweet, she fit the part. In the large mirrored studio, Lydia was lost in a bigger world she could see reflected in the glass. Her blue leotard was the only thing she could see, and squinted so she looked like a bird in her mind, with her curls up to look like a crown of gold like her feathered friends in her world. The other girls didn’t matter; she couldn’t even tell you what they looked like. Lydia was very good at following directions, something she never got awards for in class, so she loved learning the new French words for dance steps, and shaped her body best she could to conform to them. During floor exercises, out in the centre of the room, Lydia saw the mountains, and the rivers and seas…she saw the birds that sang and danced in tune with the classical music. Ballet clearly placed her directly in the world in which she lived. \nFor her first recital, her dance teacher did a very simplified version of Swan Lake. Lydia loved it! Dressed in a white tutu with a feather headdress, she felt like the beautiful birds she saw in the rivers below the mountains in her world. Sure, they didn’t sing, but they moved with the grace of a ballerina. Lydia’s mom bought the record to practise the dance to the music at home; and practise she did! She had a long mirror in her room, and danced and tried to be as perfect as her young self could be. Come the recital, Lydia danced her heart out. \nShe continued with ballet for a few more years, but the bullying at school got worse. Lydia now had something she loved to do. She was already tiny, but now with her straight posture, the kids assumed she was being aloof. They really picked on her, so she decided to be a tomboy and drop out of ballet around the 4th grade. She changed from wearing pretty dresses, and now wanted to sleep in her brother’s bunk bed and play with his toys. It seemed being tougher was the only salvation for her at school. Her parents went along with this for a year or so, but they realised there was something wrong. Her mother asked around, and a friend of hers at the bank had a daughter that was a former ballerina. She had trained with a Russian ballet master, and started teaching. So, her mother enrolled her there. It was a more disciplined environment. Lydia did well following a more strict dress code and curriculum. She focused more on technique, and getting more advanced. She no longer wandered into her world, she learned to stay in the moment. Besides, by now the music told her the story or world she was living in at that moment; some dark, some light, some heavy and slow, some quick and jovial. She learned her world could be more diverse, more beautiful and rich, based on the music and mood of the dance. This was a performing company, and Lydia rose quickly through the ranks so she could perform as many different types of rolls at as many different venues as possible. \nEven though the ballet world changed Lydia’s purpose and drive, nothing changed at school. Because of the way she now carried herself and her slim build, the kids now thought she was stuck up. They bullied and picked on her. She was never picked to join teams, sit next to kids at lunch, or be a part of anything. By the time she was about to enter HS, Lydia was having downright panic attacks about this. She didn’t want to be hurt by the kids and endanger her dance career. It was Lydia herself that wrote the school district about the bullying, and took her learners permit with her mother in tow to explain her case. Her mother had always pleaded with teachers and thought that’s all she could do, and they said Lydia would grow out of her dreamie state and they would keep an eye out for her, but she still was picked on. Meantime, her mother had made arrangements with her ballet teacher, who taught adult classes at a nearby college. Lydia arranged her own transfer to another High School out of district, her parents arranged her transportation, and because her grades were good [never award winning good, but good], she was allowed to skip some classes so she could cross the street and study ballet instead of study hall. By that time, she was taking ballet several hours a day, every day, and intense eight hour a day workshops in the summer.\nThe minute Lydia entered that new HIgh School, she changed her story. Because she was pretty and sweet, and by now was slim and had a fashion sense, the new kids were drawn to her rather than repelled. In a heartbeat, she knew she never had to be a victim anymore, and could be popular and accepted. She spotted girls she liked, and sat with them, not knowing they were at the popular table. Lydia’s mother had taught her to sew years ago, since she made so many of her costumes, so by now she designed and made her own clothes, so HS was like a fashion show for her. With a graceful walk and bearing, the school corridors were her catwalk. Lydia went to the guidance counsellor, and argued her way into honours classes, glad to write essays to prove her intelligence. It had never been acknowledged before, even though her mother had her IQ tested a few times and it was quite high. Lydia got involved in activities, since no one was throwing anything at her; she enjoyed joining choir, drama and dance team. Boys now noticed her and didn’t throw things at her, but her focus was her future. Her schedule was tight, since her mother had to pick her up and get her to ballet class. Lydia’s grades improved, and she earned scholarships for college. She couldn’t just hang out with kids as her life was disciplined, but she sure was happier. \nUpon graduation with honours at 17, Lydia had several college credits in dance already, and scholarships to further her education. She had a clear plan, and the bible on NY ballet companies. The compromise was a performing Arts college in Seattle, so she went to school but also danced and got her degree. She did eventually wander to NY, and also London. She travelled as a ballerina, seeing the view on the train of the mountain, the rivers, the birds and blue skies of her world, not a reality. She danced on stages all over the place, and had picked up many more dance forms over the years. She had not only moved those mountains, she had travelled them as well. \nTen years after graduation, there was a reunion. Lydia had kept in touch with some of the popular girls. But it was a fascinating experience to actually be around everyone. It seemed most had never left their hometown. High School sweethearts married each other and moved a block from their parents house, if not in the actual house itself. The jobs they had back in the day, flipping burgers or working at the checkout in the grocery store, were the same jobs they had today. The conversations now could have been merely left off from yesterday, not ten years later. Lydia had not lived in the area for years; in fact she won the farthest distance to travel, as she came from Europe. In HS she had won most likely to succeed, and indeed she proved that now. Outside of the popular girls, who had gone to sororities and married well and had careers, everyone else had stood still in time. As the slender ballerina dressed in a gown of white, Lydia stood out in the crowd. The boys, now men, that noticed her back then, noticed her now. The girl that was never pretty enough or clever enough to win any awards when she was young, won the biggest award now; a life well lived with success. She had moved the mountains and travelled them to follow her 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: \"Hey, Look What I Got!\"\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1263\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a kiss at midnight." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Hey, look what I got!” Claire ran to her open-armed mother and accepted the offering, embracing the warmth as the feeling of glee overtook her completely. She would never let herself forget the happiness her mom’s touch would give her, the blanket of comfort and security it created; a safe haven. Every so often, the young girl let herself imagine the absence of such familiarity. Being stripped of all she knew, being left alone to fend for herself. Perhaps she would no longer remain in the same reality, perhaps the truancy of her everyday life would be the downfall she feared. A void. She would be in the void, the actuality of everything yet nothing; a bundle of nullity where all other souls were left to lay in their own solitude. The surge of continuous emotions converging to create a single, thread-like wave. While she lay in her bed, Claire often wondered if that was the existence of people amounted to - was there truly no greater purpose? All the talks of higher powers and being, were they all to build a deceiving mask? \n\n“What did you get, hun?” A soft, honey-like voice that on its own elicited such joyous laughter from her baby. It wasn’t rare for her mother to sever her hidden train of thoughts, thoughts that if revealed would shatter any possibility of happiness; a broken mirror, facade, piercing those walking past with its wailing, fallen shards. In response to the question lay a scintillating smile on the woman that caused an ache in her high, flawless cheekbones. An expression of tenderness lighting up and highlighting every single feature of her face. Brunette hair with honey-blonde streaks perfectly framing the crystal-shaped face, deep blue eyes that reflected a graveyard-like ocean. An empty, large body of water that resembled a calm yet disrupted state of mind. An ocean that could calm any person in need of strength and hope, yet leave them with lingering feelings of disturbance and inability. \n\nWaving the flimsy certificate around, Isabelle watched as her child recited the yearly mantra. “I made the honor roll!” The deadly jovialness that emitted from the larger body seeped into every corner of the room, turning a calm atmosphere into an excited, histrionic one. The older woman slowly reached for Claire’s hand, grabbing it and ushering her into their cramped living room. With a flick of the wrist, a series of cliched, romantic tunes filled the atmosphere. Amplified thumps pounded against the wood floor as legs danced and jumped around, leaving both individuals fatigued - the younger left wheezing, grasping simultaneously for any excess air and her inhaler. \n\n“Look at you go, that’s great! I’m so proud of you, Aphrodite!” The use of her since-birth nickname and sheer satisfaction in her mother’s voice was worth everything, even the collapsing lungs begging for assistance. She was brought in for another tender hold so tight that her lungs heaved further. This time, pillow-like lips made contact with an overly large forehead. It struck Claire as strange, though, the lack of vehemence in the action. Instead, there lay a piercing cold that taunted and provoked. An oddity. Nevertheless, the twelve year old child wasn’t about to delve into this peculiar mystery. “Didn’t I tell you to not over-exert yourself, though?” With Isabelle’s mouth still placed on her child’s temple, the speech came out muffled, nearly incomprehensible.\n\n\n“Whatever.” A scoff resonated. “I’m not a kid anymore, I can handle myself. I have been for the past 7 years.” Frustration was apparent in her high timbre as she released a successive chain of forced exhales. Exemplified rings of guilt and torment hit Isabelle’s heart, she understood nothing if not the conflicting feelings her daughter was facing. At an age where most would be visiting malls and staying as far away from home as possible, Claire was an outcast. An invisible, vigorous power consistently pushed the isolated girl outside the imperceptible barrier and jeopardized any attempts she made at connecting. Her severe, persistent asthma subjected her to a great deal of harassment and unknown to her human-shield, it blemished what the adults in her life considered “untouched parts of her mind”. It baffled Claire, the extent to which her mother and family tried to shelter her from the horrors and debauchery of this world. They attempted to create a painting in which their baby could stay imprisoned; that of red tulips that swayed and twirled to the melody of the wind, joining all the other vegetation. Together, a collective of harmonious voices, they sang until the blue ripples smoothed into a state of nonbeing. The superficial cycle would continue for decades, no hindrances in its path. Alas, no patterns could fix the pain and suffering of the plants; their continued lack of motivation and purpose remained hidden on the surface. \n\n“Shhh, now. Let’s not start this again, yeah? You’re perfect as it is and we don’t need to do this a few days before Christmas.” An attempt to console the person she had let into this world, the one who kept her from breaking, from falling victim to the constant hurdles that never failed to appear. The lack of depth in Isabelle’s word choice was apparent, but Claire managed to make do and discontinue the mundane disagreement. Regardless of her reaction, the desperation loitered in the air, threatening to suffocate and drown the two. They waited in anticipation, almost waiting for the slice of tension to be handed to them. \n\nClaire decided to make the first move amidst the awkward silence, walking away with a quiet mutter of acknowledgement. What had been said, neither could quite understand. Isabelle discreetly moved to their kitchen and prepared an appetizer “feast” to dissipate the sudden barricade of communication that had made itself known. Bringing out a cream-coloured platter, she set it out onto their worn out, rusty counters and began setting any snacks they had left onto the blank canvas of welcoming. \n\nBy the time she had managed to finish, night had hit. The moon amplified otherwise hidden stars that rested on the pond near them. Crickets had begun rehearsing their daily rituals as all else lay silent in their surroundings. The clouds overhead were brooding, dark with anticipation of the storm to come; however, they’d successfully avoided overshadowing the moon. Isabelle often wondered about the relationships of nature. How each distinct element conveys the crucial messages humankind constantly ignores. She longed to communicate with Mother Nature and her unique creations; the magnetic pull of turbulent danger. \n\n“Aphrodite!” Her voice had become raspy, beaten and deprived of the hydration it desperately needed. The only response she had managed to identify was the theme of the crickets, upbeat yet laced with warning. “Claire!” She called out again, this time with greater potency.\n\nFollowing the lack of acknowledgement, Isabelle began trudging towards her daughter’s room. Swinging her door open, she found her daughter nestled into the nook of the large Panda she had received for her birthday. A watery smile lay on her face, tranquil and unknowing of the news she would receive in the coming days. Shuffling towards her, the older woman placed a gentle kiss on Claire’s cheekbone. Time seemingly stopped, working in their favor and allowing Isabelle to cherish the moment she was experiencing and would forever remember. With a final glance at the rusting grandfather clock placed in the corner of the room, which signaled midnight, she turned off the lights with an unnoticed smile, and quietly closed her daughter’s door. Peace was preserved. For now, if nothing else." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Dream Catcher and His Wife\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1927\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a kiss at midnight." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Late at night, loud laughter emanates from the club where people cheer and talk loudly while the barman pours drink after drink. The door swings open and a man steps in. He is dressed all in black with a ski mask hiding his face and a revolver at his belt. He stands just inside the doorway, head held high while the disco lights blare and deafening music plays. Without warning, he pulls out his revolver and the whole room falls silent. He aims the gun at the barman’s heart and fires. The barman is dead before his head hits the floor, one hand still clenching the bottle of wine he’d been pouring. Then the masked man exits the club, gets in his car, and drives away. He doesn’t know that his girlfriend had been following him, that she saw him pull out the gun and shoot the unsuspecting bartender.\nAfter the murderer leaves, nobody calls the police. Nobody screams in terror, and nobody seems to notice the men who take away the barman’s body. It’s as if the shooting has never happened; as if the barman never existed. The only person who notices anything is the murderer’s girlfriend. \n********\nAs the murderer drives away, he hears his phone ringing. He wonders who could be calling him at 11 p.m. When he picks up his phone, he’s surprised to see that it’s his girlfriend, Anoushka, calling him. He accepts the call. “Immanuel,” she says with an edge to her voice, with a tone she only uses when she’s afraid, “where are you?”\n“I’m driving home from the club. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” And although it’s a half-truth, he’s used to lying - used to having to cover up the messes he leaves behind.\n“Immanuel.” She says it again - his name; not babe or sweetie like she usually does. “I can’t do this anymore.”\n“Do what? Honey I- I don’t understand. What is this?- why are you talking to me like this?”\nFor a moment there’s silence on the other end, but then she says, “I saw you at the club. And even though your head was covered, all I could see was your face as you shot that man. Immanuel, I saw you… you- you put a bullet right through his heart. I know you, Immanuel. You’re not a bad person, you had a reason for killing that man - you had to. Why did you do it?”\nImmanuel was afraid of this. Afraid that she would see past the excuses he made at times to slip away. That she’d wonder why he kept leaving the house late at night to go places, wonder why he was always so wound up, like a lion ready to pounce. Until now, she’d never questioned him, always believed his word, but this night was different. She’d followed him. Followed him to the club,t, to the terrorist who thought he was so clever for hiding in plain sight. “I’m sorry,” he says, and before she can say anything else, he hangs up and puts his phone on silent. He doesn’t go back home that night. He doesn’t want to see the hurt look on Anoushka’s face when he returns home. He knows she will call him four more times before she gives up, and that she won’t call the cops because she loves him too much. And there’s something else he knows. He can’t tell her the truth.\nHe books a one-night stay at the motel nearby, but what he doesn’t expect is to see his girlfriend who is already there. The motel is poorly lit and the dirty-red walls are battered and worn. Here and there, cracks have sprouted from the ceiling and the paint has crumbled away. And in some places dirt has filled the cheap marble tiles where they are chipped and broken. When he sees Anoushka he feels the weight of the tiny box laying inside his pants pocket. He is no longer wearing the ski mask, giving way to a soft face with brown eyes and a head of blond hair. Anoushka is sitting there on the gray couch in the lobby waiting for him, one leg crossed over the other with her brown hair tied up in a neat bun. Her eyes do not light up like they normally do when she sees him. He approaches her, unsure what to say. For a moment he closes his eyes, and tries to will her to see what he wants her to see, but it does not work. He knew it wouldn’t, it never works on Anoushka and even if it did, it would not be right. “I knew you would be here,” she says, frowning as if contemplating why she is here herself, a question lingering on her lips, why did you kill that man?\nImmanuel stays silent. He knows it is too late now to lie, to make it all go away with a few well-worded sentences. She has seen the truth, seen what he really is, but she is not scared of him - and yet she sounded so afraid on the phone. And because he has no idea what to say, because he’s been wanting to for the last seven years he’s known her, and because he doesn’t want to see the hurt on her face any longer, he gets down on one knee and pulls out the black velvet box holding the engagement ring. There, in the middle of the dingy motel lobby, the receptionist trying not to stare, he proposes. “Anoushka Sharma,” he says, “will you marry me?”\nFor a moment, her face is a mask of surprise, but then a smile spreads across her lips and Immanuel knows she has waited for this moment just as long as he has. And yet, there is something else in her gaze - uncertainty. And then she speaks one word that means so much. \n“No.”\nShe pauses for a second and then she says, “I love you, Immanuel, I do. But I will not marry a dishonest man, a murderer, and a liar. I can’t marry someone who won’t tell me the truth. Someone who is always sneaking out at night and slipping away at random times.\nSilence passes over them, and nobody says anything for a while. The receptionist is staring right at them. Cars pass outside and the wind blows causing a rustling of leaves. Immanuel puts the ring back in his pocket and tells himself he will ask again another day because this - this wasn’t the right time. He knows he has been a fool. He knows it is his fault for the mess he is in, so he takes a seat beside Anoushka on the couch. “I’m sorry,” Immanuel says for the second time because it is the only thing he knows to say. “I’m not- I’m not who you think I am.”\n“What do you mean?” she says, and Immanuel can hear the hurt in her voice. “I know you. I’ve known you for 7 and a half years and you- you always showed me kindness, always showed me respect. You loved me and cared for me and you were always there for me. And-” her voice cracks and tears begin to fall down her cheeks. “And even when you weren’t, off doing strange things in strange places, I could hear your voice all the time, telling me I was special, that I was one of a kind. And I- I can’t bear to lose you. I just- I want to understand. \nIt all comes spilling out. \nSecrets. Secrets he has kept to himself for so so long. He knows he shouldn’t be telling her them, that by doing so he makes her a target, and puts her in danger. But he loves her too much and he is not willing to let go; not willing to forget her. And so, he tells her everything. \n17 years ago….\nImmanuel is 12 and he is surrounded. He stands alone at a dead end and there is nowhere for him to run. The three bullies converge around him and he wishes, wishes that the bullies didn’t see him. And yet, Immanuel is different than most victims of bullying. He doesn’t wish to see them attacked or hurt or broken. He wishes that they would see what they wanted to see, perhaps, their wildest dreams. And when he wishes it and wills it to happen, it happens. The bullies each see their greatest dream. One of the bullies - the biggest, meanest one, looks at Immanuel with sudden joy. He runs at Immanuel, arms spread wide, and hugs him as if he were a long-lost friend. Down his cheeks, stream tears of happiness, and his mouth is spread into a smile. Then he says softly, hugging Immanuel tight, “I’ve missed you, mom, I’ve missed you for so so long.”\nSimilar things happen to the other bullies and they begin to smile. It is then, that Immanuel realizes that each of the bullies is broken, each beaten down by life in their own different way. And when he sees his chance to escape, he leaves them there in the alleyway and when he is far enough away, the spell breaks, leaving the boys to think about their lives and reflect on what they saw. \n\nNow….\nDisbelief flashes across Anoushka’s face. She does not believe him. \n“Can you do it on me?” she asks, but Immanuel shakes his head, \n“It doesn’t work on people I love or people that care about me. There are rules to my ‘gift’.\n“Can you do it on the receptionist?”\n“Yes, but my power is not to be abused.” For a moment Immanuel closes his eyes, and wills the receptionist to see his dream. The receptionist’s eyes suddenly light up and he laughs loudly. For a second, Anoushka can see a smile forming on the man’s but then it fades and it is gone, just as quickly as it came. It is at that moment that Anoushka believes him, that she knows he is telling the truth. Immanuel tells her then about the CIA. How he was selected for a mission in order to take down a criminal mastermind who had funded many terrorist attacks and helped plan the bombings of the twin towers. How his powers allow him to complete jobs without people noticing. He says it all in a whisper so nobody else can hear. She believes him, every single word he says. Her face softens and she finally sees him for himself, not for the lies he’s told or the murderer he is, but for the strong, capable man that loves her. She embraces him then and says, “Yes”.\nAnd when he asks her, “Yes what?” \nShe replies, “Yes, I will marry you.” \nAnd there, on the couch of the motel lobby, she takes his head in her hands and kisses him for a long time. And then the clock strikes twelve and they remember it is New Year’s Day and Immanuel lifts her up and cradles her as if she were a baby, and they kiss again and again and again. Soon, the drowsiness of sleep comes upon them and Immanuel sets her on his lap. He lays himself down face up on the couch and rests Anoushka’s head on his chest so that her stomach is pressed against his. It is there, lying on the couch of the dinky motel that they fall asleep, peacefully in each other’s arms." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Unwilling Santa\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1818\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a cynical character realizing they do have something to celebrate after all." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.\nOld Mr. James shook the snow from his boots and coat with practiced ease. His heavy frown and wrinkled forehead made his actions cartoon-like as he tossed his coat onto the wire coat rack. He hunched his sturdy shoulders as he walked through the department store, glaring at the brightly wrapped presents, decorated trees, and Santa’s elves as they waved from every corner at him.\n“I don’t know why they have to go to so much trouble. Christmas is just something corporate made up to get their fingers into every American pocketbook and every woman’s purse.”\nHe was so deep into his muttering that he didn’t notice the slim, young girl staring up at him. He plowed right into her, and she gave a startled cry. “Hey!” \nHe jumped back immediately, glancing down at his sparkling Allen Edmonds to make sure they weren’t smudged, and then back up at the girl. “What were you doing in my way, girlie?”\nHer big, Christmas-red bow on her brown head trembled, but the white little face was set like flint. “I’m very sorry, Mister, but you weren’t watching where you were going.” She rubbed her arm where he ran into her and glared at him. “And you hurt my arm.”\nMr. James stammered and stuttered as the little girl frowned. “My mommy says you need to apologize when you hurt someone.”\nShe stood there, just waiting, her little lips pursed in disapproval. Mr. James turned on his heel after a moment and stomped in the other direction. “Humph!” He said, swinging his arms beside him. “Her mother didn’t raise her right, I guess.”\nHe opened the door to his office in the back and sat in his leather chair with a thud. Rolling up to the desk, he flipped open his laptop, and placed in his noise-canceling earbuds. He hated Christmas music, so he listened to classical music at the loudest setting possible. Maybe that’s why his hearing was going – he still wasn’t sure.\nTime passed so quickly, that when he glanced up, it was nearly the end of the day. He rose and headed back to the end of the hall for his coat. Thrusting his arms into the sleeves, he turned up the collar, and faced the door, ready to head out into the onslaught of a snowy winter.\n“Mr. Grouchy Man?”\nHe heard the little voice behind him, and he turned his head slightly, not acknowledging the voice. It continued on without missing a beat. “Why aren’t you in the Christmas spirit?”\nAt that, he whirled around and faced the little girl from earlier, her jaunty bow still held in place. Her big blue eyes held only curiosity. He tucked his chin into the collar of his coat and stared down at her. “My name is James Claus. And no, I don’t believe in Santa. Santa isn’t real. The Christmas spirit is just a scam that people who want to make sales made up. There’s no reason for me to be in the Christmas spirit, and I wish everyone would stop asking me why I’m not!” He was shouting, now, and the little girl blinked owlishly at him.\n“You mean you don’t like candy canes or sledding or snowmen?”\n“That’s exactly what I mean, little girl. And where is your mother? Surely she didn’t leave you here all alone?”\nA lady, red burning in her cheeks, matching the wool coat she wore, hurried by the perfume counter. She was scanning the store, her head whipping around, until she caught sight of the little girl. “Emily! Why did you run off again?”\nEmily glanced from Mr. James to the lady. “Sorry, Mother. I was just asking Mr. Grou—I mean, Mr. Claus why he wasn’t in the Christmas spirit.”\nThe lady stared at him. “Mr. Claus? Is that really your name?”\nMr. James grunted. “I prefer to be called Mr. James. And, yes, it’s really my name.”\n“Do you play Santa Claus?”\n“No, I do not play Santa Claus.” He said, adamantly. “And I will not be coerced into doing it.”\nEmily sidled a step closer to him. “Please, Mr. James? We have hot chocolate.”\n“What do you mean you have hot chocolate?”\nEmily’s mother smiled. “I am the owner of a company who sets up in the middle of the mall. My Santa just called in sick earlier this morning. If I got you a fake beard and paid you what it was worth, would you be willing to do it for me?”\n“No.”\n“But—“\nMr. James crossed his arms. “I said, no.”\nThe woman’s eyes twinkled. “What about if I let one of my other girls help you out behind the perfume counter while you did it? Your poor sales lady behind the counter could barely keep up. I’m sure you probably lost some sales because of it.”\nMr. James cleared his throat. “Sales, did you say?”\n“And I would even pay my girl so that you don’t have to.”\nHe stared at the lady in front of him incredulously. “You really need a Santa, don’t you?”\nHer lips formed into a thin line, and she crossed her arms across her chest. “Sir, some of these kids that come in here are very poor. They need whatever Christmas cheer that we can bring them. If you don’t want to do it, I will continue my search, but I will have to cancel tomorrow.”\nEmily tugged on the sleeve of his coat. “Please?”\nHe sighed, loudly. “Fine. But only until you find someone else.”\n“Yay!” Emily jumped up and down, clapping her hands. Her bow flopped crazily over her head, and Mr. James almost smiled. Not quite, but almost.\nThe woman, whose name he learned was Susie Clemmonts, hurried him off to the middle of the mall. She rummaged through large, plastic bins until she found a Santa suit. She held it up in front of her, shaking it out, and Mr. James smelled the distinct scent of mothballs. He wrinkled his nose. “Do I have to wear that?”\n“Unless you have a secret Santa suit that we don’t know about, yes.”\nSusie handed him the suit, a fake beard, and a floppy red hat and directed him toward the nearest restroom. Moments later, he emerged. Emily and her mother stared at him with wide eyes, not moving a muscle.\nHe stared back at them. “What? Does it not look right?”\n“It’s perfect, Mr. James!” Emily breathed. “Are you really Santa Claus?”\nA smile spread across his face – a small smile, but a smile just the same. “Good.” He said, hurrying back to change into his regular clothes.\nAnd when no one could hear him, he muttered to just himself. “I’m glad.”\nThe next morning, true to her word, Susie had a bright-eyed girl of seventeen to work the perfume counter. She was a powerhouse, helping customers left and right. The store made more sales that day than they had made all week, but Mr. James wouldn’t tell Susie that, of course.\nBy that afternoon, Mr. James was suited up, an elf on either side of him, and practicing his very rusty, “Ho, Ho, Ho.”\nEmily giggled every time he tried. “Mr. James, that doesn’t sound normal.”\n“Then why don’t you do it for me?”\nShe shook her head, curls swinging around her rosy cheeks. “That would be silly! Elves don’t laugh like Santa!”\nKids in all shapes and sizes came through the line to see Santa that day. Big eyes stared up at him, asking for all manner of toys and games. His heart began to feel funny after a few hours – softer, somehow. By the end of the day, he was smiling so big his face hurt.\nSusie appeared at his elbow, placing her hand on the head of a very tired elf named Emily. “We’re about done, Mr. Claus, but I have one more very special child to bring to you.” She nodded at two people standing nervously by the corner. They bent over, and soon Mr. James saw a very small boy being wheeled to him in a wheelchair. The boy’s legs were bent and shriveled, his body twisted and broken. When he saw Mr. James, a great big smile stretched across his face, and he raised skinny arms to his mother. “Santa!”\nThe mother carefully lifted him and placed him on Mr. James’ lap. “This is Benji, Mr. Santa Claus. He’s been waiting patiently all day to see you.”\nMr. James smiled down at the boy, but when he spoke, his voice cracked with emotion. “What can I get you for Christmas, Benji?”\nBenji’s smile lit up the room. “I don’t want any toys or games.” He said, thoughtfully. “I want my mommy to be strong enough to take me Christmas caroling.”\nMr. James cocked his head. “Why Christmas caroling, son?”\n“Because, Santa. I want to tell people about the true meaning of Christmas. All of these toys and gifts don’t matter much to someone who can’t use them.” He thumped his small chest with his left hand. “But I want people to know that Christmas is about so much more.” He paused and looked right into Mr. James’ grizzled face. “Do you know Silent Night, Mr. Santa?”\nMr. James nodded his head, a tear dripping down his grizzled cheek and into his fake beard. “I do, son.”\n“Would you sing it with me?”\nMr. James nodded again, and when he spoke, his voice gruff. “Of course I would.”\nBenji leaned back against Mr. James' arm, his clear young voice beginning the song. And one by one, his parents, Susie, and even Emily the elf, joined in. Their voices blended as they sang about Christmas, and about a peaceful time. The hustle and bustle of the mall faded to silence as the song rang out through the rafters. “Silent night, holy night.”\nWhen they finished, Benji gave Mr. James a hug and waved goodbye as his parents wheeled him back the way that he had come. Mr. James dropped his head so no one could see the tears filling his eyes. He felt a small hand steal into his rough one and heard Emily’s small voice beside him.\n“If Benji can have the Christmas spirit, I think we can, too. Can’t we, Mr. Claus?”\nMr. James Clause squeezed Emily’s hand, smiling through his tears. “We can, Emily. And I think me and you and your mom may just help out some certain folks Christmas caroling tonight.”\nAs Mr. James rose to his feet, Emily’s hand still in his, he looked around the mall with a new pair of eyes. The tacky Christmas decorations were the same. The loud, blinking lights still hurt his eyes. This time, though, none of it bothered him. The reason to celebrate was not in the gifts, but now, it was in his heart." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Robin D.\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1060\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who returns home changed by someone they met on a trip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Robin D.\nTwice a month, my weekends began the same. Friday evening was hectic; I rushed back to the group home for a shower, a meeting with the counselor, and a ride to Greyhound. I had a small window of time, I got off work at 3 PM, and the early bus left at 5:15. You’re probably saying 2 hours and 15 minutes is, wow…lots of time. Not when you’re a teen who works 25-35 minutes away, a two-transfer required bus ride, and a 10-minute brisk walk to get to my front door. Of course, you must factor in Friday evening traffic in a college town. Each Friday after the marathon, I would thank God as I settled in a mid-bus outside seat for my good fortune.\nOne day, I purchased my ticket to turn around and see the bus backing up to leave. Running like O. J. through the terminal, I knocked on the side of the bus hard enough that the driver thought he had hit me, and he stopped and opened the door to exit the vehicle. I startled him and said thank you for waiting. He chuckled, smiled, and said, “I wondered if my weekends were mixed up. You almost missed us.”\nNothing about that Friday had been average or as usual…We arrived in Richmond ten minutes late for me to transfer and go. So, a two-hour layover in Virginia’s capital. At least the bus terminal was close to restaurants, a shopping center, and a movie theater. Scared of missing the last bus to Emporia, I didn’t stray too far. Hunger made me walk across the street down two blocks to McDonald’s. I ordered a quarter pounder, fries, apple pie, and a strawberry shake, my first meal since 6 AM. I took the to-go bag to a table facing the door and clock above the exit sign. \nAfter satisfying my belly, I tried to read a chapter in my U.S. Government book to no avail; I found myself checking my eyelids for cracks. Thankfully McDonald’s closed at 7; the manager woke me at 6:55. I panicked, thinking I had missed the bus home.\nI was sprinting through the terminal, looking at the departure board, and heading to gate 3. I was running the two blocks with everything I owned in a backpack flapping on my shoulder and beating me every step of the way. Praying, please, Lord, hold that bus.\nJust by seconds…whew, one set of seats empty. Across from a stranger, we made eye contact and smiled at each other. As I sank into the chair, I asked if that was the bus to Emporia, and he said, “If not, he hoped the next bus station would be open.” He smiled and said, “I’m Robin, Robin D.” I hope so too, is all I could think.\nI never met anyone that I wanted to talk to before on the Greyhound bus. He was a serviceman, an Army man—wearing greens, polished black dress shoes, gold accessories, and smelling good. I only had a second to observe. At least we’re headed in the right direction, I said. We talked the whole way to my stop. I figured it was a chance encounter with a gorgeous guy I would never see again.\n\"Nice meeting you, Robin, Robin D… I’m Kimberly, Kimberly W.\", I said as I exited the bus in Emporia. I looked back to see if he was looking; he was, so I had to wave.\nA weekend trip home was always too short. The countdown began when I stepped off the bus, usually at 7:55 PM, but it was 9:45 PM. Can two hours change your life? Y-E-S…Yes, two hours meant my son would be asleep when I got home, so two hours cost me a night.\n Were those two hours worth it? Well, hmmm, I didn’t know it then. At that moment, I didn’t realize how Robin would or could have factored into my life. I wasn’t looking for Mr. Right because I was still in love with my son’s father. Robin and I kept crossing paths on the Greyhound trips home. We became friends and got to know each other between Richmond to Emporia on Fridays and from Emporia to Richmond on Sundays. We called each other and exchanged photos and letters for months.\nI got sick when I went home for Easter weekend the following year and didn’t return on Sunday afternoon like usual. I was hospitalized for two weeks, and my mom drove me back to Charlottesville because we were afraid I would get bumped into and reinjure myself. Gallbladder surgery may have changed my future immensely.\nEven though my son’s father visited me in the hospital and brought me a stuffed animal resembling the dog that had bitten him months before, Robin was responsible for the smile on my face as I drifted off to sleep each night. That ride home made me think of Robin differently—I missed him.\nReagan was President and had just sent troops to Iran. Between the hospitalization and the Iran Contra Affair, Robin and I lost touch. My roommate was jealous of our relationship, and I didn’t save any letters I missed. When I finally returned to the group home, other friends kept me busy while I was recuperating. So being a typical teenager, I assumed Robin had moved on. I never realized that he may have gotten deployed.\nI missed two weeks of school and work, so everybody and everything took a backseat after my doctor cleared me and I played catch-up.\nAbout six years ago, when writing my first book, I decided to look Robin up, reconnect, apologize, and get caught up. I was glad to find out he was still alive and living close. He has done okay for himself, is married, and has three sons like me.\nTwo hours gave me a lifelong friend, making a boring bus ride enjoyable. I gave a serviceman a pen pal when he needed one.\nDo I wish I had known what I had back then?\nY-E-S!\nI have always believed that God plans our lives from the moment we are conceived to the minute of our death. Had I caught the bus two hours earlier, I would have never met Robin D., who helped me get over the first man I fell in love with." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Man proposes, God disposes\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1007\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who returns home changed by someone they met on a trip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Her whole life, Oluchi watched as different family members transitioned through her home in Lagos. These cousins and uncles and aunties were dream chasers who came from the village to the land of opportunities. They were the children of old relatives who had finished from university and exhausted all the support their parents could afford. But sometimes, they were younger and needed help with even their secondary education. All the same, her parents provided for these people who in turn looked after Oluchi and her brother. When Oluchi eventually started secondary school, she was excited about her life moving on, eager even for it to move quicker still. School was in the way of her grand plans. To her friends, she was known as the one who would probably marry first because of what she told them. At twenty-one she would marry an older man who would take care of her. She would not spend years aimlessly in her parents’ house like some of those relatives had done. No, she would have her own where she would be madam. By twenty-four she would have had her second and last child. It was important for her to be a young mother so she had the energy to keep up with them. When she was ready, she would start working. Her parents always said if she made good grades, she would get a very good job after university. She would go to university abroad. Every teenage birthday was marked with longing to start this perfect life she crafted for herself.\n**\nOluchi’s parents, her brother and a few close friends were in a private room at Nobu restaurant. They were celebrating her graduation although her party was incomplete. Oluchi expected one more person who would have been introduced to her parents as her boyfriend of two years. Ugonna, the man who was serious about marrying her. She was forced to lie to her parents about why he couldn’t come anymore. That he was still eager to meet them and promised to do so before they left for Nigeria the following week. The next day while she got ready in her flat to go out, she received a phone call from Ugonna who always Facetimed. She remembered her anger as she picked up the to yell at him for ghosting her parents and not texting with a reason. Before the heated words poured out of her mouth, she was startled mute by a ranting female voice. This voice called her a husband snatcher and a pathetic whore. This voice asked her if she was not ashamed to be spreading her legs for a married man with a newborn who was barely six-month-old. This voice told her she was Ugonna’s wife. Oluchi was warned not to try her again or see how her face would be disfigured with acid. The phone clicked shut without a single word in from Oluchi. She ran to the bathroom where her body heaved forcefully over the toilet with nothing coming out. Then she blacked out.\nSuspicion plagued Oluchi’s parents when she suddenly insisted on following them back home to Nigeria. Even her mother could not get her to admit anything was wrong. She told them she just needed a break. The job she had just been offered would start in three months. Knowing she would return to London soon, she packed light. The rest of her stuff was moved from her student accommodation into a Big Yellow storage.\nBut Oluchi’s world refused to stop spinning even as they stepped outside Murtala Muhammed airport and even as she hid out in her childhood bedroom for days. And on her twenty-first birthday some weeks later she still wasn’t on social media to reply to the messages friends had sent her.\nOne day, Oluchi’s father asked when she would like him to book her return flight. She still dreaded the thought of going back there, but her job was waiting. When she opened Yahoo Mail for the first time in many weeks to re-read her offer letter, she saw a few unread emails from the company’s HR. The latest one contained the subject of the rescinded offer. The contract had expired for a while without her signing it. She had been unreachable. The company was moving on. Oluchi’s head swelled until it throbbed. When she did not come out of her room after her father’s text message asking her to come, he sent the maid. She knocked on Oluchi’s door before delivering her message from outside. Oluchi’s father finally came up and entered her room after knocking four times, and she did not respond. She was immobile. He called her his pet name for her after seeing her tear-stained face. She responded by crying harder, and the man’s heart broke before he even knew what was wrong. He rushed to cradle her in the way he remembered soothed her as a distressed infant. When she woke up from her nap, he was still there but now talking to her mother who was beside him. She felt the weight of her body as she sat up on the bed to answer their question about what was wrong. Oh my god, her mother said. It’s not the end of the world, her father said. The rest of the year is a complete blur for Oluchi.\n***\nOn the last day of her twenty-third year, Oluchi is stuck in traffic at Victoria Island. She’s going home after another day from her internship at PwC where she is working for her NYSC year. The program is almost done, but she still feels largely uninspired. How did I get here? She wonders looking at the line of cars. But she is not asking about the traffic situation, which is a daily occurrence. Oluchi is searching for an elusive thing. She wants to know the loose thread life used to pull apart her plans. She thinks that finding the answer will bring closure and only then will she be able to start dreaming 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: Your Reputation Precedes You\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 3013\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with somebody getting called to the principal’s office." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The headteacher doesn't look up from his desk. He has a MacBook on his left, and a cup painted with watercolour cats on his right. He stabs at the keyboard, one key at a time, staring intently into the screen behind a pair of bug-eyed spectacles. He slurps the tepid tea and stabs, slurps and stabs, then curses quietly when the computer lets out its own explicit at his data entry misstep.\n\nHis visitor watches him from the opposite end of the room, hidden in the shade of a banana leaf plant, her brown eyes taking him in, in all his senior splendour. He continues to motor away at his spreadsheet, eyes shifting back and forth. The spot where she spies is comfortable and cool, protected from the early arrival of an unexpected heatwave.\n\nThe worst thing about being of school age is being forced outside for break times in every season, rain or shine. Kathleen hates both here, both in England are intense. The rain is cold and pelting, and the sunshine brings dust and air devoid of breeze or moisture.\n\nShe wonders for the millionth time why they had swapped their lives in the Caribbean for this island. Her mother insisted she had beneficial intentions: good schools, good healthcare- etc etc etc.\n“And you’ll be good there too,” her mother assured her. A warning and a command. “You will be good, Kathleen. You will do well in England…”\n\nIf the last thirteen months are anything to go by, there is no goodness in the Queen’s country that can rid Kathleen of her badness. Not even a reputable school where they must learn Latin and the girls wear pleated knee-length skirts. Where the “pupils” avoid beef rather than roll up their sleeves and join in. And where being sent to the Headteacher is so mundane, Kathleen has simply invited herself inside. and is now leaning casually against the door browsing the very man who should, by definition, spark awe and fear in her very soul.\n\nKathleen is disappointed. She felt a rush of anticipation as she skipped down the Biology block earlier, with the latest red slip flapping proudly in hand, pleased she had finally accumulated enough penalties to hit the jackpot. An audience with the man himself. The Big Dog. The headteacher of Blakewood College had requested a meeting with her.\n\nShe had heard many things about him during her short but dramatic time as a pupil at his school. He was apparently witty and incredibly intelligent. He was apparently illustrious and always busy. He was apparently invited everywhere, even royal engagements - and yet still remained a mystery.\n\nThe truth was in all her thirteen months of being at Blakewood, Kathleen had set eyes on this accomplished headteacher, never. For all his glitzy reputation, to Kathleen, he seemed like an imposter. All bark, no bite - the summary of most of the Caribbean native’s encounters with the British.\n\nKathleen is disappointed that her efforts to catch the attention of the top man seem in vain. Because here he is, in all his apparent glory and the only thing so far that is remarkable or true about him, from what Kathleen has heard, is that yes, he obviously can’t see Jack all with those ginormous glasses and yes, his hair really is silver (The reason the hormonal girls drool over him and call him a “silver fox”. Which is disgusting because he is at least sixty years old). So far, the headteacher of Blakewood College is undeserved of Katleen’s time and seems like nothing more than someone’s grandaddy.\n\nKathleen sighs impatiently as the MacBook whirs and a clock ticks away somewhere above their heads.\n\nPerhaps I should have made a more dramatic entrance? Kathleen thinks, kicking herself for not sticking to the plan she had slightly deviated from. Tiptoeing around isn’t her style, sneaking into the office had been a last-minute decision. The adjoining corridors had been unusually packed with teachers all remarkably red-faced from the heat, despite their exclamations of joy at the “gorgeous” weather fit for a Pimms in the evening. Their presence was unforeseen - of course, Kathleen had envisioned stalking down an empty corridor, throwing open the office door, startling the old man and making a scene so that everybody in the neighbouring rooms come running to see what all the noise was about.\nIt was all about the drama; Kathleen thrived on drama.\nBut since the corridor was already buzzing, her theatrics would not be effective. No one, to her dismay, had even acknowledged her when she eventually muzzled her way through, grasped the office door handle and slid inside.\n\nKathleen tenses at the sound of heavy footsteps outside. The walker pauses but then moves away quickly. All the while, the headteacher slurps and stabs, completely lost in his own world, his face still attached to his laptop screen.\n\nKathleen wonders if he is deaf as well as blind. She has been lurking for three whole minutes without him so much as glancing up. Maybe it was time to stop playing sleuth and ramp things up a little. After all, she had sinned a great many sins to get here…\n\nThe crashing of the banana plant does the trick and the silver fox’s face suddenly turns as ghostly as his hair. He shoots upwards from his mahogany recliner chair and tea from his mouth showers over his matching mahogany desk and MacBook. Even his glasses jolt momentarily, smacking into his protruding forehead.\n“What in the -” he roars, squinting into his generously spaced office, where the plant has seemingly toppled itself and is lying in its own waste.\nKathleen pushes away from the door, exposing herself to the headteacher - who is, as she had first desired - now startled.\nThe headteacher gapes at her emerging from the shadows. He glares at his cup and then at the dripping mess, and then at his fallen plant, his response delayed. Kathleen imagines his mind - apparently a mind of smart - working hard like a machine, cogs turning, trying to piece it all together. He seems to be wondering what to resolve first; the beeping from a technology device after contact with liquid or the girl who is grinning stupidly at him from across the peat-ridden carpet.\n“Did you - I'm sorry I didn’t hear you come in'', he manages and readjusts his glasses, pretending that the laptop isn’t still screeching for attention beneath his heavy but soft body. Then he clears his throat and asks, “Did you knock?”\nKathleen is thrilled.\n“Yessir. I did knock”.\n“Oh,” the headteacher sounds pained. He scratches at the tufts of silver hair sprouting from his ear and offers the room a puzzled expression as if to ask it; Did you hear her knock?\n“Well,” he concludes finally, pressing his fingers down into the desk, I certainly didn’t hear you”.\n“No problem, sir,” Kathleen steps lazily over the plant and flashes him a big toothy grin.\n\nHer mother had always told her not to “kin teet” at people. It makes you look crazy, Kathleen. And then under her breath, she would add; But it’s not your fault. You're not crazy, not really. Just damaged...\n\n“Well, actually it is a problem,” the headteacher recoils, gesturing at his desk and laptop accusingly, “Not only am I incredibly busy at this hour, but as you can see, your interruption has caused quite a mess”.\n“I see it, sir. Didn’t mean to cause you a fright-”\n“Oh no, I wasn’t frightened...”\n“Of course”.\n\nAn awkward silence. Footsteps clatter past outside again. The clock steadily ticks. The technological shrilling seems to fade into white noise.\n\n“Sorry,” the headteacher powers up again, “ I didn’t…who are you?”\nKathleen doesn’t move. Instead, she rocks, squeaking in her polished Oxfords, patiently enjoying the interaction. She holds up the incriminating red slip.\n“You should know,” she insists, “You requested to see me”.\nThe headteacher frowns and squints at the note but the handwriting is too far away and too illegible for him to read even if he did have 20/20 vision - which was never, unfortunately for him. Lack of sight made up for apparently by a sharper noggin, people said.\n“I did?” More scratching at his silver tuft, but he clearly isn’t sure. \n\nKathleen’s plastic smile flickers. He can’t be serious? She scoffs.\nHe couldn’t be so smart either. Not if he couldn’t even remember orchestrating such an important meeting.\n\nReceiving one red slip at Blakewood College was frowned upon enough. But pupils who amassed several and faced possible suspension or even exclusion was scandalous. The school was a respectable establishment with a respectable code of conduct. The only way any pupil got to see or meet with the headteacher was through the disciplinary channels. These “interventions” were the last attempt to save face before starting more official procedures. But very few had been carried out in all of the thirty glorious years of the current headteacher’s principality. And so, it was truly unforgivable in Kathleen’s eyes that an occasion so rare - her own intervention - had been forgotten by the very man who enforced the very morals she’d spent months breaking down to rain hell on his perfect parade.\n\nThe headteacher lifts his face to the left wall to reveal the location of the ticking clock. It reads quarter to one.\nNeglecting to offer Kathleen a seat, he reengages with his laptop and tries to get it back into working order. But by the sounds of frustrated bleeps of each keyboard tap, it’s clear the machine is begging to be left alone. He gives the screen a little slap and then huffs, pressing fists into his side rolls.\n\n“You see that’s the problem with technology,” he suddenly vocalises but doesn’t make eye contact with his visitor, “Wonderful when it works, but an absolute ache when it doesn’t. Funny that, isn’t it? How a little upset, a spilt liquid, can bring such an incredible machine to its knees -”\n“You talking to me, sir?” Kathleen chirps sweetly.\nThe headteacher’s head snaps back.\n“Oh,” his laugh comes out like a gurgle, “ I forgot you were, I wasn’t talking to -” he trails, closes his eyes, and sighs heavily. Resetting; Kathleen thinks.\n“Julie didn’t tell me I had a meeting today. Or perhaps I missed the appointment in my inbox - gosh do I miss the good old days of paper diaries -”.\n\nThe reflective mumblings are annoying Kathleen. That’s enough of that; she thinks irritated and decides finally it’s time to break character.\n\nStriding across the space, like a provoked bull, she announces, “Let’s proceed” and collides purposefully into the desk, so as to collide with the headteacher. Shockwaves ripple through the sturdy wood and its bumbling fool of an owner. He almost cries out, but masterfully subdues it, inhaling the pain like a true Brit.\n“Erm, yes. Take a seat”.\n\nKathleen sits in the adjacent chair and for added effect, lands so deeply that her skirt billows up and out for a moment. Kathleen thrives on drama.\n\nDamp papers on the desk are swept into hidden drawers and the laptop is yanked inwards, placing a security barrier between the headteacher and the unpredictable teenager. He feels suddenly uneasy at her closeness and ducks behind his screen to search for any signs of this meeting or the case notes to get an idea of just who he was dealing with. After showing alarming volatility, the headteacher is admittedly stumped as to how to deal with Kathleen without causing further unpleasantry. Unluckily for him, his calling apps both fail in an attempt to reach his PA for assistance. A notification informs him that his access to the server has been temporarily disabled. Drat.\n“Are you okay, sir?”\nHe laughs nervously, tapping away to find a workaround, a way to salvage this disaster and proceed as required.\n“Quite alright,” he fudges. It’s a lie of course. He isn’t alright.\n\nThe truth is he hasn’t conducted an intervention in a very long time. He can’t remember how to proceed or where to find the case notes. The room begins to buzz with unventilated heat and the headteacher feels his pits turn clammy, having been caught off guard like this.\n“Temporary glitch,” he says brightly, peering at her over the screen and his bowing glasses. “Not to worry. In the meantime, you can supply me with your name so I know who I’m searching for”.\n\nKathleen crosses her legs and bobs a foot, silently scrutinising his clumsy mannerism, as he dives for a stray Parker and indicates she should write. Conversation seems too exhausting.\n\nKathleen contemplates resuming gameplay by providing an outlandish name. But no, there isn’t much time to land her delivery. So she chooses to curb her impulses and writes, in slow obedience, feeling his four eyes watching her.\n“Kate-lynn? Bel -a- fount?”\nReally? She is incredulous at his blindness.\n“It’s Kath-leen. And it’s Bella-fon-tea, sir”.\nHmm, he replies, no longer watching her.\nSo Kathleen leans forwards. “Belafonte,” she presses, urging him to repeat it.\nHe is distracted, typing one letter at a time into another system, willing for something this afternoon to go right.\n\"Belafonte,\" Kathleen raises her voice forcibly over the mechanical whirring. But his attention is gone, returning loyally to his damn laptop. \n“Here we are!” the headteacher’s chin wobbles joyfully, as the system pings its approval at his entry, “I have your file”.\n\nKathleen stiffens, face prickling. He hasn’t acknowledged her, he hasn’t registered her name.\n\nStupid; she breathes, shaking her head at his bobbing head; stupid old man. She decides that his reputation far outweighs the reality that he truly is a disappointment.\nSinking backwards dishevelled, she begins to plot her next move.\n\nShe glares bitterly as he hums whilst scanning through her multiple misdemeanours. He isn’t impressed but his grimaces remain professionally restrained.\n“Oh dear,” his comment is understated. He finally looks at Kathleen, tipping his glasses; “What are we going to do with you Katelynn, hmm?”\nCondescending.\n\nHe asks her if she’d like to comment on her behaviour, to provide “reasonings” for her unacceptable conduct.\nKathleen’s mouth is a hard line. The pair stare at each other. The clock clacks.\n“They say I have Daddy issues”.\nThe headteacher’s brows furrow.\n“Oh? Your father is -”\n“Absent.” A coward, a deadbeat.\n\"I understand,” he splutters, uncomfortably.\nHa! You couldn’t possibly understand...\n“Well, I understand but I do not condone your actions. This school doesn’t take rebellion lightly, you will know.” He works the trackpad with fat pink stubby digits decked in rings. “I must insist that unless you alter your ways, serious repercussions will follow, young lady”.\n\nKathleen’s nostrils flare at his disassociation, at his failure to address her correctly.\nSay my name, you moron…\n\nThe lunch bell cuts through the tensed air. She's out of time.\nThe headteacher immediately starts packing up, offering his raging pupil a pathetic apology about the inconveniencies and promises absentmindedly that he will have Julie reschedule.\n\n“I’m eager to speak with your guardian regarding your future at Blakewood,” he says to his watch, “I’m sorry, I need to leave, I have a private off-site appointment. Please take advantage of the counselling helpline. It was nice - I mean, it was necessary to meet you. If there’s anything we can do in the meanwhile to assist you, I’d be happy to help,”. His last line is delivered carelessly, he is once again distracted.\nBut she is sharp and quick even for her age. Ears pricked, she identifies her last opportunity to pounce. Foolish foolish man...\n\n“Yes sir. I’d be grateful if you could contact my father, I don’t have his details, you see”.\n“Pardon?” He has already crossed the carpet and is struggling into a navy overcoat with his back to her. He is tutting at his fallen plant but makes no attempt to rectify it himself since Julie would be along shortly.\n\n“My father.” Kathleen stands and approaches from behind. She is breathing hard, heart thumping with adrenaline, but she takes her time to finish her request and deliver the blow, “I believe you know him very well. My mother has told me little about him.\nExcept that, he’s a disgraced Englishman, who knocked up a girl whilst on a bachelor’s excursion to St Lucia and then fled back to England, following the advice of his equally spineless father, disowning the girl and his child when he realised she was only sixteen. I believe his name is Henry, sir. Henry Blakewood”.\n\nMr Blakewood’s dressing halts and his entire body stiffens.\n\nKathleen reaches him at the door and their eyes met.\n\nThere is so much she wants to scream at that moment, so much crazy she wants to unleash, for her and her forsaken mother’s sake. For this retribution, Kathleen believes she was born. And perhaps her wit isn’t from her paternity after all, but from the woman who has never forgotten and devised a plan to one day send her daughter to the very school that was founded by her grandfather’s ancestors. The very school that bears their prestigious name and is squeaky clean in every way.\n\nBut its reputation outweighs its reality. Scandal and folly are in its blood.\n\nMr Blakewood inhales sharply. Kathleen imagines his mind - apparently though not a mind of smart - working hard like a machine, cogs turning, trying to piece it all together.\n\n“Funny isn’t it?” She smirks with sarcasm, “How a little upset can bring such an incredible machine of a man to its knees?” Pausing for effect, she adds, “Been insightful to finally meet you, Mr Blakewood. I’m sure my mother’ll be thrilled to meet you too. Give my regards to Daddy, won’t you?”\n\n“You…,\" Mr Blakeswood swipes for Kathleen, but she escapes, flinging open the door so fast, so aggressively, so loudly that a crowd from the neighbouring rooms come running to see what all the noise is about.\n\nIt’s all about the drama; Kathleen thrives on drama." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: For Liv: Wound Bear\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 2063\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who returns home changed by someone they met on a trip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It's a gynecological fact that children who have just been born require a Womb Bear. This is a plush toy that has the sound of a beating heart within the plush that makes the child feel at home in their new bassinet.\n\nIt's very much like taking the old water from a fish tank and mixing it with the new water that doesn't have any dookie. In this way the young fish or human baby will survive and feel loved.\n\nWell, I didn't want to pay the high price of the Womb Bear at Macy's. So I went across the street and maybe a few blocks down and picked up a very nice Wound Bear at the JC Pennies. The Wound Bear is much more practical because the young baby child can point to the areas that hurt on its body.\n\nPeople that are raised with Womb Bears are always needy.\n\nSo we were in Natividad Hospital, because the ambulance thought it was closer even though we had a private room in Monterey. I think this is why my wife was really really less than happy. Normally she would have offered the nurses a cup of coffee and given the doctors the option of tea. Some doctors need steady hands and my wife is very hospitable like that.\n\nIn Salinas, they put us up in the army fashion with some army cots that are supposed to be very good for keeping your back straight during delivery. They're working on a water birth room using an old Jacuzzi but apparently the state has updated its hygiene requirements since 1968. This is the actual brand name Jacuzzi not the recent knockoffs.\n\nSo Michelle's not serving anyone coffee or sandwiches that comes into the room. I'm supposed to be using the phone as a video camera but frankly I do not want to share that particular video.\n\nMichelle keeps looking at the clock because she wants to have a Valentine Day baby and it's getting late. They have all the wires hooked up to her forehead and her stomach. The hospital staff is listening for any signs that the baby will show up and not be completely happy... Some babies are simply born to be Divas.\n\nBut I got my Wound Bear ready… and if anyone gives that kid a problem I'm going to bust them in the eye.\n\nShe's four fingers dilated -- I know this because the doctor keeps stopping by and trying to decide which of his fingers to use for the measurement. There's a metric equivalent for non-Americans but I only understand the finger method.\n\nMichelle wants me to pat off the perspiration of her head, but every time I come close she secretly tries to twist my boy-parts or my hands or rip the hair from my arms. I used to be very hairy.\n\nI'm not even thinking about how much laundry this new kid is going to give me. There's just so much hope in the air. And then the delivery door opens and nurse Hilda comes in with rubber gloves down to elbows. It looks like she's really serious about the job of a maternity nurse. I never realized that Hilda Benderhole was that maternal.\n\nWe stare at each other like gun fighters and then she draws first by walking into the room past the door. She's telling the rest of the staff what to do, including the doctor. I'm thinking that's kind of weird because I know that Joe Benderhole never wanted to give that woman a baby.\n\nIt says a lot.\n\nThe doctor is right behind her like Hilda will hike the ball and he will throw it through the door and give her a wonderful football baby to wrap. Except Hilda is the one saying: \"One Mississippi push… two Mississippi push…\"\n\nMy wife is pushing for all the V8 vitamins she has in her body. She wouldn't take the Red Line energy drink I offered so I have to sip it myself. We're all screaming: THREE Mississippi push…. FOUR Mississippi push!\n\nIt's like we are one great big family in a small room with a cot along with five other women that are not ready to be dilated at four fingers. It's a lovely symphony hall of industrial efficiency. Michelle needs to fire that cannon at the right time. Mrs. Tonguequist in cot #2 is waiting to get the staff next.\n\nMichelle grunts hard, reaches to dislocate my shoulder, and pushes just under the clinical level of popping a part of the brain called an aneurysm. We hear a magnificent explosion.\n\nAll the lights in Monterey county go down at once. I didn't know that Michelle had it in her. She's usually just so giving.\n\nSo the emergency lights flicker and then come on and they're really dim. I don't know if my wife is going to have her first child as a mutant baby. I don't even know if it'll look like me in the half light.\n\nShe's so apologetic that she thinks she caused a blackout. When there's doubt Michelle just blames herself – she's kind of beautiful like that. I reach down, see if I feel any afterbirth but there is no after birth. Everything is kind of starchy and waiting…\n\nNurse Benderhole says we have to be really careful because only half of the machines will work.\n\nAn orderly rushes into the room and tells us to turn off anything unnecessary. The FTC is on the emergency line saying that Natividad Hospital tripped a regional breaker. \"There are people in San Jose that won't be able to update their Facebook pages.\" It's becoming a statewide tragedy because someone used too much electricity at the hospital.\n\nI tell Benderhole to get all those wires off my wife. Our family will not be the reason that other people suffer. The Goround family will try to be a good example.\n\nSuddenly, I feel a pinching on my ankle. It's much too low for Michelle to grab and I wonder what could have happened. I tried to ignore it and think of the baby that is waiting for its parole hearing. I already have an idea of what kind of job it will get. The baby must promise not to leave the state without permission.\n\nNurse Benderhole is nearly blind because she won't wear her bifocals and she is still pretending to be the leader of the room though the doctor is checking his watch and saying that he has to go down the row of cots to stick to his schedule.\n\nI have time and a little flashlight on my phone that is absolutely not recording video. I'm not going to be that guy that uploads his naked wife and newborn baby onto Facebook. YouTube maybe, but definitely not Facebook.\n\nI get on my knees and hope that Jimmy's Convict and Upholstery Cleaning Service has an equivalent cousin working at the hospital. Otherwise my bare knees are going to come up with a lot of funk.\n\nI shine that flashlight underneath the cot and these scary killer cat eyes look back at me. It's not a kitty cat on cocaine, it's Wound Bear and it's holding a scalpel or a knife.\n\nAt that exact moment, I realize that the mechanical Little Bear wants to be the one to cut the cord. I've already seen the little snippers that are designed to cut strands of jello; the hospital snippers are not sharp at all. Wound Bear has a blade that is very sharp. It's not fair.\n\nI tried to pick up the cot and move it out into the parking lot they call a hallway. They have more people over there with psoriasis and gunshot wounds than any other Salinas-style crimes. Newborn babies do not generally have psoriasis and gunshot wounds. I just need to get away from the competition.\n\nFor some reason, Hilda starts lifting the cot with her hunched back. She has the undersized rubber shoes with her cankles sticking out to heal. Uggs? Yes. She's wearing ugly black rubber shoes from Australia.\n\nWe are pulling the maternity cot together. I am actually going to let her go through the door first because sometimes it is good to be a gentleman. I dropped my side of the cot because there's no way both of us could fit through that door together.\n\nHilda, nurse Benderhole, she won't give up! She's pushing the cot to the left and then to the right, trying to jiggle it out the door with almost no overhead light. I think she steps on the foot of an old man in a wheelchair.\n\nThey both grunt as one. Michelle said she really wants to give people coffee and tea but the baby has to come out before midnight.\n\nShe really wants that Valentine's Day baby.. she's all about the love, the indecency of a love child, and maybe we'll just call the kid Valentine, or Val Killer, whatever. A kid born on Valentine's Day will usually have someone to send them a happy card once a year.\n\nI'm not much of a hugger.\n\nSo the backup emergency generators in Salinas fail. We really should have insisted the ambulance driver take the coastal route, drive to Monterey Hospital, where people all the way from Pebble Beach go to get their warts removed. How much better would they be at removing babies?\n\nUnfortunately, Wound Bear has followed my wife, the baby and nurse Benderhole into the hallway. It's just too dark and dirty to get on your knees and search an entire Hospital -- especially in the dark.\n\nI tried to listen and see if Wound Bear is maybe performing some amateur surgery down the hall. There aren't any particular new types of screaming.\n\nIt's time to run down the hall, fling the light of the phone into every dark crevice. Having babies is all about this form of responsibility... a father must constantly be ready.\n\n\"Come here, Bear.\"\n\nAt that moment I think that President Roosevelt was completely wrong. It is much better to hunt a bear that is tied to a tree in the dark. Their small sizes and fluffiness of their fur gives everyone the mistaken idea that any bear in any part of Salinas is cute... they're all killers.\n\nI open up doors and hear screams, close doors and hear slams. I find a utility closet with an adult stimulation device plugged into the 3 phase mega voltage outlet. \"What the…\"\n\nNo bear.\n\nI shine the light on the strange closet with the Megadeath electrical pleasure device. The door says: Charge Nurse Station.\n\nPoor Hilda. I didn't know that she had it so bad. Needing 750 volts of electricity just to feel like she was loved.\n\nI mean that's really depressing. Even on Valentine's Day everyone should find someone. I mean if the baby was all Diva and didn't want to come out… we could survive. Michelle was a pretty nice wife and sometimes we just randomly laughed at stuff together.\n\nHilda had to rely on modern technology.\n\nI even thought that maybe we should just give the first baby to Hilda because we were still young enough to have another. Then I remember how she yelled at my dog and said to myself, ' No way.'\n\nSometimes the emotion overcomes me but I'm still not a hugger.\n\nI rush back to my wife's cot in the corner of the hallway. She's trying to fall asleep because labor is tiring. I trip and land on her belly and it's like the sound of a whoopee-cushion deflating.\n\nNext thing I know there's something kicking me. It's not Wound Bear.\n\nBecause the lights were dim and everyone was so afraid when I told them that he was a stuffed-animal robot from China and probably had a faulty manufacturing chip and was running around the hospital with a knife. The new baby didn't understand the danger. It failed to cry on delivery.\n\nIt just kind of moved its legs like it was swimming in place. Maybe the breaststroke?\n\nI felt moved with humanity, love, tax deductions and gratefulness. Even in the dim light I could see that it favored Michelle's side and not mine.\n\nDon't reach for the light.\n\nEnjoy the darkness. We all look better in the dark..\n\nYeah.\n\nEspecially, Hilda." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Whimsical Adventure in Jasper Hallow\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1092\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a magical bookshop." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Under the midnight rainshower, a runaway evenscesed from the stonecold walls of the medieval castle, deep into the Anthraxian Woods. The runaway slipped her royal blonde locks into her hooded tunic. She crunched through dead leaves and roamed past trees resembling upside-down spiders. Moonlight and biolumincensant toadstools glowed, guiding her deeper into the woods. Unicorns trotted past wafting the scent of roses and the songs of the bullfrogs croaked. She was close. Through the break in the terrain was a tea green lake flooded with earthy scents. It welcomed you to the tiny village planted behind it. Jasper Hallow. \nShe found it. \nIt was a bustling village lined with thatched cottages of pubs and shops. Fairy lights hung from the popular brewery, Goblin’s Grin, a cacophony of pub loafers whispering tales from drunken lips. At the far end of the lane, where echos ricocheted grew a disturbingly large oak tree. Casual onlookers categorized it as ordinary with its heavy black leaves and crimson bark but when peeking closely, a six paned window displayed through the bark like a portrait with flickering lights winking from the inside like summer fireflies. Inside, the tree trunk door swallowed you into a dimension warp. It was a healthy sized book shop. However, this was a magical bookshop. Shelves compiled the shop lined with books in all the colors of the rainbow and heavens, books in divergent sizes as miniature as a thimble to the growth of an elephant’s ear. Thunderclouds bellowed above near the back raining down puddles that evaporated into books. Thick books, old books, new books, books of all wonders, piped out steam, shook wildly as you passed by, and even tooted strong aromas. Tonight’s scent was honey and primrose. Paper lanterns floated around the shop from pages of old books that lost their covers. \nThe shop owner was on the second story loft reading from her purple rocking chair, wearing square shaped spectacles. She gazed upwards from her reading material. “The shop’s open, take all the time you need.” she smiled returning to her book as if she were never disturbed. \nOne of these books has to break the curse. The runaway thought. \nA symphony of bubbles led the runaway to the center of the shop on a crescent moon shaped carpet. The bubbles popped above a book displayed on a podium made from corals and shells. The runaway brushed aside the residue of sand over its cover before flicking it open with the sound of a crack. Water damage littered the pages in soft mildew pink. The pages smelled of seaweed and basalt. They were blank on the inside. Read underwater only. The disclaimer was etched on the spine near the Atlantis crest branded on the top. It was a book about the fantastic underwater city. But it wouldn’t break the spell. The runaway closed the book and followed her nose to the scent of smoke leading to a book covered in ruby colored dragon scales. The pages were hot to the touch even through her leather gloves. Cover to cover was filled with research of medieval dragonology but smoke billowing from every page turn made her eyes water. Paper butterflies tickled her ears distracting her from the book. She giggled at their invitation as they floated over to a potted maple tree raked in leathery green leaves coaxed in words. She began to read some of them. There were probably over 4,000! Each leaf produced words for different cooking recipes. She plucked off one that caught her senses. It was a brown leaf covered in tree sap that read the recipe for acorn pancakes while wafting the scent of butter and sugarcane. \nI still need to find a spell. She thought. \nThe shadows crept into the edge of the shop where a vicious scratching sounded. In a dimly lit corner, an orange tawny with a dangling silver collar quarreled with the historic linens of a mummy dead on display in an opened stone coffin. She tisked the cat away with a wave of her hand. Carefully readjusting the ancient cloth to its original form she saw the remains of handwriting. Studying hieroglyphs was a past hobby that she’d been passionate about. It was clear enough to decipher. In fact, it was the diary entries of this human dating decades back before the date of his death. Sweet woody smells from a crackling fireplace entranced the runaway to the west side of the shop where there seemed to be a traditional library. There was a velvet long back chair to the edge of a tall mahogany shelf with ordinary looking books. Fiction said a calligraphy painted poster on an easel. A small inscription was written below the title. “The story and the characters from the book you complete will awaken into your own livelihood.” She used a fingertip to brush the titles stitched on the spines. Reading each and every one she stopped on a title labeled “The Handsome Lover.” Her finger shook with anticipation. \nNot today. She thought letting it go with a heavy sigh. \nAnd just when she thought it was too late. A wicked book lay opened under the skylight with star beams illuminating it like a halo. It had hundreds of ribboned bookmarks. The shop owner grinned while spying on her customer through her floorboard cracks. “Are you here for a spell?” The shop owner asked while she snaked her hand down the iron staircase. “I need to break a curse. Can you help me?” The runaway rustled into her pants pocket and tossed the shop owner a tethered coin pouch. It was caught with a satisfying clank that pleased the owner greatly. “Stand behind the spell book. It only works if a real witch recites the spell. Now tell me, child, what is the curse to which has been bestowed upon you?” The runaway hesitated twirling her thumbs together. Clover looked to her then to her owner. “I’ll tell you. But thou mustn’t judge.” The runaway whispered gently into the shop owner’s ear. Her eyes widened. For a witch, she’d heard it all, but this was iniquitous.” \nThe sun rised over the tea green lake. The rays of the sun ignited life into the Anthraxian forest. The runaway hoisted herself through wide muscular branches but halted to glance back once more to reminisce on Jasper Hallow. The oak tree was nothing but a speck no greater than a fairy’s eye. But something about that shop made her whimsical adventure something she’d look forward to again and 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: Beyond Words\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2338\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a magical bookshop." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A bell chimes above her as Katy pushes open the old wooden door that leads into Silo’s Books and Curios. She had finally found the small, almost invisible, shop tucked in between a craft store to its right and a health food store to its left. It would have been easy to walk by had you not been expressly looking for it, as Katy had been. \nDing, Ding.\nKaty looks up at the sound, surprised to see not a brass shopkeeper’s bell, but two silver bells that look as though they have just been cut from Santa’s sleigh. The crystal-clear ringing of the bells hangs in the stale air of the otherwise quiet shop long after she shuts the door and cautiously steps within. The lights are dim and the walls are covered from floor to ceiling with tall, rickety shelves. And every inch of every shelf is stuffed, corner to corner, with books! Old books, new books, soft and hard-cover books, picture books, and old boring-looking books. Books, books, books, as far as the eye can see, more books than she has ever seen before. \nIn Katy’s house, where she lives with her mom and dad, all of her parents’ books are kept in a very special glass case, and she is not, under any circumstance, to touch them. Her mom says they are precious and to be treated with respect and that she can read them when she is older. Her dad calls them expensive and not for little girls and their grubby, sticky hands. \nBut these books aren’t behind any glass. They are just sitting here, waiting to be held, to be touched, to be read. Katy looks around the shop suspiciously, curious that no one else seems to be here. After a moment, and moving very carefully, she makes her way to the bookshelf closest to her, raises her hand very slowly, and stretches her fingers towards the books. \n“Fancy an adventure, do you?” a voice says mysteriously from somewhere in the darkness behind her. Katy pulls her hand back and spins around, looking horrified as a tall, slender, and bearded man makes his way out of the shadows in the corner of the bookshop. He appears to be very old.\n“I’m…I’m very sorry,” Katy stammers, as she takes a step backwards, away from the tall man, whom she assumes is Silo, the name on the sign above the door. At least she hopes it is. She bumps into the shelf behind her, and an old, expensive-looking book tumbles from its home and lands heavily at her feet. “I shouldn’t have tried.…” \nShe stops talking as she looks up at the old man and he stares back at her, and for a moment she considers running to the door. Just then the old man tilts his head back and laughs, loudly and heartily. There is something special about him, but Katy isn’t sure what it is. Before she has a chance to say anything else, Silo takes two long strides towards her and bends down to pick up the book. He flips it over and inspects its cover as he stands back up straight. \n“The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, eh?” he asks, smiling again, “fancy a ride down the Mississippi, do you?” He holds the old book out to Katy, but she doesn’t take it; in fact, she is scared to be even close to it. \n“I shouldn’t,” she says, looking up at the old man cautiously. “It looks expensive.” \n“Pshhh,” Silo exclaims as he pushes the book into her hands. “Books are for reading, young lady, not for coddling. I implore you, please, take a look.” Before she can protest any further, he walks away towards the old cash register at the back of the shop, leaving her with the Twain classic clutched tightly to her chest. When he reaches the counter, he turns around and looks back at her. \n“Open it up; you may be surprised by what you see.” He smiles slightly, and Katy sees a small twinkle in his eye before he bends over the counter and begins to scribble on some papers. She watches him for a second longer before returning her attention to the book still clasped in her small hands. Very carefully, she opens it at random, somewhere in the middle. What she sees next makes her gasp in surprise. \nIn the middle of the page, where Katy expects to see words, and sentences, and paragraphs, there is instead something that looks like a cross between a picture frame and a small, rectangular television set. At first she thinks it is a picture, but when she looks more closely she sees that it is moving. She can see a large river and after a moment two young boys on a small wooden raft paddling along the shoreline. She moves her face so close to the page her nose is almost touching it as she watches the small raft bounce along in the current. The boys on the raft turn and wave, smiling widely at her. \n“You could join them, if you like,” Silo says quietly from across the room. Katy looks up from the book and sees that the old man is looking at her again, a smile on his face. The twinkle in his eye is still there.\n“What do you mean?” Katy asks, glancing between Silo and the book, watching the boys continue to make their way down the great Mississippi. \n“I mean, you could dive right in,” he says, “take part in their grand adventure. It has only just begun.” \nShe says nothing for a minute as she continues to stare into the book, watching the boys she holds in her hands make grand plans for their day. After a minute, she looks back up towards the counter. \n“I can’t swim,” she says shyly, as she carefully closes the book. “I’d be too scared to try.” \n“Well, that’s all right,” the old man exclaims as he bounds out from behind the register. He rushes past Katy towards a bookshelf on the other side of the shop. He pauses there, one hand on his hip and the other on his chin as he looks up and down the rows of books. \n“AHA!” he cries and reaches high above his head and snatches another book from its home. He hurries over to her holding the book out in front of him. “Have you ever wanted to explore the cosmos?” \n“The what?” Katy asks incredulously, looking up at him with a questioning expression.\n“The cosmos,” he repeats, “Space!” He stoops down and holds out the book. It is the most chewed up, dog-eared, poorly treated book Katy has ever seen, but she is able to read the cover, faded though it is. \n“A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Eagle,” she reads, looking up at Silo as she carefully pronounces the author’s name. \n“Madeleine, yes, perfect.” He flips the book open and once again Katy sees, instead of words, a small frame with something inside of it. She peers carefully inside and sees three young children, two boys and a girl, standing at the edge of a forest in the dark, appearing to be scared but also relieved as they look out at a large house just past the trees. As Katy watches, the young girl turns and gives her and the old man a small nod and a little smile before returning her attention to her friends. The two boys don’t seem to notice them. \n“You could tag along if you like. Meg, Charles, and Calvin are travelling the galaxy, trying to save their father. I’m sure they would be happy to have you.” \nKaty watches the page for another moment as the three children leave the forest and head towards the large house. Then she turns and looks up at the old man again. \n“I can’t go to space,” she says, looking nervous. “I haven’t brought a coat with me. I would be so cold.” She wraps her arms around her shoulders, as if she could already feel the freezing, desolate vacuum of space all around her. \n“Not a worry, not a worry!” Silo says, and the old book snaps closed in his hands, causing dust to fly up in the air between him and Katy. He places the book on top of a pile of others, sitting atop a very wobbly, spindly-looking table. He then begins to turn on the spot as he surveys the shop, hand once again on his chin, fingers weaving delicately through his beard as he does. After a moment he crouches down and pulls a book from the lowest shelf.\n“Now here is one that may be just a little bit warmer if that’s what you’re looking for,” he says with a wink, as he hands the leather-bound book to her. \nKaty takes the book carefully from his outstretched hands and looks down at the cover. It is very old but in remarkably good condition. It is black, with large, gold embossed letters on the front. \n“The Jungle Book,” she reads, running her finger over the name, feeling the gold beneath her fingers. “It’s beautiful.” \n“Just wait until you get inside,” Silo replies, grinning at her out of the corner of his mouth. \nMoving very slowly and being careful to touch only the edges of the pages, Katy opens the book. At first she can’t see much of anything at all, just a dense forest, tree after tree covered with a thick blanket of green leaves and vines. Slowly but surely, however, the jungle starts to thin and before long she can see a clearing ahead. There is a stream with a fallen tree lying across it. Suddenly, a young boy, wearing only a small loincloth around his waist (Katy averts her eyes for a second before remembering it’s a book) hops onto the log and begins to walk across it, holding his arms out for balance. Right behind him, a large bear follows. He doesn’t look like he is chasing the boy, but just following along. Taking up the rear a large, black panther prowls nearby, looking as if it is just out for a leisurely stroll. \n“It certainly is beautiful,” Katy remarks to Silo, who is still standing beside her, high above her shoulder, as he also peers into the book. He says nothing, but points down at the page, smiling. As Katy looks back she sees a giant python winding its way down a tree towards the three friends. It turns its head slowly to look at Katy and the old man before flicking its tongue at them. Katy snaps the book shut. \n“Snakes?! I can’t stand snakes!” she says, pushing the book quickly back into Silo’s hands. “I could never go on an adventure in a jungle!” \n“I see,” Silo replies, with no hint of disappointment on his face. He takes the book she has just thrust on him, carefully walks back to the shelf, and gently squeezes it into its home. Then he turns back to her and smiles once again. \n“Then, my dear, the question is: What kind of adventure would you like to go on?” \nKaty looks back at Silo for a minute, unsure of what to say. She gazes around the bookshop, books as far as her eyes can see. Adventures, mysteries, love and romance. They are all at her fingertips, but yet…. \n“I want to have my own adventure!” she exclaims, thrusting her hands high above her head. “My own adventure that takes me places that I never thought I could go, to see things I never thought I could see. Full of surprises and magic.” She spins in a circle, but then suddenly stops and stares at Silo again before adding, “But no snakes.” \nSilo looks at her carefully, so carefully in fact it seems as though he is trying to look right through her. \n“Sir, are you okay…” Katy asks, sounding concerned, afraid that she has upset the old shopkeep, but just then Silo’s magical grin returns as he spins on his heel and walks back to the wooden counter where his cash register sits. He ducks out of sight, and as Katy approaches the counter she can hear him rummaging behind it. Before she can say anything, he reappears, wearing the same magical smile upon his lined face. \n“Well, I think I’ve found it,” he says, the twinkle in his eye shining brighter than ever. \n“Found what?” Katy asks, searching his face for an answer. She finds none, but Silo doesn’t keep her waiting long. \n“The perfect book for you,” he replies, and from behind his back he reveals a small, white book. It looks neither old nor new. It’s perfect. He places it close to his heart for a moment and then without another word holds it out for Katy to take. After a second’s hesitation, she reaches up and slips it delicately from his fingers.\nShe looks down at the small book and finds there is nothing on the cover. No picture or any writing adorns it. She flips it over and discovers that the back is just as blank as the front. Then, very slowly she opens the book to the middle. To her surprise, the page is completely empty. She flips from page to page and finds them all without a mark. \n“It’s completely empty,” Katy says, trying not to sound disappointed. “There’s no adventure in here at all.” \n“Well, of course not, dear,” Silo says, his face breaking into a wide smile as he gazes down at her, his long beard twitching with delight. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls something out, but before Katy can see what it is he stretches out his long arms and holds the mysterious object in front of her. It is a pure gold fountain pen, with her name engraved on its side. The name she had never told him. \n“You haven’t written it yet.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 BREATH OF FREEDOM\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1343\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a world where everyone’s decisions are made for them. One morning, your character wakes up, and chooses not to go to work. Wait…chooses?!" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A BREATH OF FREEDOM\n Wake up at seven o’clock. A quarter of an hour to take a shower and clean yourself: brush your teeth, and take your prescribed medicines. Then ten minutes for the breakfast of cornflakes, milk, and orange juice. Afterward, George had to take the lift, since it was forbidden to walk down the stairs, go down the garage, and get into his car to reach his workplace. Where it was forbidden to arrive one minute late. In the world in which he lived everything was organized, established minute by minute for him as for the all that lives in it. Every autonomous, free decision was not only forbidden but also made impossible by the conditioning system to which all of them had been subjected. That was a world regulated from the millimeter, to the second. Disobedience didn’t exist and even could not exist. All of them were conditioned, and programmed and they had forgotten not only free action but even the words freedom and free. It seemed that the conditioning system to which they had been subjected had had complete success. The inhabitants of NORMALLAND no longer even felt the desire to act free and independently. They were stuck like little, insignificant wheels into a mechanism that regulated them, that established ( fixed) their action to the smallest detail. Such as always opening the door with the right hand, and always driving at no more than 40 kilometers per hour.\nWere the people of NORMALLAND happy? They even forgot to ask it. Were they unhappy? Ah, it should never have happened that they asked this question. They were ( had been) programmed not to make it. After all, most of them were people who, before living in that world, had had adventurous, even tormented lives, and even had made risky choices. And who had found calm and peace in Normalland. Even what is peace they did not ask. They breathed calmly, and quietly.\nOne might say that their every breath, and also heartbeat was programmed.\nThe same was true for George who got up every morning ready to set out following step by\nstep what the Normalland system had established for him.\nBut one morning after getting up and taking a shower he felt that something new, unexpected was making its way into him. It was not so much a movement of rebellion as instead of boredom, impatience. He thought back to the recurring dream he had for some time. He found himself locked in a cage like the animals at the zoo. He tried to get out but, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t break the bars. Then, suddenly, he found a key in his hands and he knew that with that key he would be able to open the cage. And that moment, when he thought he was about to open the cage and get out, he woke up.\nBut yes, George said to himself, he was fed up with the usual things, with the usual faces. And even with the usual breakfast! He suddenly decided he wouldn’t go to work, not caring at all what could happen. Then he had breakfast in a bar with coffee and apple pie. Then he took a long walk and at noon he went to lunch in an excellent restaurant. He ate appetizing and succulent courses (dishes) instead of the usual overcooked rice and the usual slice of meat from the company canteen. He tasted lasagne, stuffed hare and eggplant with cheese, and Mount Blanc as dessert! He felt fulfilled, even happy. Since the words happiness, to be happy had regained meaning for him.\nAfter lunch, he went to the cinema. He saw a science fiction in which androids took the place of humans who were suppressed because they were unproductive, now outdated for the needs of the ultra-modern society. After the cinema, he walked for a long time through the city and also crossed ( met) his work colleagues, even his office manager, but none of them made a sign of recognizing him, indeed they didn’t even seem to see him as if he had become invisible.\nToward evening when he was walking in the park he happened to overhear a strange conversation. “ We have to get rid of him” A woman who looked like Louise, his ex-wife, said to a man sitting by side her on a bench. “ Oh, but we already took him out, only that he doesn’t know it yet” The man, who looked like his office manager said. Those words: BUT WE ALREADY TOOK HIM OUT, ONLY THAT HE DOESN’T KNOW IT YET, they gave him a shiver. It seemed to him, indeed he had the feeling that those two strangers were talking of him. But were they really two strangers or were they Louise and Mr. Green, his office chief? George was unable to hear the continuation of the conversation because the two, who kept talking, lowered their voices and he did not want to risk being seen by approaching. But come on, he had taken a day off ( from) the iron, relentless system that regulated him as clockwork, and nothing catastrophic had happened. Indeed nothing had happened, and this seemed strange to him. So now perhaps he thought those two were talking about him because he was beginning to have a certain fear for the consequences of his infraction of the pre-established rules.\nBut come on, it was time to go back home. He would have decided the next day whether to resume his usual, regulated life or not….Maybe he could decide, why not? To take back his freedom and to leave Normalland forever.\nWhen he was in front of his house he saw that the lights inside it ( the house) were on. What strange…Had he left them on since the morning? But he began to worry when he could not open the door with his key. Looking at the lighted windows he glimpsed, behind the curtains, A FIGURE. Oh God, the thieves had broken into his house! He pounded on the door as he yelled:\n“ Help! Help! THIEVES!” The neighbors came running and looked at him as if they did not know him. Some of them said: “This one is gone mad!”, and even: “ But what does this guy want?”\nThen one of the neighbors knocked on the door delicately, calling: “ Mr. Brown, please, explain the situation to this one” The door opened and a young, tall, well-built man appeared in. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. “ What are you doing in my house?” George shouted furiously,\npunching the young man who didn’t get upset and, pushing him away with a decisive gesture, said: “ You’re wrong George. This is my home. Ah, your workplace is now mine too. Since you have been overthrown” Mr. Brown spoke quite calmly. The neighbors cheered. “ What did you think? That it was you who decided that you would not go to work today and you would not follow the established rules? Ah, we were the ones who decided it because there is no longer place for you among us” The neighbors cheered again. George looked around in fright at the faces of his neighbors who laughed, sneered, and seemed to be having a great time.\n“ But okay, if there was no room for me among you I will leave Normalland. That’s exactly what I want to do. So I will finally regain my freedom. “ George said proudly. The neighbors, who surrounded him, laughed more loudly and cheered.\n“ Ah, George,” Mr. Brown said quietly” This is also impossible. Don’t you know the rules of Normalland? No one can leave our world alive.” “ Do you mean you’re going to kill me?” George asked. “ Oh, no! You’re already dead, George!” the young man said and waved his hands toward him as if he were spraying water at him. George’s body shriveled, lost thickness, and fell to the ground as an empty sack." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Toetally Wicked\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1526\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story involving a magical potion — which may or may not work." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Yesterday something happened.\n\nDon’t panic - it’s not a big deal. \n\nYou might even laugh about this later. \n\nYou might have noticed that the water from your tap tasted a little different this morning. Did you notice? Don’t be alarmed. Let me take a guess though; you’ve consumed at least one sip of water from your tap today? More specifically, since 2.17 this morning? \n\nIt might have been a coffee. It might have been bubbling around a creamy pot of home brand oats. Maybe you suckled it down, latching onto that refreshing glass rim, consuming a morning pill. We all do it.\n\nWe all drink water; but today was different.\nLet me prove it to you. \n\n-\n\n“Are you guys reading this?” Jordan tapped her nails across her phone screen. The sound softly filled the room. \n\n“Mhmm,” Kate nodded, her purple curls bouncing around the top of her head. \n\n“I can’t read this anymore.” Belinda pulled her chin into her neck and pushed her laptop away. She stood up dramatically and announced that it was time for her coffee. \n\n“But we can’t use the water!” Kate threw her arms up, “it specifically says.” \n\nBelinda raised an eyebrow as she continued walking past the desks. Jordan had developed a deep frown. Kate began to bounce in her chair with anxiety. They had been working so hard to get through all these short stories in time, and yet this one story had them stopped in their tracks. \n\n-\n\nOh, you’re still reading. Good. \n\nYou’ll notice that your feet are feeling slightly tingly. You can try to ignore it; you can try to focus on something else. Maybe you can stop reading this page right now. Try to consume the words of some other poor writer, attempting to impress the brilliant minds I’ve targeted, go on.\n\nOr you can notice the sensation in your feet. \n\nIt all starts in the toes. That fuzzy sensation that leaves you wondering – have I been sitting weird? Is it my back pain possibly causing the nerves to shoot off little prickly vibrations in my feet? Is there a draft sweeping through the room somehow targeting only my soles? \n\nNo, no, no, my sweet. It is so much more than that, and it is only beginning. \n\n-\n\n“I’m ba-aaack,” Belinda sung delightfully, “I have the wakey juice and ready to keep it going.” \n\n“I couldn’t read anything this whole time.” Kate plunged her forehead against the desk and groaned loudly. Belinda straightened the tinsel draped across the back end of her chair and sat down. She ignored Kate. She also ignored the story that was clearly written by some know-it-all prankster. \n\nJordan continued to frown as her eyes moved across the page. \n\n-\n\nSo, what is this all about? What did I – a simple witch of your neighbourhood – do to your water supply? Oh, it’s funny - laugh out loud funny if you will. A few drops of this, and few sprinkles of that. My mixture bubbled below my bed for three weeks of putrid pleasure, until it turned sweet. \n\nThe sweet scent of pleasure filled my room on Wednesday morning. \n\nThursday night I had it skilfully injected into your plumbing. \n\nYes.\n\nYOUR plumbing.\n\nPutrid plumbing pleasures \nBubble Below n Beyond \nThe tingly toes that turn \nAre weakened by the witch’s pond \n\n-\n\n“Guys,” Jordan murmured at first, “guys I think this is legit.” \n\n“No, it’s not.” Belinda rolled her eyes, “what did they ask for? Money? Is it blackmail again?” \n\nJordan was certain that she’d understood the very last paragraph correctly. She slammed her laptop shut. The tightness in her throat gripped her. It became hard to speak. It became hard to think. It wasn’t blackmail, not at all. \n\n-\n\nSo, which one of you is my Jordan? Your name is irrelevant, but your acceptance of truth is the same. Let me tell you a story about the little boy who drank from the witch’s pond. His toes tingled and his soles burned. He consumed only a single sip – and this was all that it took. \n\nHe went to sleep that night, completing his usual routine. He brushed his teeth; he combed his hair. The wooden floorboards creaked as he neared the edge of his bed and then leaned down habitually. His hand smoothed underneath his tattered mattress and the stolen gems poked back at his fingers. \n\nOne, two, three – he would count them out – then hop into his bed dropping off into slumber. Those gems he protected with his life, sharing with none. Stolen from his brother, who died shortly after - of the plague. If only they could have afforded a doctor! The family exclaimed. Yet the gems remained tucked away. \n\n“One, two, three.” The witch gave a giggle, counting his toes out while he slept. “Wakey-wakey little toe boy.” \n\nHe could shake his head and pull at the sheets – yet his eyes shot open in defeat. He noticed something strange. He could not lift his arms and could not move his legs. He was frozen in place, completely paralysed, but not quiet dead. \n\n“Tic Tac Toe,” the husky tone of the old hag sounded, “who’s my weak little boy with the paralysing toes?” She gasped playfully, her hook nose sniffing the air, “Oh no, little Joe, I’m going to GET you there!” \n\n“W-what’s happening?” The boy trembled with eyes darting in all directions, “W-why can’t I”- \n\n“Move?” The witch finished his sentence for him. “Oh, dear child, you drank a drip of the wicked sip and now your toes are mine.” \n\n“What?” The boy dribbled confusion. \n\n“So long as you live, if ever a witch catches you by the toe… you will be stuck, and you will freeze.” She held his big toe, so tight he yelped. The clapping of her shoes travelled towards the side of his bed. “Oh, and if you are caught by not one but TWO witches… dear oh dear, whatever will you do?” \n\nShe reached up and tickled his knee – forcing a pained laugh and plea for release. The hag licked her lips and cackled skyward. Her leg swung over the bed, and she let herself be saddled atop his shins. That toe grip unyielding at first, she tutted before she spoke, “let’s see how ticklish these little toes can be for a wicked old witch shall we?” \n\nHer nails scratched and stroked those toes mercilessly. Milliseconds of movement were gifted back to the boy as her fingers lifted and clawed and lifted and clawed. The laughter emanating from the boy came in boughs. Tears dripped down the sides of his humiliatingly-fear-filled-cheeks. \n\nFor every helpless whimper the boy shrieked, the witch felt her body respond. Oh yes, she was younger. Oh yes, every giggle and bark removed a wrinkle and tightened her grip. Mmm, the sound of each note turning back the clock was delicious to her. \n\n“Oh, I do love getting toned.” She felt the last stroke of youth overcome her before dashing quickly out the door. The boy regained motion and pulled his legs up tightly to his chest, shaking all over from what had just occurred. He was shamefully distressed, what magic was this? \n\nLittle did he know that the witch would return night after night. Catching him by the toe, retaining that youth which would sweep away as the hours ticked by. Night after endless night, somehow finding him no matter how strategically he hid. His whole life feeding the witch, and who knew that laughter was a witch’s best medicine? \n\n-\n\n“I’m going home,” Jordan gulped, noticing her toes were still tingling oddly at the thought. \n\n“Okay,” Belinda approved, “did you finish that story?” \n\n“Yes.” \n\n“Do we all need to read it?” Kate made a scared look, feeling creeped, “let’s just say we did? Bel?” \n\nBelinda considered for a moment, “I really like this other submission, it had a potion that gave everyone super confidence and the characters were pretty funny.” \n\n“Jordan?” Kate looked over at her co-worker for further input. \n\n“I think this one is the winner, but if you two decide otherwise that’s okay. I don’t feel well.” She left the room suddenly. Belinda and Kate exchanged glances. \n\n“Well, that settles it,” Kate shivered, “I am NOT reading that story. My vote goes to the confidence potion thingy.” \n\n“Alright that’s the decision then.” Belinda turned her computer off and began to pack her bag. Both girls left the office, glad to note it was Friday and the weekend was theirs. \n\n-\n\nExcept it wasn’t theirs. \n\nOnly by a gift of value – a prize, a gem, a treasure – will a witch release you from a potion of putrid proportions. \n\nJordan, my Jordan, the one who read until the end. The one, whose name does not truly matter, offered a prize and would be free. \n\nAll else who refuse, or deny this notion, just ask yourself are those toes tingling from my potion? Be warned! You may not have died, and blackmail is for mortals and scum. \n\nCurl your toes my sweet. I’ll be seeing you, \n\nTonight will be fun." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Bibliophagist's Magic Shop\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1309\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a magical bookshop." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Ever since the new Wal-Mart opened by the interstate, there wasn’t much for us to do except throw rocks at the old sock factory. Someone tried to get an Anklebiter football team going, but no adult we knew had the time or inclination to volunteer—since working the night shift at Gas-N-Go takes a toll on a body. \n“Maybe your stepdad could coach?” I asked Marcus.\n“Nah. All he does is smoke and fuss at the dogs. Besides, I don’t think he’ll be around much longer.” \nMarcus had been my best friend since I could remember. He’d had several stepfathers, each one meaner than the last. But the latest version was tolerable, and families in our town were flexible that way. \nMarcus and me had an assortment of older siblings who worked fast food, snuck beers from the fridge, and ignored us entirely. We both had sad-eyed mothers whose beauty had faded in high school and cantankerous grandparents who complained that we should be in church. There were many places we wanted to go—but church wasn’t one of them. \nWhen Marcus and me rode our bikes downtown to Dollar General, we saw a banner along the way, strung across a papered-up storefront. The remaining tenant in the strip mall, Bailey’s Bail Bondsmen, had shuttered, leaving only a small convenience store that had overpriced candy, dented cans of soup, and dirty bathrooms. \n“What’s the second word on that thing? Can you see it?” Marcus asked, pointing to the banner.\n“Of course I can see it,” I said, squinting at the huge yellow letters on the sparkly black background. “It says: The Bibliophagist’s Magic Shop — Coming Soon.”\n“That sounds like a weed shop. You think it’s gonna be a weed shop?”\n“If it is, your sister will be first in line,” I replied. Marcus punched me in the shoulder as hard as he could—deservedly so. \n“Bibliophagist! That sounds like devil stuff.”\n“I don’t think so. They’ll probably just sell marked decks of cards and loaded dice and sleight-of-hand tricks. Maybe smoke bombs or Chinese finger traps? Definitely not devil stuff.”\n“Well, it’s not God stuff. God don’t need magic.”\n“What do you think miracles are?” I sped off, the early fall leaves scattering in my wake.\n🜋 🜋 🜋\nA few weeks later after school, we biked downtown to see if the magic shop had opened. From a distance, it appeared the banner had been taken down, and the storefront now glittered with a dazzling display of lights, illuminating grinning skulls and stuffed crows and large cutouts of playing cards. \n“C’mon!” I yelled to Marcus, as we pedaled faster. \nThe strip mall looked spruced up, with curbs newly painted and trash cans lined and upright. We skidded into the alleyway and propped up our bikes against the brick wall. \nAt the entrance to the magic shop, we paused, looking at each other.\nWas this devil stuff? \nShaking off the heebie-jeebies, we opened the front door, a tinkling bell announcing our arrival. \n“Gentlemen.” A tall woman appeared. Her hair was stark white, combed back into a tight bun. She wore black clothes and red lipstick. “We’ve been expecting you,” she said evenly. “But then again, we expect everyone.”\nWe looked around the room and strongly thought about leaving as quickly as we'd come. However, the room was oddly welcoming, in its own unnerving way. Painted a deep scarlet with black trim, the room boasted framed pictures of all sorts of men and women, names etched in gold lettering. There were cozy couches and high-backed chairs and assorted tables, angled to ensure one’s privacy, with cozy lamps on side tables, inviting one to linger longer. \n“This is a magic shop?” I cautiously asked. \n“It is,” she replied.\n“It don’t look like magic,” Marcus frowned.\nThe woman turned. “What do you think magic looks like?”\nWe both pondered her question. \n“Well,” I replied, “magic makes things special. It makes the impossible possible.”\nShe nodded in full agreement. \n“Come with me.”\nThe tone in her voice made it impossible to do anything but follow her down a few aisles, stacked with books of all shapes and sizes. When she got to a certain place in the stacks, she spun on her heel and stopped. She held up her hands, high overhead. \n“Right now, pick any place in the world that you would like to be transported to,” she commanded. \n“Egypt!” Marcus cried out. \nEgypt? Of all the dumb places, I thought. If this magic witch was going to send us someplace, he could have picked Disney World or Mars or Acapulco. \n“I want you to close your eyes,” she firmly instructed.\n We did. We heard her rustling around, but we were too nervous to peek.\n“Ready? Now open your eyes in one—two—three!”\nWe opened our eyes to see picture books showing majestic pharaohs, sacred tombs, tightly wrapped mummies—even the Great Sphinx!\n“Is that King Tut?” Marcus whispered, outlining the boy king with his finger. He seemed lost in his own reverie, far away from the magic shop, far away from our small town. \n“Yes, it is. This is a translation of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. If you want to read some magic spells, there are lots of them in here. Who knows? They may help you on your own journey through the afterlife.”\nMesmerized, Marcus became lost to me, 6000 miles away in the Valley of the Kings.\n“That ain’t magic,” I scoffed. “It’s just a bunch of old books.” \nShe arched an eyebrow, and I felt cowed by her disapproving silence. \nShe finally spoke. \n“Where do you wish to be right now?”\n“Nowhere,” I said, flopping down on an overstuffed chair. \nArms crossed, rubbing her chin slowly and thoughtfully, she carefully considered me. \n“If I could conjure up someone from the past for you to meet, who would it be?”\n“That’s easy,” I said. “Babe Ruth.”\n“Ah,” she grinned. “The Great Bambino. The Sultan of Swat. Close your eyes and I’ll see what I can do.”\nI did as she asked. \n“Ready? Now open your eyes in one—two—three!”\nWhen I opened my eyes, it was springtime, the sky a dazzling baby blue under a perfect yellow sun. I stood on a baseball mound wearing a New York Yankees uniform. \n“Hey kid, you going to throw me a ball?”\nMy jaw dropped. Babe Ruth!\nWhen I looked towards the dugout, I saw other ballplayers file out, each coming over to shake my hand. Ty Cobb. Willie Mays. Ted Williams. \nAs I turned the pages of one book after another, I listened to my idols banter with each other over slugging percentages, No. 42, The Iron Horse, and Rick Monday rescuing the flag. I sat wide-eyed, as they lamented the end of chew, dip, and snuff on the field.\nWe played catch for hours while they showed me how to pitch and when to choke up on the bat. \n“Boys,” she announced. “It’s time for the Magic Shop to close.”\nIn an instant, Lou Gehrig, Stan Musial, and Mickey Mantle disappeared in a cloud of smoke.\nI found myself sitting on the floor with a half dozen books around me. \nDazed, Marcus carefully closed one of his larger books. He’d been staring at the floorplan of the Great Pyramid of Khufu for a good twenty minutes.\n“Can we come back tomorrow?” he asked. \n“Of course,” the older woman replied, escorting us to the door. “And bring your friends.” \n🜋 🜋 🜋\nOn the way out, Marcus and me saw a white van with the logo for “Highland County Public Libraries” on the side. When it pulled in front of the magic shop, two people hopped out to unload bins of books from the back.\n“Bibliophagists are librarians?” Marcus wondered. “I thought it was devil stuff.”\n“Not devil stuff,” I replied, mounting my bike. “Miracles…”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Virgin\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 2719\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the phrase “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Asantewaa washes her face three times after brushing her teeth with charcoal and the petiole of a banana plant. \nShe then turns to Ama, who stood there with her hands folded, just watching her mum finish brushing before she can talk. Because she was scared to interrupt her authoritarian mum. \nAsantewaa: Aha? What is it… \nAma: I got my period today.\nAsantewaa: Haaa? Really?.....\nAsantewaa triumphed as she took her daughter to the bathroom and washed her, putting on her waist, wrist, and neck new shiny drips. And took her daughter to the Queen of their Village\"Asempa (good news) Village\"\nShe danced her way to the Queen and told her the good news.\nQueen Esi:\nWow, who would have thought she would ever menstruate? (she chuckled)\nAsantewaa:\nAfter twenty years of waiting for my daughter to menstruate.\n\nAsantewaa danced her way to the Queen and told her the good news. \nQueen Esi: \nWow, who would have thought she would ever menstruate? (she chuckled) \nAsantewaa: \nAfter twenty years of waiting for my daughter to menstruate. \nQueen Esi: \nSo she got her period at thirty-four? I will initiate the (bragoro) puberty rite tomorrow because of her condition, I will do it for her alone. She is old and needs a partner quickly, she can't wait for the next rite. I will talk to the chief priest if it is permissible to do that. \nAsantewaa: \nThank you \" Nana Hemaa”\n##\nThe next day was Ama’s happiest day, she passed the virginity text and swallowed the cooked egg without biting. White cloth wrapped around her waist with her breast exposed to the public. She walked through the village dancing to the beat. Which shows she is ready for marriage. The people watch her in disbelief. \nKobi eyed her romantically since they had been dating for years, and he can't wait to marry his woman. \nEverything went successfully. \n##\nThe next sunrise, Ama went to her Mum’s room to greet her. She then picked up her pot to fetch water from the stream. On her way back from the stream, the Queen and her maids came. She stood on the left side of the road and lowered her body and bowed her head as a greeting to the queen. \nThe Queen smiled and tapped Ama's back with her peacock fan as an appreciation. She inscribed the maids and they gave Ama and the Queen space to talk. \nQueen: \nI was delighted when I realized you were a virgin. You did well in keeping your virginity, and If you were able to keep your virginity for thirty-four years, then I hope that you will be the right choice of a woman for my son, Prince Kofi. Your father and his father were good friends. Until they both died on the same day through a tiger attack in the forest when they went tiger hunting for our festival. \n(Tears filled her eyes)\nAfter all, they died bravely. And I have changed the law now we hunt for life deer. Maybe this story will let you know how important you are to me and the people. So please think about what I said about my son. \nAma nodded. And the Queen went away with her maids. \n##\nAsantewaa gloried on hearing the news. She danced in front of the house shaking her buttocks and facing Ama. Ama was sitting on a small chair and staring angrily. \nWhat is the purpose of your face? She asked after her dance. \nAma: \n Maame, you know very well that I'm in love with Kobi. And we have been dating for so many years. I can't give up on him. \nAsantewaa: \nEwuo! What is wrong with you? How many times have you been eating ampesi with pepper? Don't you want to eat it with Kontonmire stew and koobi plus eggs? Do you want to avoid making your mama proud? Get out of here! See the way she is walking as if she is about to lay eggs...\n##\nAma went to Kobi’s house, to tell him about the news. Kobi looked extremely disturbed. He looked down with his finger on his lips for a moment and broke the silence. \nKobi: \nI will never let Prince Kofi take\n you away from me. I will do anything in my power to stop this. How can I let a Coca-Cola-shaped fine girl like you just slip through my fingers?\nAma: \nYou can't fight against a Prince, Kobi. No matter how hot your temper is, it cannot cook yams. \nKobi: \nI don't care!!! I must do something, let me handle it. After all, Rome wasn't built in a day...\nAma: \nWhoever sells eggs do not start a fight in the market, I will find a way to solve it. Please leave it to me… \nThey hugged and went their ways.\n##\nLazy drone!! Pound the fufu well, you eat the most when it is ready but you feel lazy to pound!!\nAsantewaa keeps fighting with Ama whilst pounding the fufu with a mortar and pistol. \nAgoo! Agoo! \nPrince Kofi and his guards knocked their way to the house, Prince Kofi greeted, took the pistol, and started pounding the fufu. \n“Oh, Oh, Nana, let her do it, she can. \" Asantewaa chipped in. \nP. Kofi: \nOh maame, you are my mother-in-law, she is my wife-to-be so if I do, I do it for my family. \nAsantewaa smiled proudly, monitoring her daughter's reactions. After everything, Prince Kofi, Ama, and Asantewaa sat around a table and the guards also sat around a different table, and they enjoyed the fufu. \nPrince Kofi washes his hands whilst Ama was gathering the utensils and Asantewaa was holding a piece of cloth standing beside the Prince waiting to wipe his hands. \nP. Kofi: \nI came here to know Ama’s decision about our proposed marriage. \nAsantewaa: \nShe has accepted Nana, she loves you, and she is going to marry you. See how beautiful she has grown and is a virgin. She is ready at any time. \nP. Kofi: \nGreat, since she is grown and ready to marry. I would love to marry her next week. \nAsantewaa held his foot, \"Bless you, Nana, even if it was tomorrow we would prepare for it. Thank you, Nana, we can't wait for next week\". She said.\nPrince Kofi grinned, he turned to Ama and he opened his hands wanting a hug, from Ama. Ama stood quietly trying to distract, herself to reject his hug but Asantewaa gave Ama a fierce stare which triggered Ama to hug Prince Kofi, while she was hugging him, she spotted Kobi from far who was gazing angrily holding a sack bag, he threw the sack bag along his shoulder and walked away. \nAma felt uncomfortable after the hug \n“Ama see Nana off,” Her mum said proudly. \nAma and Prince Kofi walked silently and no one started a conversation, so Prince Kofi broke the silence in the middle of the road. \n\"Thanks for walking me off, and tell your Mum I enjoyed the fufu,\" he said. Ama turned to go then, Prince Kofi held her hand. \n“ I know it is not easy accepting me in your life, my mother loves you so do I who wouldn't be happy marrying a virgin at thirty-four? And I will always try my best to make you happy and win your heart…I won't stop trying to win your heart, as I always say, Rome wasn't built in a day…” he said. \nAma didn't reply to him but smiled silently and walked away. \nShe went to Yaa’s house. Yaa was grinding leaves for her father because her father is a spiritual herbalist. Ama sat beside Yaa. \nYaa: \nSo what's up with your Prince charming?\nAma: \nOh come on, I hate what's happening in my life. Do you know how my Mum is happy about it? I think the Prince only wants me because I'm a virgin. \nYaa: \nYet still, you can let Kobi break your virginity and the Prince wouldn't get a reason to come after you. \nAma: \nEei, God forbid, I am not doing that it will never happen. But find me a way to let this all go away, do you have any concoction to give to my mother so that she loves Kobi instead of Prince Kofi? \nYaa: \nHaha no, but my father has a small horn, buried under the ground in his bedroom. I heard him discussing with my Mum. He said a dwarf gifted it to him when he went hunting one night, that time he was a young boy. And the dwarf gave it to him to give to a virgin to blow it, that virgin will disappear to the land of virgins, which is like heaven. And he will get plenty of animals to catch. So he gave it to his sister to blow, after blowing she disappeared and didn't return, well, I hope she is enjoying it that's why she never returned. So, if you think u hate your life so much, I can borrow you the horn, so you can visit the land of the virgins, and tell me how it feels. \nAma: \nWell, why don't you go visit the land if you think it's like heaven? \nYaa: \nHmm, I'm sorry to tell you that I'm not a virgin. After my puberty rite, Kojo broke my virginity by saying he would marry me, but he didn't, instead he married Mansa. It makes me sad anytime I remember. \nAma: \nOh sorry, well guess I will try your idea and see. \nYaa went inside and dug the horn out. \n Ama: wow. \nAma said with her mouth and eyes wide open, because the horn was made with gold and diamonds, and it was shaped like the shell of a slug. Yaa wrapped it with a black rag and hand it to Ama. \n\"Don't let anyone see this,\" Yaa cautioned. \nAma took the horn home and hid it under her pillow. \n##\nDarkness approached. Ama lay on her mat with her tummy facing the top. Her eyes couldn't hold up so she started dozing. \nSoon Kobi broke the door, entered, and squeeze-raped her. Ama shouted his name many times, but Kobi wouldn't mind her. \nAsantewaa entered and splashed water on Ama’s face. \n“ Stupid girl!! You even mention that good-for-nothing boy’s name in your sleep, stop shouting his name, so I will have peace of mind to rest at this time of the night”. Asantewaa roared. \n\"Oh, Maa!! \" Ama said as she sat on the bed confused. \nAsantewaa walked out angrily, still murmuring insults. \nYaa sat thinking about the dream she just had. \n“ What is the meaning of this dream? Or is he planning to? Hmm, then I think I should visit the land of the virgins, so he wouldn't come to meet me if he is planning to. What should I do? My Mum even hates me around, so is better I go, and she is going to miss me and apologize to me”. She thought. \nAma took the horn, uncovered it, blew, and vanished.\nShe went to an unknown land, and she found herself amid and in countless busy people in daylight. She walked slowly and was confused about where to go. \nA small girl approached and shouted, \"We have a new virgin\" \nEveryone turned to her looked at her with mysterious looks and continued their work. \nThe girl held her hand and led her way to the palace. She was served all her favourite foods, and she was surprised how they knew what she wanted. Her favourite songs were played, and her favourite dress was gifted to her. She was served like a Queen. And she loved it. \n“Oh Yaa, why didn't you introduce to me your world earlier” she whispered and lay down to rest. \nShe woke up again, and the food was ready her favourite songs were playing and a maid was fanning her. She smiled and ate, danced, sing, and took a nap again. \nShe did that over and over again, and she realizes it never gets dark. A maid came to serve her bread and corn porridge, then Ama asked, Why doesn't it get dark? And don't you sleep? \nMaid: \nBecause here is a…….. \nA very loud drum interrupted, and it was very loud that it drew Ama’s attention. Ten maidens entered and started dressing Ama in traditional clothing. \nWhat is happening out there… why are you dressing me… where are you taking me… \nShe kept asking but no one minds her. \n“You will be sacrificed to feed our God. “ Okukuseku” only loves virgin blood, and there is no virgin here in our land so you are THE VIRGIN!” the leader maid chipped. \nAma: \nSo you mean the girl who brought me to the palace is not a virgin? \n(she said in disbelief)\nThey all roared with laughter. \n“Not even a newborn” one answered \nAma: \nWhat! \nMaid 2:\nEvery father breaks their newborn to save them from being sacrificed. Ok, it's time. \nAma tried begging them to help her escape but no one cared. \nAma couldn't believe her eyes when she saw numerous people gathered waiting to witness the sacrifice, the same busy people who acted like there is no time for anything apart from what they do. They were waiting to witness the sacrifice \nAma was laid on a tomb-like stone. The King said an incantation and raised his sharp stone carved like a knife. \nStop!!!!!\nPrince Kofi roared. \nMy Prince! Ama shouted happily with her eyes wide open. \nPrince Kofi moved and the crowd paved the way for him. He had a shiny necklace which made everyone scared to fight him. \n\"Kill her before he gets here!! \" the Queen shouted. \nPrince Kofi immediately pointed his magical horsetail at the King and he fainted on the ground. Everyone stepped back. \nThe Prince stood beside the stone and said. \n“ Ama, since you have not fully accepted me as your lover, can I have your permission to be your friend and save you?” \nAma: \nAre you kidding me? Even if you are my enemy, I would've said yes! So stop joking and save me from these witches!!. \nPrince Kofi smiled and held her hand took her from the stone, and blew his horn and they disappeared to Asempa village and into the palace. Ama hugged Prince Kofi in tears. \n“I promise to love you until my last breath” she, said. \nPrince Kofi hugged back. \nAma: \nBut you look older what happened to you? \nPrince Kofi: \nWhen was the last time you checked in the mirror? \nAma: what! \nPrince Kofi gave her a mirror, she looked in the mirror and saw that she looked old. \nPrince Kofi: \nYou stayed there for ten years. \nAma: \nWait… what. How come.? \nPrince Kofi: \nYou went to the spiritual world remember, and a day there equals five years here. Yaa didn't know the horn was two, she should've given you the other one to blow back home. \n\nShortly, Asantewaa entered the palace with tears and hugged Ama. \n\nAsantewaa: \nWhy did you leave me all alone? I don't know what I would do if I ever lose you. Don't ever play this game with me again.\nAma cried in tears of joy.\n##\nThe next morning. \nYaa and his father came to apologize and they were forgiven. The high priest chanted and the horn disappeared for good. \n##\nYaa and Kobi were married with four kids. Two girls, two boys. But Kobi was ashamed to look Ama in the eyes. Ama also felt sad for wasting her ten years.\nWell, the next week was Prince Kofi and Ama’s marriage ceremony. And it went successful. \nAma and Kobi held each other when they arrived in their room after the ceremony. \nAma: \nSo you wasted your ten years just to save me? \nPrince Kofi: \nYeah, I was scared when Yaa’s father told me you would die and the only way to save you is to waste my ten years. But I followed my heart. \nAma: \nI appreciate how you sacrificed your time for me. You did everything possible to win my heart and well, you did. \nPrince Kofi: \nYeah, as I always say…. \nAma: \nRome wasn't built in a day… \nThey both laughed and lived happily. \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 Power of Possibilities\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1005\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story involving a magical potion — which may or may not work." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Once upon a time, there was a young woman who was desperate for a change in life. She had been feeling stuck in a rut for months and was growing increasingly frustrated with her situation.\nOne day, while walking home from work, she stumbled upon an old apothecary tucked away in a small alley in her neighborhood. Intrigued, she decided to take a closer look at the shop. Inside, she found all sorts of strange and wonderful things. She noticed a dusty old bottle filled with a mysterious blue liquid. The shopkeeper, an old man with a twinkle in his eye, explained to her that it was a magical potion that could grant any wish she desired.\nThe woman was skeptical, but something inside her made her take a chance. So, she bought the potion and eagerly took it home. The woman followed the old man's instructions and drank the entire bottle. She waited anxiously to see if the potion would work, but nothing happened. Disappointed, she went to bed that night feeling worse than before. But the next morning, when she awoke, she was amazed to find that her life had completely changed.\nShe had a new job, new friends, and a newfound sense of purpose. She realized that the potion had worked, it had just taken some time for the magic to take effect.\nHowever, she soon noticed that her life was not exactly what she had wished for. Everywhere she went, she was followed by strange creatures and beings. She began to realize that the potion had granted her not only her wish, but also a connection to the magical world. The woman was amazed and intrigued by this new world that was opened up to her. She embraced the magical creatures and began to learn more about her newfound powers. She eventually discovered that the old man had known about her true nature all along, and had given her the potion as a way to help her embrace it.\nThe woman was thankful for the old man's kindness and for the magical potion that had changed her life. She never forgot the lesson it had taught her, and she used the power of the potion to help others in need. From then on, she was a changed woman. She was happy and content with her life, and she never looked back. She explored the magical realm, learning new spells and honing her craft.\nShe quickly grew in power and soon found herself being sought out by powerful wizards and witches for her special skills.\nThe woman used her newfound abilities to help those in need, protecting the innocent and stopping evil forces from doing harm. She grew in popularity and eventually became known as a powerful witch, respected and admired by all who encountered her. The woman never forgot the old man and the magical potion that had changed her life. She was thankful for the opportunity he had given her, and she was determined to use her powers for good.\nThe woman's story became legend, and she was remembered long after she had passed on. She was an inspiration to many, and a reminder that magical potions can work wonders if you are brave enough to take a chance.\nYears had passed since the woman had consumed the magical potion and her life had changed forever. She had embraced her newfound powers and was now a respected and powerful witch, admired by all who encountered her. However, she soon found herself longing for more. She wanted to use her powers to help those in need, but she felt like she could do more. One day, she received a mysterious letter from the old apothecary she had visited all those years ago. In it, he told her of a new potion he had created, one that would grant her even greater powers. He asked her to come to the shop and try it for herself.\nThe woman eagerly accepted the invitation and made her way to the shop. Inside, she found the old man waiting for her. He explained that the potion he had created was a powerful elixir that would give her the ability to control the elements. The woman was hesitant at first, but she knew this was her chance to do more good in the world. She accepted the new potion and drank it.\nThe woman was amazed at the results. She found that she had gained the ability to control the elements of nature, and she could use them to help those in need. She used her newfound powers to fight evil, to put out fires, and to bring rain to the parched lands. The woman traveled the world, using her powers to make a difference wherever she went. She eventually gained a reputation as a hero, and she was admired and respected by many. Years later, the woman eventually returned to the old apothecary's shop. She thanked the old man for all he had done for her, and for believing in her when no one else would. The woman continued to use her powers to help those in need, and she eventually retired from her travels.\nShe settled down in a small village and opened a magical shop of her own, where she sold potions and elixirs to those who were brave enough to try them.\n----\nSUMMARY\nOnce upon a time, there was a young woman who was desperate for a change in life. She stumbled upon an old apothecary, where she bought a mysterious blue potion that could grant any wish.\nShe drank the potion and her life changed overnight. She soon discovered that the potion had granted her a connection to the magical world, and she learned to use her newfound powers to help those in need.\nYears later, she returned to the apothecary and thanked him for believing in her. She used her powers to make a difference in the world and eventually retired to open a magical shop of her own." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Girl Who Returned\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 2979\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “Back to square one.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I was told, once, I cannot remember by who, that the luckiest thing that could happen to us is to die old amongst family and friends. Whoever told me that was right.\nA long time ago, I was a high school senior with no plans for life after graduation, only a list of maybes and didn't-wants swirling in my head. Now, at two hundred and thirty-seven years old, I was the greatest hero this world had ever known. I've slain dragons, ruled a kingdom and faced the Unspeakable Evil. Who could say they've lived such a life? How many on earth could claim such a feat?\nI thought fondly of the memories.\nFamily filled the room and though I didn’t know all of them by name, it still filled my soul with joy to see my lineage, to see all I've accomplished, the fruits of my accomplishments, here with me at the end. \nI beckoned Heldera, my last child, forward, her cane gently tapping on the tile floor. She took my hand in hers. \nShe was wrinkled and soft, her nails a pale white, her skin sallow when it was once a golden-brown hue, but her smile and those wonderful amber eyes were as bright as they were on the day I birthed her.\nShe squeezed gently as her son pulled close a chair for her to sit.\nMy tongue weighed heavy in my mouth, struggling to form the words. But as if reading my thoughts, her gaze softened and a familiar smile spread across her face. She was one of my favorites, and for good reason. \"I used to hate you for how you treated us,\" she began. \"But now that I have children of my own, I understand. You knew that one day you wouldn't be here to protect us, and you wanted us to be brave, to be strong, to survive in a world without our mother, Kaira, The Slayer.\" She nodded, a single tear streaming down her face. It hurt to see her like that, looking so much like me.\nShe leaned forward, her voice a mixture of emotions. \"We all just knew you would be the last to go. You always had more life in you than all of us combined. But it seems I got the last laugh,\" she chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief.\nHeldera then leaned forward and lifted my hand to her lips. \"Thank you, mother. For all that you have done for our realm and for our world. We’ll take it from here. Let the youngins do what they will with what you left them.\"\nHer voice cracked, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. \"Go be with Father and the others. Tell them I'll be with you all soon enough, I’ve got some things I need to take care of first.\"\nI took a deep breath, closed my eyes and let go. My spirit left my body. It was a familiar feeling. This wasn’t my first brush with death, but I was thankful for it to be my last. I had lived long enough and was tired and ready to put life behind me.\nAs my spirit soared into unseen realms, my vision blurred. The ethereal light that surrounded me was warm and golden, casting its glow as far as I could see. Somewhere in the distance, maybe it was all in my head, I could hear what felt like a singing, a choir similar to how the songs sung in gospels on Earth. That was a bit amusing. I glanced over my shoulder to see the land below me move in a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors, like swirling stars in an ocean of energy. A potent force surged through me, driving me towards my just rewards.\nJust as I was about to completely surrender myself over, an intense pulling force yanked me back to the present. The vibrant colors, sensations, and lightness vanished as if a vacuum sucked them away, replaced by the heaviness of reality.\nMy eyes snapped open, and a sudden rush of breath filled my lungs, leaving me gasping for air. Making sense of my surroundings, I noticed that I was in a familiar room. A bedroom to be more exact.\n The room was dimly lit, with the faint glow of the streetlights outside filtering through the closed curtains. Outside I could see the sun slowly beginning to rise.\nI was in my old room, the one I had back on Earth. The walls were painted a soft blue, and my old posters and decorations still adorned them kept just the way I left them. My bed was the same one I had slept on as a teenager, with its well-worn comforter and fluffy pillows. The air felt different too, less humid and fragrant, with a slight chill from what I could tell was the AC.\nI sat up, my still heart racing and got out of bed. I motioned toward the window, pulling back the curtains to peer outside. The street was empty and quiet, with only a few passing cars in the distance. It all felt so surreal, like a dream. But as I looked down at my hand on the curtain, I saw the three wedding rings still on my finger, given to me by the three different men I had each given a piece of my heart to over the centuries and I knew then that this was all too real.\nA chuckle escaped my lips before I could stop it. It wasn't a funny kind of laughter - instead, it was a strange sort of understanding. I had been robbed. Cheated from my afterlife. I would never see my husbands, friends nor my children again.\nI wanted to scream, but I knew better than to do that. It would only wake my parents and I was ready to see them. Not like this, not when everything was so fresh. But as I stood there, staring out at the empty street, something shifted in the room, a pressure change. \nI spun around to see a man leaning against my dresser. He didn’t seem to be much older than I was, but that didn’t really matter all that much. \"Pardon my intrusion,\" the youthful figure said in a voice that seemed to transcend reality. His eyes met mine, and he gracefully inclined his head forward in acknowledgement. \"I didn't mean to startle you.\"\n\"Who are you and what are you doing here?\" I asked, my tone shaking slightly. But as I stared at him, something clicked, and years of honed instincts flicked online.\nHe wasn’t human.\n\"What are you?\" I added, taking several steps away from him.\nHe looked the part, but that wasn't saying much. It’s not hard for creatures to assume the shape of a human, we like to think we're the apex evolution, the most highly complex lifeforms in existence and yet this man did have an ounce of mundanity about him. He was far too beautiful, his hair too straight and those eyes…there was power in those eyes, no sadness, lust, anger nor hope, just plain amusement and power. \nThese were the eyes of a god.\n\"I am an Auditor of Reality. In charge of making sure your world stays in balance with the terms of agreements of our creator. The Creator. The One who fashioned Something From Nothing\" he said with a light cough, shaking head as if slightly annoyed by something. Though he had spoken it all smoothly enough that I’d almost believe it hadn’t been the start of the most insane thing I had ever heard. \"I apologize for barging into your personal domain, especially after you had just gotten back from your incursion, I'm here to warn of this world, your homeworld’s impending doom.\"\nI couldn’t help but to stare at him. I've met my fair share of powerful beings, dragons, gods, demons, whatever and I never really liked any of them; they always found a way to make it sound like what they were doing was for the greatest interest of all and an \"Auditor of Reality\" just sounded like another fancy term for a god. \"What are you talking about?\" I asked. \n\"I understand if you're hesitant to believe me,\" he said, a note of sympathy in his tone. \"But at least try and hear me out. I have humanities best interests at heart.\"\nSee what I mean? They always said to lure you in before clasping on the shackles of their terms of service and the next thing you know you’re blah, blah, blah’s herald. Champion who gives a fuck. I had done it all before and I wasn’t doing it again.\n“Hard pass.” I deadpanned. The Auditor blinked at my response, evidently not expecting me to refuse. “You were the one who placed me in that other world weren’t you.”\n“Yes, I was. There were quotas I needed filled and I-”\nI held up my hand, stopping him. “I don’t care about all that. Take me back.”\nThe Auditor blinked again. “You want me to take you back? You understand that you died in that world, right?”\n“I don’t care. I had loved ones waiting for me in that life. I had friends, husbands, and children. I’m not doing all that shit over again. I’m not your playtoy you get to order around. I’m nobody's bitch. Say Earth’s about to be destroyed? I say let them have it. We’ve had good for far too long and have done next to nothing with it.”\nThe Auditor’s lips curled into a smile of amusement. “Don’t you think you might be being a bit biased?”\n“Perhaps,” I sneered, folding my arms. “I was seventeen when I left. I’m two hundred now. I think I’ve earned the right to be picky, don’t you think? Now take me back.”\nHis smile slowly faded as he processed my wor. “What did you say? How long did you say you were in the other world?”\n“Two hundred and twenty years, give or take a few years. I might have lost track.” I shrugged. “Why?”\n“You were only supposed to live in that world until you died of old age.”\n“I did die of old age.” Another goofy smile, one that showed a row of perfect white teeth popped up. I didn’t like that smile, so he covered it with a hand. “What?”\n“You weren’t supposed to live that long.” He said, beginning to pace back and forth through my room. His eyes began to glow an ethereal blue and thought to himself. “The path you lived is all wrong. You and the Demon Lord, Kasilrius were supposed to both die in your final battle and in the event of your death you were supposed to be transported here so that we could have this conversation, but you’re telling me you lived another two hundred years until you died of old age?”\nI gave him a confused look, not exactly understanding where he was getting at. “Yeah?”\n“Fascinating. You somehow deviated from the projected model.”\n“Which means?”\n“Kaira, the probability I placed of you ever defeating Kasilrius and surviving was 0.0013 percent. If I believed there was ever chance of you surviving I would have altered it so that you’d return home.”\nI didn’t like those words. I found myself fidgeting with one of my rings. The one my first husband gave me. The husband who died taking a blow that was meant for me so that I could kill Kasilrius. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but a voice, robotic in nature, like those automated messages you hear when you're on hold, spoke inside my head. \"Dear Citizens of Earth. You have failed the minimum requirements necessary to retain the autonomy required of a free, intelligent species. It has been determined by The Reality Control Bureau, or RCB, that humanity is no longer an endangered species. Earth is no longer in a prohibited zone. Open season may now begin. If there are any concerns, please reach out to your nearest Auditor for additional help and further clarification.\"\n“What the fuck was that?” I asked rubbing at my temples. It never feels good to have some intruder inside your mind, but having someone play an automated message is definitely just as bad. I’m sure I heard someone scream nearby, but I had more pressing issues to attend to.\n“That was what I was trying to warn you about. I had hoped you’d have a few more hours, maybe even days. Perhaps they sensed my interference?” The Auditor curled his finger under his chin and began mumbling to himself.\n\"Ok, let's say I'm convinced, but why come to me? Why do any of this? I have no power here on Earth. You sending me to another world just to bring me back to square one and expecting me to save the world is a bit of an insane stretch if you ask me. Magic doesn't exist on Earth.\"\nThe Auditor stared at me, his amusement never leaving his face. \"First, magic does exist, it exists in almost every world. It's a fundamental force of reality, like what you humans call gravity. It's just that your leaders have kept it well hidden from the masses.\"\nI rolled my eyes. \"Of course, they did.\"\n“Plus, I wouldn't say that you don't have any power here. Consider this life as more of a new game plus,\" he said pointing a finger towards my wedding rings. \"Try summoning that old sword of yours.”\nI looked down at the rings on my fingers, turning them over in my hand. I hadn't even thought to try summoning anything since I'd arrived. If the Auditor was right that would mean...\nI closed my eyes and focused, picturing the weapon in my mind. It had been so long since I'd last called upon it, but the memory of its weight and power came flooding back to me. I felt a surge of energy through my body, and then -\nA burst of bright light filled the bedroom, and when I opened my eyes, I was holding my old blade, Soulrender. I never liked its name; it wasn't exactly something you'd see a hero wield and yet I couldn't think of a more accurate title for a blade capable of ripping souls from their body. \nThough you could hardly call it a sword, not in a traditional sense, it was more like a sharpened slab of stone with crimson veins running through it that flowed like molten lava. It also had a metallic scent, mixed with hints of smoky sulfur and scorched earth. It was heavier than I remembered and, yet I could still feel its familiar, almost corruptive power coursing through me.\nThe Auditor nodded approvingly. \"I cannot give you back your old strength. Too many alterations to your reality and my superiors might simply opt at your complete annihilation rather than a simple culling. Any skills you gain from here on out will have to be earned, as you had learned before and just like before you are also not alone. There are people like you as well as beings from other realities who do not want your world to be destroyed. You'd be wise to find them if you wish to save your family.\"\nThe Auditor reached a hand towards the door. \"Also, I am not forcing you to do anything. I've seen your life and I understand. I’m not one to judge if you simply were to get back into bed and go back to sleep and let things progress naturally. Your people will fight back and they will survive. This has all happened before. This is certain. However, whoever survives, these days matters just as much as who dies. I hope to see you again in the future.\" \nAs soon as he left the room there was a pressure pop in my ear. Screams engulfed my ears, as my father bursted into my room. He was dressed in night clothes, having been woken up from his sleep by the message I assumed everyone all over the planet had heard. “Kaira? Are you ok? Did you not hear me knock!”\nHe asked as he rushed over to me, pulling me into a hug. He hadn’t even noticed Soulreaver in my hand, nor was I the one who was about to tell him. I hadn’t seen my father in centuries. I had no words to express my shock. \n“Baby, did you hear that voice as well?”\nI took a moment to respond with a slight nod. “Kaira, I need you to listen to me, don't be scared.”\n“Where’s mom?” I asked, peering towards the doorway.\n“She’s packing the car. We need to go now. The news says the city isn’t safe anymore and that we need to leave. Grab a bag and stuff it with clothes, food, anything that is essential. Do you understand?”\nI nodded my head. Not exactly knowing what to say. The roads were going to be packed, but we didn’t have time to argue. My dad gave me a weak smile and cupped my face. He gave me a look I easily recognized, but I had given it to my own children the eve of a battle. It was the look you gave someone when you weren’t sure that you would ever see them again. He quickly left the room and ran down the hallway towards his office presumably to get his gun.\nI stared down at my weapon, Soulreaver, and felt a sense of calm wash over me as I gripped its hilt tightly. The crimson veins on the blade pulsed ominously, yet I was unafraid. The world could burn for all I cared; my family was my only concern. I would do anything to protect them." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Coffee dates\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1979\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “Back to square one.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Ok, I’m ready. We can do this.” I whisper to myself in the mirror after reapplying my mascara, I take a few steps back to examine my whole outfit in the full-length standing mirror in the corner of my living room. A pile of clothes on my bed and a few mental breakdowns later I decided on a black bodycon maxi skirt, white cropped tank top, my favourite black oversized denim jacket, and go-to white sneakers. Mental note: I need to buy new sneakers. Another white pair or maybe black Converse… we’ll see.\nI look appropriate for a casual first date I guess. I do another spin and adjust my skirt at the back obsessing over small things like am I wearing the right bra with this top.\nStop it. You look fine. We can do this. We are ready.\nI keep repeating this in my head whenever I feel like I'm going to spiral and chicken out of this whole thing. My head is not a good place to be right now.\nI pull my braids into a loose bun on the top of my head. My phone vibrates on the coffee table with a new incoming message and I'm filled with nerves again. I take a deep breath and check it. It’s him.\nHi, I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.\nI stare at the text and smile because, despite all the nerves and anxiety, I always like hearing from him, talking to him, and thinking about him. There’s always that part of me that gets excited at the thought of me and him becoming something.\nI was sitting at my usual table next to the large windows at the library doing some research for my assignment one afternoon when a tall, good-looking stranger stood in front of me with a hand resting on the chair opposite me. With a laptop bag hanging on his shoulder and a coffee cup in the other hand.\n“Hi, do you mind if I sit here?” I blinked and looked around. There were a few empty tables around the library and it was quiet with only a handful of people around. \n“Um..yeah sure… I guess you can sit here if you want.” I had a few books and papers on the table along with my open laptop that I was working on. He pulled out the chair and sat as I was clearing my stuff from the other side of the table so he could put down his things. I was a little annoyed that he chose to sit here when there were other spots to choose from. I didn’t appreciate being disturbed while I was deep in research work.\n“Thanks. Sorry, I know you must be wondering why I'm invading your space when there are plenty of tables to choose from. Well, I like this one, I like looking out of this window and just watching the people going by plus it’s directly opposite my favourite coffee shop right there.” he pointed outside the window to the shop. He turned his attention back to me with an apologetic smile. I guess I could tolerate his presence for a few minutes. He can’t be that bad if he likes the same spot as me.\n“No It’s fine, I don't mind. I’m almost done here anyway.” I said and smiled back at him then I went back to my typing.\n“Here, you can have this as a peace offering.” he pushed his large coffee cup to my side of the table and opened up his laptop. I just stared at it. “Please take it. I already had two cups of coffee today. I'm afraid I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I drink this one too.”\n“Thank you.” I picked up the cup and brought it to my nose. The coffee smelled so good I couldn't resist. I took a sip.\n“It’s a cappuccino, double shot.”\n“My one weakness then. Thanks again, God knows I need it.” I glanced up at him and he was staring at me with hazel-green eyes that made me strangely nervous. I went back to my research of the greatest playwrights. I’d been trying to find one to write about in my assignment for two hours now. \n“What are you working on anyway?” Mr distractive stranger asked, his eyes still on me.\n“Assignment for my class.” he picked one of the books I had on the table and examined it with a raised brow.\n“A play?” he asked.\n“I’m researching famous playwrights, I need to write about one.”\n“Ok. Do you need any help? I'm really good at researching. I mean I google everything I can think of. Just tell me what to search for.” I looked at him puzzled at how he just offered to help me with my assignment when he just met me five minutes ago.\n“What. why?” I finally asked.\n“Because I have time and I like helping beautiful strangers with their schoolwork” He smirked as he started typing on his laptop not even looking at me. He called me beautiful. What?\nI just continued to stare at him dumbfounded. He had short black curly hair and dark thick brows knitted together in concentration. Sharp jawline and broad shoulders and those eyes.\nOh my God, focus.\n“I found a South African one you might be interested in.” he turned his laptop to show me the Google search. “I’m Brandon by the way”\n“Oh my God you brilliant stranger, this is so good. Thank you.” I said excitedly, scrolling down the pages.\n“It’s Brandon” he chuckled. \n“Yeah, yeah ok Brandon nice to meet you. You are literally an angel sent from heaven”\n“And you are?” he asked hazel green eyes pinned on me. \n“Yolanda”\n“Well, Yolanda you can thank me by going out for coffee with me tomorrow or whenever you’re free from the shackles of literature.” That made me smile but I felt something weird in my chest as my heart started beating fast.\n“Um... I don’t… I’m really busy these days with work and classes. I don't think I…” I was speechless. I don't get asked out much because my default answer is always no. and I’m always alone and busy in public places, guys are probably scared to approach me if they are even interested. \n“It’s fine you don’t have to say yes today.”\nBrandon kept showing up at the library on random days and sat across from me with a cup of coffee and sometimes accompanied by a muffin or scone. We would do our work and chat, sometimes sitting in silence only sneaking glances at each other. He would ask me out and I’d come up with an excuse not to. He would walk me halfway to my apartment on days we left the library a little late. Hanging out with him kept me out of my head and made me less anxious. It was a welcome break until I finally caved and said yes to a coffee date. \nI saw Dr. Petersen earlier that morning and told him about my date in our weekly therapy sessions. He asked me how I was feeling about the whole thing and I told him I was nervous and anxious and slightly nauseous. The usual feelings whenever I was going to do something out of my comfort zone. He has been encouraging me to try and get myself out there and face my fears for the past year since I started seeing him. I have so many fears I don’t know which one I should conquer first. Intimacy, vulnerability, social interaction.\n“I’m glad you are making progress Yolanda, it's really good. ” he said as he leaned back in his chair, eyeing me carefully. “Tell me about this guy, Brandon you said his name was. What’s he like?” I shifted in my seat trying to think of something to say.\n“Well, he is very funny and kind and really sweet in a very nauseating way sometimes” I let out a nervous laugh and he just stares at me all serious and formal. \n“He’s been a really good friend to me these past few weeks. Um.. very patient with me and just nice.” I continued.\n“How do you feel when you are with him, just describe the feelings to me as simply as you can.”\n“I feel… comfortable. I feel at ease sometimes like… I don’t have to worry or overthink about what to say or do next.”\n“Okay…” he nodded and continued. “Have you talked to your father since the last time you saw him?” wow! Where did that bomb come from?\nI shifted again as my palms started to feel sweaty. I took a deep breath and let it out. He knows I don’t like talking about him and he hadn’t brought him up in a while.\n“No. I have not spoken to him since then.” I said as calmly as I could. \nMy father and I have a rocky relationship if we can even call it that. I blamed him for my mother’s death since he was the one who broke her beyond repair until she overdosed on pills and alcohol. He was physically abusive to her for years when he was drunk and sometimes when sober too. She was so in love with him though, she never left him even when I begged her countless times. Well, he left her when he got sober and “worked on himself” but she was never the same after that, she got depressed and started taking lots of meds and I had to take care of her until well…\nI last spoke to him over a year ago when he just showed up at my aunt’s house for her birthday dinner when I specifically said I didn’t want him there if I was also invited, said he couldn’t miss his sister's fiftieth birthday when he was so comfortable with missing my birthdays when I was young or he would just show up late and drunk and ruin everything.\nHe cornered me in the kitchen trying to apologize for God knows what because the list of his transgressions was endless and frankly I didn’t want to hear his stupid apologies. I was so angry and triggered by the whole thing that I had a full-blown panic attack and couldn’t breathe until his sister asked him to leave. \nThe more I waited the more I got anxious about my date with Brandon. I wasn’t ready to change the dynamic of our new friendship into something more as much as I wanted to.\nYou’re fine. We can do this. My mantra that I kept repeating as I paced back and forth in my tiny living room. You can do this. We can do this.\nI keep trying to convince the stubbornness in my head but I'm losing the battle. She really is gonna ruin this for me again. Ugh!\nDr. Petersen's words from previous sessions keep playing in my head\n“Learn to embrace change and adapt.”\n“Vulnerability means losing control.”\n I don’t like being vulnerable and I certainly don’t like losing control. It's one of the main reasons I don’t drink.\nDammit!\nI texted Brandon back\nHi, I’m so sorry something came up at work. Can we reschedule? sorry again for the late notice.\nI feel horrible. I anxiously waited for his reply as my stomach turned to knots.\nPlease don’t give up on me.\nI jumped at the vibration in my hands.\nAll good. Next time then.\nI can feel the disappointment in his text but at least there’s hope for next time. Relief filled my lungs as I let out a huge sigh, apparently, I’d been holding my breath this whole time waiting for his text. I really thought I was ready for this. I hope I don’t die alone in this apartment." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Gray Matters\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1125\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who discovers something while raking leaves in their neighborhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Two pairs of eyes fixed on each other, neither blinking. One set, bright and blue, are full of life. Those eyes stare purposefully. The other set, not quite so bright or blue, are hollow and drawn and stare without choice. \n\n“Robert, what are you doing?” The familiar voice shatters the silence and ends the contest in a draw.\n\n“I don’t know Grandma,” Robert answers as he attaches himself to the old woman’s leg. \"I was outside raking leaves and I saw Grandpa in the window. He seemed to be staring at me so I ran inside to see what he wanted.”\n\n“He was looking out the window at you? That's so neat. You used to sit and watch him rake leaves for hours. Do you remember?”\n\n“Yeah, I think so. Maybe he was watching me like I used to watch him. I tried to talk to him but all he did was stare. I thought maybe he wanted to have a contest.”\n\nThe idea catches the old woman as unexpectedly funny. She chuckles, but only for a moment. “No sweetie, Grandpa Edgar isn’t trying to win a staring contest,” she says as she picks up the young boy. “He is just searching his mind for memories.”\n\n“Searching his mind? What does that mean?”\n\nThere is no good way to explain Alzheimer’s to a eight-year-old boy, but she instinctively knows it is a grandmother’s duty to try. “Come over here and I’ll tell you,” she says motioning for him to join her on the comfortable chair. The rocker, placed in the room to allow the old woman to spend time with her husband, is just big enough to accommodate a grandmother and her favorite little boy. He jumps into welcoming arms then settles down next to her. “You see, Robert, your mind is like a house.”\n\n“A house, grandma?”\n\n“That’s right. It’s kind of small when you are young. You don’t have many memories so you don’t need many rooms.”\n\n“What color is it?”\n\n“I don’t know? What color do you want it to be?” she responds with a grin.\n\n“How about gray?”\n\n“Gray it is.” She smiles. His choice is perfect. “Now where was I?”\n\n“My house is small because I’m little.”\n\n“Yes, that’s right. You have rooms for eating and sleeping, and another one for playing.”\n\n“And a room for you, Grandma.”\n\n“I hope so,” she responds as she tickles him a bit before continuing. “As we get older, we need to build more rooms.”\n\n“Why?”\n\n“Because we need a room for friends and one for school, and maybe even a room for a pet.”\n\n“Can I have a dog in my house?”\n\n“Robert, that’s up to your mom and dad.”\n\n“Okay, but what about Grandpa? Why does he need to search for memories?”\n\n“I was getting to that,” she says, enjoying his questions. “You see Grandpa has been building his house for a very long time. It has more rooms than you can count.”\n\n“Like a mansion?”\n\n“Yes, exactly, a lot like a mansion. He has rooms where he goes to remember his mom and dad and rooms for all his childhood friends. He has rooms for the horses he used to ride on the farm where grew up and rooms where he visits his friends from the army.”\n\n“Why doesn’t he just go and visit them for real?”\n\n“It's not as easy as it used to be. When you are young, all of your friends are close, sometimes within walking distance. When you get older, like Grandpa and me, your friends scatter to the winds. Many of them exist only in your memories.”\n\n“So, some of Grandpa’s friends can only be found in his mansion? In his memories?”\n\n“That’s right.”\n\n“But why does he have to search for them? Why are they so hard to find?”\n\n“Your grandpa’s memories are a lot like leaves in a strong wind—they blow quickly by and then they are gone. He can only see them for a few moments.”\n\n“Like candy wrappers?”\n\n“Candy wrappers?”\n\n“Yeah, last Halloween I filled my pockets with candy and went to a special spot at my school.”\n\n“You went to school by choice?”\n\n“It was Saturday, Grandma. Saturday is when school is cool.”\n\n“Good point,” she says smiling.\n\n“My school is practically in my backyard, and on Saturdays, there is no one around. There is a large cubby where I can hide. It has brick walls on three sides, and when it's blowing, the wind spins everything in a circle, kind of like a tornado.”\n\n“A tornado?” she says, pretending to be afraid.\n\n“It’s not really a tornado, but when I let one of the candy wrappers lose, it spun round and round.”\n\n“That’s a room, Robert. You built it for a very special memory. Did you try to catch the wrapper?”\n\n“No, I just watched it until mom called me in for dinner,” he answers matter-of-factly. “What memory is Grandpa looking for?”\n\n“I'm not sure, Robert, you see your Grandpa’s house—”\n\n“His mansion!”\n\n“Yes, you're right. Your Grandpa’s mansion is not only very large, it's also very old. Sometimes as things get older, they don’t work as well as they used to.”\n\n“Like my first bike. I loved that bike. My mom said I was too big for it, but I rode it until it broke.”\n\n“It’s a lot like that,” she says, as she gives the little boy a hug.\n\n“Grandpa Edgar loves his memories like you loved that bike, but it’s getting harder and harder for him to find them.”\n\n“Does he remember me, Grandma?”\n\n“You are one of his favorite memories. When you were born, from your very first day, he called you Pumpkin.”\n\n“That was him? I remember being called Pumpkin, but I couldn’t remember by who?\"\n\n“It was your Grandpa, Robert, and when he stares at you, I know he is searching the rooms of his mansion, trying to find those memories, trying to find his Pumpkin.”\n\n“I think I understand now, Grandma. Should I stare at him some more—will it help?”\n\n“I’m sure it would,” she replies, as she starts to get up from the chair. “But right now it’s time for some lunch. How about bologna and cheese? That was your dad’s favorite.”\n\n“Ok, Grandma, ” Robert responds, taking the old woman's hand to lead her to the door.\n\n“Pumpkin.” The voice trembles, but the word is clear. The two of them turn to see a smile on Grandpa Edgar’s face, his eyes, the windows of his mansion, are now bright and welling with tears.\n\n“He found me, Grandma!”\n\n“He found you, Robert.”\n\n“And the tears? Are the tears like rain at his mansion?”\n\n“They sure are, Robert. Gentle rain and joyful tears.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Back to Square One\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1012\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “Back to square one.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Back to Square One\nShe taught everyone who desired to learn… anything using needles. My mother loved to sew and embroider because of her. Crocheting was our thing. Grandma Rainey’s favorite saying was, “Get back to square one.” It makes sense that her only published book be named Back to Square One. Not only did she sew, do needlepoint and crochet, but she was the “Knitting Queen.” She was so knowledgeable about the subject of yarns. If someone came to Grammy with questions about how to get started, she’d ask up to five questions:\n1) What do you want to make?\n2) When do you need it?\n3) What colors?\n4) Is it for function or decorative?\nAnd most important\n5) Do you know how to knit or crochet?\nRarely did she hear a confident YES, or one that convinced her that the lady in front of us knew how to honor the crafts that she loved!\nI was 10, glued to her side, and a sponge. I also lugged around a tape recorder to capture every lesson she gave.\nIf they wanted to learn crocheting, she’d charge them $6 for a crochet hook, four skeins of yarn, and $7 for knitting. Knitting needles were more expensive because they were the most popular. She would purchase the necessary resources to get started. She said four skeins of yarn were enough to hook those serious and frustrate those who hated the process. She realized some people didn’t know how intense learning a hobby could be. I just think it was Grammy’s boot camp teaching method.\n Their first lesson was to roll the skeins into a ball. Lesson two was how to begin a chain. If they made something out of the four skeins, Grammy would accompany the student to the Yard Bazaar, Grammy’s favorite place other than church. They would also receive an invitation to the advanced class into the inner circle of the Quilting Ladies’ Club.\n This club was exclusive. Most of the members are grandmas who have been quilting for over twenty years. Some have been doing this craft for over five decades. These good-hearted women love sharing their wisdom, tricks, and the small world of quilters with the younger generations. The club members meet at each other’s houses every week.\nGrammy, a quiet person, only sings Hymns when cleaning or on Sunday morning while cooking breakfast before church. When they come to Grammy’s, she puts on her “high-society hat,” one of her Sunday dresses, and lays out a buffet spread. My cousin Lisa and I were allowed to attend the lunch portion of the day, but we were banished to the back bedroom no soon after we ate our last cucumber finger sandwich. Lisa and I giggled as the conversation died down and turned to cackles. From the sound of the glasses clanging, Grammy broke out the Blackberry wine she keeps in the vegetable crisping drawer.\nWhen the Quilting Ladies Club met on the first Thursday of every month, they discussed church business and planned the next quilting project. They have knitted stocking caps for newborns at Greensville Memorial Hospital in Emporia, Virginia, and Halifax Memorial Hospital in Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina. There were six ladies from Emporia and only four from two different counties in North Carolina. It was six and six, but they lost two members in May 2016. They hadn’t looked to replace their friends.\nThat was seven years ago…\nWe lost Grammy in 2021. She passed in her sleep on the very day of her 100th birthday. Cousin Lisa and I have come to finalize her affairs and to sell this big house. Every time I visited this property, it still felt like that summer I tagged along with Grammy Rainey, trying to learn how to knit. I never mastered knitting, unlike Lisa, who loves to.\nI was ten, and Lisa was 7 when my mom let me begin spending summers with Grammy. We were wide-eyed and curious about everything. I enjoyed crocheting, and Lisa mastered knitting. The tape recordings of the many lessons we will publish as: Back to Square One in honor of Rainey Lee Arrington, better known as Grammy to everyone, even those outside the family. I was packaging up 75 years of memories… excellent and painful.\nPeople who benefitted from Grammy’s classes still approach me wherever I am to tell me their Grammy stories. I wasn’t aware that she started teaching these classes in the evenings after school because she wasn’t allowed to teach knitting or crocheting during her home economics class. She taught for thirty-seven years. When she became a teacher in the forties, the administration called crocheting and knitting frivolous. They were also afraid that women would use knitting needles as a weapon. She wanted young women to have valuable and marketable skills. This was a time when the mentality was that a woman’s place is in the kitchen or the bedroom, not in the workplace…so small steps!\nSomeone shared the story about how my grandmother became everyone’s Grammy…\nShe would stand up for you when she thought you needed a champion. She’d cheer you on. She would never yell, scold or belittle anyone. She would give you the shirt off her back and even give a kidney to a stranger. Gale admitted, “I would be dead had it not been for Grammy.” Your grandmother took in so many young women over the years. Some needed to escape abusive relationships. Some were homeless after being kicked out by angry parents for getting pregnant.\nNothing phased Grammy…\nAnyone that resided at 1640 Riverside was family from day one. That meant you were expected to be honest and productive and express your opinion freely. No past issues could keep you down, and no one could judge. Feeling sorry for yourself wasn’t accepted either. If you were school-age, you were expected to be enrolled and attending every day. If” you were in the family way,” you must attend childcare classes. Everyone was expected to learn to crochet or knit as a stress reliever…LOL!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: She is a Constellation\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1008\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where someone says, “Everything is changing.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It began, as many beginnings do, with light. \nA blinding, burning flame. A spark, an explosion, the birth of a universe. A question posed with cosmic certainty - she already knows the answer - of who \n are \n you? \nAnd you don’t know. \nYou don’t know what you are. \nBut you will. \n~~~\nWhere the beginning meets the end, there was a universe.\nA constellation of everything that ever was and everything that ever will be; imagine it. Imagine everything always all together running at you faster than the speed of light, imagine eons in a moment, time nothing but putty in her hands, billions of lives and stories are simply a stalled blink, imagine her. There is nothing to say and there never will be anything to say, she is the final word. She has created time and she is time, a force so magnificent she surrounds suns, her trailing gown an array of astronomical anomalies.\nShe looks at the small man she has made. \nShe is looking at you. \nShe looks at you and you see stars swimming, you see a grandfather’s grandfather looking down, you see a baseball, a child, a mourning son, festivals and holidays and a humanity that doesn’t exist yet; you see everything. You feel like you are everything. \nYour mind might explode; \nhow do you feel about this?\nYour perception of time has crunched itself inward like an accordion, twisting, tumbling, turning you inside out and she is still looking at you. The universe is still looking at you. It’s a horrible predicament you’re in, really, because you can't find it in yourself to look away. How could you? She is the beginning and she is the end of every story you will ever write and every word you will ever utter, and so how do you cope with staring into a black hole as she stares back? Do you grasp desperately for the handlebar of her hip? Do you flail for the forgiveness of a creature you cannot comprehend?\nYou are beginning to fear that this will never end, that your mind, previously empty and now full, will slowly gravitate toward the inevitable nothingness that is her, her arms already encompassing you. You can nearly feel yourself splintering with the weight of a heavy world, the acquisition of the knowledge that you exist. The burden and the gift of the memory of deaths that came before you, the double edged sword of the awareness of being. How will you do this? When does this end?\nShe has given you \n consciousness.\nShe tires of staring; she has made you a world to play in. \nIn what you perceive as an instant she blinks and you are hands-and-face down on earth and within the space of everything that has ever existed you have never been here. She looks at you, but you are not looking back. She folds her starry hands beneath her chin and perches delicately, waiting for you to discover what a wonderful thing you are, she applauds herself, smiling softly, you are wondrous. \nYour head is spinning and there are little ideas in your head that tell you so. You have spindly little things that can carry you forward and as you take your first steps she laughs with a jubilance that has never existed before and will never exist again, Saturn’s ring hanging from her heavy wrist like a bangle.\nYou ask in your jumbled mind, “Why, why have you given me this?”\nShe responds in the wind, a sprinkling of stardust.\n“Everything is changing, my love. So must you.”\nThe corners of her lips tilt towards her nose as a comet streaks across her blushed cheeks. She holds you so gently. She kisses you sweetly through the sunlight and you have never felt a warmth this pure and beautiful. You have never truly f e l t before this moment. It might swallow you whole.\nShe has given you a piece of a god-mind, an awareness of the cosmos no creature could hold and that you might not be able to, either. You are the first being that has shown the thirst to be something more, something new, something greater. You are the very first being she has taken an eye to. The entirety of existing time she has gone without a being who could talk to her, tell her stories, befriend her and appreciate her for the work she has done. \nNow, you are here.\nNow you are here to sway in her sunsets, to bathe in her beauty. Perspiration from the great effort of making all that is you creates oceans as sweat drips from her moon-laden brow. A wisp of a soft, stray hair churns into a brilliant storm on a nearby planet, red with a burning passion and adoration. She exhales stars through her mouth as she sighs peacefully, setting the sky alight with magic.\nShe tilts her head to the side, admiring you, and blinks; \nthere are many more of you, now. \nYou have discovered her trees, her fruit, her caves and creatures. You have discovered all that you can do with a mind such as yours. She watches you forage, farm, and with another blink she watches more of you invent things, sharpening her rocks into something entirely new. \nWith time she wonders if you know she’s still looking at you. If your mind was enough that you could talk to her, if you will ever know what it is to speak, if you will live and die and never care. She feels almost abandoned, and\n then\n she \n hears \n you. \nShe’s never heard your voice before. It is beautiful. It is magical and precious. \nYou have given her a name, and it’s not hers, but it can be. You thank her for the work she has done with your hands clasped together, gazing at her sky. She allows tears of shooting stars to spill down her cheeks as they ripple through galaxies. \nShe knows, now, that she is not alone anymore. \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: Lodi\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 2731\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “It’s hardly brain surgery.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trigger warning: this story has some elements that probably shouldn't be discussed in a church environment. There is definitely Gore if it is written correctly. Senior citizens with unnatural impulses. Corpses. There is also some sexuality about The Golden girls. It is a story about living and dying.\n\n.\n\n##############\n\n\n\nThere was a funny fellow in my residency at The John Mayo Clinic who had the terrible habit of misusing corpses. He was one of those recycling types of people – the ones who separate used tissue from unused tissue found in the rubbish containers. So this one day I hobble all the way into the morgue, holding my scrubs up by the waistband because I had lost my gut and Dr. Merrill is just standing there next to the cadaver, (as if he was going to eat hot ramen on her stomach), he hears me enter and throws the entire bowl of ramen at my head…\n\nCausing the tray of sharps to fall, my scrub pants to fall… it was very cold in there and I hadn't done any laundry.\n\nWe both froze before yelling at each other.\n\nFinally, Dr. Merrill admitted he was in the middle of saying grace when I interrupted his confessing certain longings to his creator and thought I was the devil coming to take his soul.\n\nWell, I had no comeback for that moment. I could not scold the man while standing in the nude.\n\nHe put on his glasses. \nStared ahead.\nAdjusted the glasses again.\nThen he started walking forward. First, he came in pace, ten great strides, and then he jumped in a slide to his knees and I nearly hopped out of the way…\n\n\nPop.\n\n\nThe exhilarating satisfaction of a doctor removing a sharps needle from the urologist's muse is nothing to remember or realize if you are thinking that you are being attacked.\n\nI tried to pivot but I lack muscle memory. No memories of pivoting. I am afraid that I was addicted to Saturday morning cartoons and never quite got that athletic award for attendance and showing up.\n\nSo this Doctor Merrill, he removed some needles from terrible places. I suppose I looked like a porcupine down there for I was not up to grooming standards. My dating life was not a priority while residing. Life saving must come before sensuality and all that.\n\nDoctor Merrill pops right up from his knees with a spent needle in his hand and says, \"What did you have in here?\"\n\nFor the life of me, I didn't know. \n\n\"How can you not know what items you are carrying? What are you? A moron?\"\n\nThis caused my psychosomatic-stuttering mouth to fail. I was grateful that the nosebleeds did not start because they are aggravated by stress and authoritarian figures. I wore the uniform of the hospital whites and I even had a plastic stethoscope around my neck to look appropriate to the staff. The fact was I was not actually staff. I was just a resident. \n\nThe managers chose to give me a cot in exchange for doing a little labor. They said if I became a good Medical Delivery Technician – that I might be able to graduate to waste removal or something very important like that.\n\nNow that I think of it, I was pretty much a drug mule: never being told exactly what pharmaceutical products I held in my trays. They did not tell me about the prescriptions or the patient's background and what side effects might happen if a needle hit me in the scrotum.\n\nI've already heard about HIPAA. This was not a privacy issue though. I mean the doctors always speak in Latin and I thought the Roman Empire had fallen due to broken hips. They are really just trying to distance themselves from average people who sleep on a cot in the basement of their local clinic.\n\nSo I say to this freakshow, \"HEY! Get off my jock, man.\"\n\nHe was already away from the offending region. I pulled my self-respect up to my waist again and held it there with two fingers acting like a clothespin. Then I used my other hand, which was free because it didn't have a tray, and I pointed the fingers of that other hand right into that doctor's face. I nearly tapped on his spectacles, yelling, \"I don't need you throwing hot ramen at me. \"\n\nHe apologized.\n\nThen he slowly admitted that his mother had just died. I guess the woman was not a very accomplished chef because the family ate Top Ramen all of his life. \n\nSome people eat this food to save money, some eat this food to worship their ancestors from Asia – Dr Merrill had to eat this food for 29 years because his mother never learned to cook and so no one could show him how to do something else.\n\nIt was very sad.\n\nI gave this poor man a hug. He got too close. And it really started to hurt down there.\n\nI wanted him to check out my situation but at some point I knew he was going to maybe charge me some money. So I was very scared. \n\nAt long last, with the fear of never being able to sit down again for the restroom, I asked the good doctor if he could figure out what was in the needles that stabbed me in the most private of areas.\n\n\"I mean… should I wear a condom to work?\"\n\nHe did not understand that my real job is to be the third line dancer for the Lodi All Male Review. It wasn't one of those dance troupes that had to be all muscley and tone. In fact most of our clients were people forced to stay at the geriatrics care facilities.\n\nYou must trust me that this is better than other Correctional Facilities.\n\nWe tried to do bachelorette parties for a while but that didn't work. We even booked a few homosexual parties but the guest made fun of the host (for being cheap) because the locals are very particular since we live so close to San Francisco. We were told that Northern California has standards in Male Review Dancers. We did not meet those standards.\n\nThis is why I asked the doctor if the needles would affect my job.\n\nUmmm…he didn't really want the back story. He just grabbed the piece of paper that came with the tray of needles and started reading all the long words. Then he sat down. Sat down on a stool next to a table with another corpse. He actually used the arm of that corpse to wipe the sweat off his head.\n\n\"This is very _not good_.\"\n\nYeah, that's cool. Some people have a way of just throwing around the \"not good\" phrase. He put down the paper and tried to look me right in the eyes… but I was starting to feel funny.\n\nHe said, \"Were you trying to have children?\"\n\n\"No man. I don't want to share my cot.\"\n\nThe doctor did not understand plain English.\n\nSo he said, \"Is there anyone in your family with a history of mental illness.\"\n\nQuackadoodle do?\n\nI figure everyone has that Aunt Shirley that gives them a book of Guinness Sexual Records for their 8th birthday party. I did not think this was strange at the time.\n\n\"We're all clear, Doc.\"\n\nHe asked if I often had trouble with the movement of the bowels. Again, I don't speak Latin.\n\n\"Homie say what?\"\n\nHe pointed to his buttocks and made the hand signal to show an explosion. \"Are you like that or…\" \n\nThen he just made a fist. This was supposed to be sign language about continents. Clearly he understood that I did not speak Latin.\n\n\"Oh…. I'm all good. Looks like you're trying to do me a solid.\"\n\nHe shook his head just like a grinning monkey.\n\nThen the good doctor went back to reading his paper and putting his elbows on the body of a dead person so that he could use their breasts as a form of book holder. It's sort of worked since the newspaper doesn't require a 45° angle. Newspapers are usually semi rigid. Basically, you just need the part that you are actually reading to be flat. The rest of the dead person seem to work good enough.\n\nI grabbed the large broom and started sweeping up all the sharps. I have the Doc Martin Boots and so I wasn't worried about getting my souls all messed up. My boots were featured on the movie called Romper Stomper where Russell Crowe would use the boot to smash people in the face. He was actually a Neo-Nazi before he started portraying angry people that do poetry and write on walls.\n\nAfter sweeping for a while and considering if I should mop up the slimy goo that derived from the broken needles on the floor that had made a puddle…I wasn't that worried about exposure to others because small cats and dogs were not allowed in that morgue. Dead people in California cannot pretend that their pet is trained in medical service. Even if the fake certificate from the internet says they are.\n\nThe clock said I had only 8 minutes to get ready for our 4:00 p.m. gig at Lodi Senior Center. It was Roberta Schulnasey's 83rd birthday and our dance group was going to shake her girdle.\n\nWe are \"Movers and Shakers\", the highest Google-rated Male Dance Review troupe in the the ten mile radius south of Galt.\n\n\n\n*\n\n\nSome say that the most important part of dressing for an All Male Review Dance Troupe is to find the perfect Speedo underwear. There are fellas who find animals with amazing noses like the elephant. Some try a boa constrictor theme and others go for fishnets. It's all about fish entrapment and wildlife management.\n\nMe, myself? I modified a baseball glove and a bunch of rubber bands. I mean the baseball glove had to be sacrificed by sawing off one of the fingers. I'm not going to tell you which finger because that's none of your business and you'll just have to just buy a ticket.\n\nWe have recently raised the admission to two dollars. Inflation.\n\n I attached the finger of the glove around my waist using the rubber bands. This is technically one of our under costumes. As the entire performance progresses into a Beethoven style enchantment — we undress in layers. This is an example of the Russian Nesting dolls in humans. The audience never knows how many layers we are actually wearing.\n\nI've had audience members go into full on facial strokes wondering if there was more. There is always more.\n\nNow getting the right music for a crowd that ate Moon Bars while John Kennedy drove a convertible; the crowd that has the average age of about 79.5, is sometimes a challenge. The hardcore rap makes wonderful dance beats but the audience ladies might get so offended that they are not very inspired to tip.\n\nI only go to work to get the tip.\n\nThis is another reason to always keep at least the rubber band belt: you need a place to put the tips that will remain sterilized. If you ever go into your local bank with 27 stinky dollar bills… you will see that it is legal to refuse United States currency.\n\nI did not know that.\n\nIt might be a thing that has happened since Covid. Maybe since the birth of Bitcoin. I cannot say — but Smithsonian magazine says that you can trade in your money that was burned in a house fire as long as you have 50.1%.\n\nSide note, back-alley pushers don't usually like those dollar bills with the tape in the middle. The dollars you ripped in despair and tried to use Scotch tape to make whole again. Some of dealers think that you are taping their fingertips.\n\nEnd of side note.\n\nSo I try to take some work money into the bank and be a good citizen. I am rejected as a good citizen.\n\nPeople are now able to reject legal tender. United States currency is not accepted if they smell dirty, have been used in the execution of crime. It can also be rejected if it smells too much like body odor.\n\nAnyhoo… we had the music, the beats, someone had put a drum machine down on some Billie Holiday. We were thrusting and hip-swirling to that song called Strange Fruit. I'm told it's actually about someone swinging from a hangman's noose on a tree in the American South?\n\nSo we were shaking our booties to an updated song about lynching. Yeah. it was really going swimmingly for the old white ladies. They were all pretty much on their last laps around the park.\n\nI mean some of them still thought they were players like that chick from Golden Girls named Blanche. You would get these nameless women with the hands that probably fondled off grandpa. They would put those Grandpa Loving hands ALL over your shoulders while you were trying to dance.\n\nIt's hard to dance with old lady breath on your neck. Some of them are pretty tall like Dorothy. I don't think that chick was born during the Great Depression – short people come from bad nutrition.\n\nSo I'm taking it slow to Billie Holiday…some people gyrate their hips clockwise…I go Australian and swirl my hips to the left.\n\nI put both arms behind my neck like a chicken in a package at Safeway under plastic.\n\nThe hands behind your neck are also like the tail of a kite. It gives you a certain straightness when the throngs of spectators try to woo you in multiple directions. You must stay straight to fly.\n\nMy baseball glove finger is staying close to its thigh. There's some little lady that looks like that Italian, Sophia-the-pickpocket, she's trying to snap my waistline like it's a brazier. We're not kids anymore and still she persists.\n\nThat is one of the bad things about having a rubber band belt as a tip catcher. When the frenzy customers snap your rubber bands some of the dollars might fall off.\n\n\n\nThey did.\n\n\n\nNow it's a completely reactive thing to stop dancing and drop down on the knees trying to get your tips. That is what work is all about.\n\nSo I'm down there groping a toe jam floor and trying to grab my Washington's before the other dancers stomp on them…\n\nAnd something bad happened back there.\n\nI mean I was all full of vigor and Hope and dreams and Taco Bell…\n\nAnd that mysterious liquid that I was delivering to the morgue.\n\nThe first thing I know is that old lady Blanche had to scream.\n\nThen super tall Dorothy start to look like she's holding her cheeks, Louie Armstrong style. People that suck on pipes or blow pipe get really big swollen cheeks like Louie Armstrong.\n\n\nYeah.\n\n\n\nThey hurl their contents like a baton. They cover the floor with chunks and exotic liquids.\n\nAnd this is when the other Male Review Dancers began to slip.\n\n\nWhat do you know?\n\nSophia comes over in the middle of our vomit twister party. She's trying to get a little pinch off of each of our cheeks. She's back there with wrenches and ratchets. She's giggling like she just stole some other lady's cat.\n\nI have the fear of sobriety in me because I don't want to lose another Male Review Job in the valley. People actually talk to each other and Yelp about it. \n\n\n\nWhen you deal with senior citizens they could have really angery lawyer children. This one time I was dancing for a gangster's grandmother…she had a coronary after watching the dance\n\n\n\n…Then the Stockton gangster came by and peppered my apartment building with something called a \"street sweeper\". It's actually just a machine gun outfitted with shotgun shells but it is really really scary. If you look in the side of your apartment building wall you will see a hole so big that you can put your fist through it.\n\n\n\nThe guy missed but I had to move.\n\n\n\nAnd that's what got me living in a cot at John Mayo Clinic. In Lodi. It is also the home of A&W Root beer." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fish haven't any Feelings\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1027\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone coming to terms with how different they are from their younger self." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My wife walks down the hall and asks me to put my hand in her pocket.\n\nI comply.\n\nShe's asking what the day has given -- more specifically \"If [I] know what [I] have been given?\" For all the fresh air, unlimited clothes drying on the line, and the beauty of a sand yard.\n\nUmmm... I try to tell her that I am grateful. \"I even collected the spiders (with a vacuum using your lingerie,) See?\"\n\nShe wants to see the jar where I put the spiders. It's a Vlassic jar that once housed salt, garlic, \"natural spices\" and pickles. \"That's good. That's very fine work, Lester.\"\n\nI left little air holes.\n\nShe takes me to the bathroom and adds bubbles. A rubber ducky comes out and we squeeze it together. For a minute, our hands clasp and we squeeze the yellow duck into a small and deformed version of himself. The yellow rubber ducky continues to smile and wifey goes for a fresh towel.\n\nI scrub behind the ears like a big boy. I'm not afraid to get my hair wet and lean back to where the water comes over.\n\nThen I'm in a Fallujah bunker, again. We are all supposed to pretend that we are corpses, back down in our own pits, waiting for the ear horn. There are no hills in parts of the desert. We had to improvise but the targets were late.\n\nNo one blares the ear horn. The volley of shots goes back and forth and then the enemy combatant takes fire moments after he has released the safety pin in his grenade.\n\nEverything goes boom!\n \"Does Lester need to make a boom boom?\"\n\nI get it. Can't quite control the things my mouth says and how my body moves. I'm in a head aquarium and just tapping on glass. It's a shock value for the body. Like the muscles and speech simply will go away. Just go away.\n\nMargarett has those hollow eyes, the ones that saw God in the night and can't explain the meeting on the hill. Or else she's sleepless. The Army pays better for bereavement and lost limbs. They can't quite put a number on Shell Shock. Her head is thicker than mine. I feel like floating.\n\nThere is no romance left when I try to pitch forward. A Registered Nurse for this situation is not on the menu. My dad said he would drive up from Arizona and do the duty. If I could feel it, I would want to die.\n\nHow does coffee still smell in the morn? Does it pry through the places that get hard in the night? Does it warm the gullet or scald the smile? I can't remember. Margarett is on double strength.\n\nFor fun, we drive over to the Veteran Affairs hospital at least twice a week. Since the national discussion of free health care and Hilary, I'm told that the Army doctors have gotten better. Don't know. No point of comparison for me. I got my Shell Shock late in life, 24.\n\nI think it's been five years but everyone has the same amount of candles after the cake starts looking like a battlefield. Those twisty yellow, red and white swirled candles? They look like dead guys that don't know they're dead. Half the people in combat who get shot actually stand for a few breaths of air. Some forget they were just candles and try to flicker.\n\nThe body is robust. The body is infinitely capable.\n\nMargaret passes me the remote but I am literally too stupid to realize if I want Sesame Street or the Wall Street Journal. Thoughts come later after the feelings. The mind needs time to adjust. The arms and legs do what they want to do. Sometimes I look like a happy seal just flapping.\n\nViktor Frankl once got random people on his therapist's couch and asked: \"Why don't you kill yourself?\"\n\nHe didn't hand them a gun or a knife He wasn't asking them if they were failures. Instead, he cut through the years of self-pity and asked 'What do you need to do in this life?'\n\nWake.\n\nI need to get out of this encasement, the fog, the \"L\" word. \"la.t..\" lad-n... latency? Yes. That is the correct word because someone said it aloud. Some time ago.\n\nI will remember my muscles\nI will complete all the stretches\nI will suck up any complications\nI will take care of her. My Margaret.\n\nI will\n\n\n*\n\n\nBaby like? Baby-ism. That \"I\" word is long. (infantilism.) That's me, a second round as a three years old. If Margaret could get the good times again, I know she would see the beauty in our arrangement. She always wanted kids.\n\nI'd take her dancing. She'd put her hand in my hand, instead of my hand in her pocket. We'd hit that prom-styled dance floor and just ignore everyone else. She'd look up into my eyes. She'd look up. To my eyes.\n\n*\n\nIt's really not Margaret's fault that she is a single mother wife. Like a good soldier she waited 4 years.\n\nIn fact, she still waits. The men have to come to the door because \nRegistered nurses do not babysit at $6 an hour. \n\nI think she's found a steady. He sells Oldsmobile and wants nothing to do with war. I like that he brings over Flowers, even if they are from a convenience store. My wife adjusts the volume to the television to be very loud.\n\nLoud is very good in this situation. Though it's only so pleasant to hear the familiar creak of the box springs.. someone is getting life.\n\nI am just so grateful when sleep comes. Even if there is a howling, tensive, anger — I know that Margaret will stop *whatever* she's doing. Because that's what a single mother wife has to do.\n\n\nShe rocks me to sleep and still waits 20 minutes to make sure it takes. She smells like a girl again. Her pleasant cooing is happy, alas. \n\nDo fish know that the ocean is so large? Do fish have any feelings before they get swallowed." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: ZODIAC\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 2601\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story containing the words “it’s the thought that counts.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I quietly followed my father into the forest in the middle of the night.\nThe rain was falling heavily and my Dad kept running, looking around as if he was expecting something to happen.\nI was only seven and I could hardly catch up with my Dad, since he didn’t expect me to follow him.\nHe sighed deeply, stood for a moment, and pointed the gun in my direction, but I hid at the back of a big tree as fast as I can. “A brave man never hides!” he shouted, but I stood as quiet as I could. \nHe shot three times until he was convinced that no one is after him. Before he could end the shooting, I have already wet myself.\nHe turned around with a few steps, then he saw a white panther, which is rare to find especially at night. He pointed the gun at it and gave it an easy three shots, and it died. He bent down with tears of joy, removed five teeth, cut the throat, and fetched some of its blood into his wooden bottle, he then cut the chest open, removed the heart, and put it in his sack bag.\nHe stood up thanked the gods and head back home. I hurried my steps in a different direction and ran back home before he could reach home.\n**************\nMy name is Zodiac, and it was given to me because I was born with twelve big black stars tattooed on my back. My elder brother Leo happens to be normal but afraid of everything even though he is 13. Our father who is a great hunter normally takes Leo through the tradition of practicing hunting at night, something I can’t wait for. My Dad is “Mr. Gemini” and my Mum is “Mrs. Aries” They make a peaceful home. And Nana is our grandmother, she could hardly see because of old age.\n\nChildren in the village do not play with me, nor hang out with me because their parents are not so happy with me around their children, am normally seen playing alone. \n\nSometimes my mother normally cries or becomes sad anytime Mr. Gemini returns from hunting, which I don’t understand because we always have enough meat and other food staffs that could take us a whole month to feed.\n\nWe live in a small village called (Suro Nipa) which is located in the country GHANA inside the West African continent. In my village, every young man is trained hunting since that is the work most men call brave, and my Dad is hoping to initiate us one day. \n**************\nThe next morning was a healthy morning for me since I believed I was brave enough to go hunting with my Dad without his knowledge. But my mood changed when my Mum served us fufu with light soup in the morning. “ but we shouldn’t be eating fufu this early morning, it should be tea with biscuit or bread, like the English do !!” I said with a frown face, but no one seemed to care. \nMy heart was filled with anger even though I had no choice. Mostly we eat together, but this time, we had our separate dishes. Mum prayed and we started eating. The table was quiet, and my body felt different around me, seemed everyone was quiet that morning and felt like something is happening or had happened without my knowledge. \nWell, I ate carelessly pretending not to care about their behavior. I ran my fingers in the soup to take meat only to realize it was the Panther’s heart! I threw it away and shouted uncontrollably “Why did u give me a panther’s heart?!” \nEveryone looked panicked and my question remained unanswered. \n\n“How did u know is a panther’s heart?” My Dad asked angrily.\n\nI got startled by the words stuck in my mouth “Answer!”\nZodiac:\nI followed you last night, so I saw everything by myself.\nGemini:\nHow come I didn't notice you? What if something bad happened to you, hah?!\n\nFather got more angrily and started slapping me on the back of my palm.\nNana took me behind her and started beating Father with her walking stick.\nNana:\nWhat did you do when you were your son's age? (she turns to me) All he ever did was steal meat in my soup.\nEveryone laughed. But rather looked disturbed.\nNana took me to the bank of the river at the back of our house.\nNana:\nWhat you did last night is exceptional. Your father has been hunting for a panther's heart since you were young. And thankfully he found some, and I think is because you followed him. The Panther felt your presence.\n\nZodiac:\nbut why is it so important for me to eat the heart of a white panther?\n\nNana:\nI don’t know but what I heard is something is not right about you, but if you want further explanation you need to visit the priest because he knows everything. A word to a wise is enough.\n***********************\nI headed to the priest's house but saw my father talking to the priest, I made a quick turn and ran to the back of the house. I hid there until they entered the room. It was a struggle, but I managed to climb onto the roof which was made with palm leaves, listening to their conversation.\n\nPriest:\n Zodiac did not eat the Panther’s heart, this is not a good sign, as the Panther’s heart is not easy to find. He must eat the heart for us to start the rituals, so he would be free from this curse!\n\nGemini:\n(Odeefuo, (high priest), I have tried so many times to get a white Panther’s heart for my son, I could hardly find it, my wife cries every time I return from hunting without the heart. Please I am stuck, I can not try anymore please help me find a white Panther )\nMy father bent down and held his legs\n\nPriest: \n(I will give you a white horn, and a parrot it will guide you in the forest, go tomorrow from 2 am-midnight, blow the horn three times, and bend down and praise gods name.)\n\nAs the saying goes\" curiosity kills the cat\" I moved further to get a peep at the horn, but unluckily the middle of the roof was softer. The roof broke, which made me land on the floor with my butt, “Ouch!” I cried\nBut my father and the priest stared at me with a surprised look. \n\n“Medaase Odeefuo\" ( thanks high priest) \n\nMy father said and grabbed me by the left ear and walked out to the house. Ouch!! Ouch!! Ouch, it hurts!! I cried to the house.\nMy father made me squat under the tree in front of our home, as a punishment. I squatted for a very long time and he entered the room to rest, Leo and Mum have gone to the farm to fetch foodstuff, so no one was around to plead on my behalf. And Nana wasn't around.\nMy legs were shaking, my whole body was covered in sweat and tears run down my cheeks. Nana came from the inside and sat in the corridor facing me, starting to eat groundnut soup with rice balls. She started eating like she was teasing me. I got angrier until I heard her saying\"The chicken is very sweet, your father brought a chicken that even talks\"\nI lay down in a burst of uncontrollable laughter.\nKnowing very well that she mistook the parrot for a chicken, because of her eye problem.\nSuddenly, my Uncles daughter ran the house as if she was being chased. Her name was Pisces. She looked panicked she started shouting. Our\nPisces:\nWhere is your father!…. Where is Father…. My father’s sheep have been attacked by wolves!!.. \n“My father is not around,” I said and hurriedly took my father’s bow and arrows thinking I would impress him.\n“ I am going to let him know I am not cursed at all, but I am special and brave, “ I thought as I followed Pisces to the sheep pen. \nI started shooting the arrows at the wolves soon half of the wolves ran to the forest and a few were injured and couldn’t move I shouted with joy.\nMy Uncle arrived with five men only to find out that I have done the job, he angrily grabbed my shirt raised me in the air, and shouted “What in the world were u thinking? What if were hurt or I don’t know…how can a seven-year-old…” \nHe threw me down on the ground and entered the pen, only to realize I have killed the wolves and fifteen sheep with my arrow. He bent down in the pen with tears. I felt very ashamed and ran into the bushes thinking my father would kill me today. \n\nI stayed in the bushes wandering about with my heart filled with fear. I doodled in the sand until I slept. I felt a tap in my dreams, I woke up to see Leo standing in front of me. He bent down in front of me...\nLeo:\n“Why are you sleeping here all by yourself?\" \nZodiac:\n“Am scared, Daddy is going to kill me today\"\nLeo:\n“But you are a hero, even if no one sees you to be a hero I do, it is your thought that counts, bet me, that's so brave of you, I wouldn’t be that brave if it was to be me” \nZodiac:\n“ But no one ever praised me, except Nana. I am always the bad guy, not to mention that everyone even thinks I am cursed!! Sometimes being surrounded by everyone is the loneliest, because you realize you have no one to turn to, I hate being me\" \nLeo:\n“ Don’t say that bro, your courage alone makes u perfect, but you know what? But remember \"overtaking is allowed but overspeeding kills\". So anytime you are doing something think twice and it will help you. Today you have to set the table and fetch the food from the kitchen to the dining table, I think that will change Daddy’s mind\" \n“Perfect!” I shouted happily and we chatted to the house. The moment I reached home I ran to the kitchen brought out the small table, placed it in front of the house, spread the lace on it, and swept the ground. I went inside to fetch the chairs, I came back to meet my father waiting for the chairs. My heart was beating very fast, he stared silently at me and he sat down on the chair.\n\nI ran to the kitchen again, my mum gave me the food, I was so desperate that I ran over our cat “Gye nyame” and I slipped and fell with food. This time around I sat on the floor, crying with my face buried in my palm. My Dad bent beside me to pat my back. \nGemini:\n“Son, I know it is not your fault, it is the curse u were born with, the twelve big stars at your back are not a good sign, they will always make u do the wrong thing all the time. I am going to get the white Panther’s heart for the second time, and this time, I will give it to the priest to do the rituals for you okay?” Now Nana has eaten the parrot so I need to go to the priest again.\n\nHe said angrily and we laughed at him.\n*************\nThe next morning, my father took me to the priest. I was wearing black boxer shots, without a shirt, he reached out the blood of the white panther, massaged my chest and back with the blood, and gave me some to drink. It was hard for the first time but it tasted normal and a little salty. To my surprise he brought the heart served on a silver platter uncooked!! “u must eat it raw, it works faster, and it will make u more powerful and spotless\" my father said, but he was concerned.\nI had to eat it, and that was the most difficult part I managed to eat it all. \n“Thanks to the gods!! Now zodiac is a new person!!” the priest said and started the incantations, my father repeated after him until he was done. He gave my Dad a necklace made of the teeth of the white panther, my father put on the necklace around my neck. “ You did it son” my dad cried.\nAnd Nana wouldn't stop kissing my cheeks.\n*************\nMy mum was very happy that she hugged me with tears. “dinner is on me, am going to make your favorite food!!” she said happily.\n\nDarkness approached, and we all sat down to eat and chatted peacefully. \n“Leo, you are going hunting with me tonight.\nNana:\nYou must follow them today. ( Nana whispered into my ear, and winked at me)\n************\nLate in the night, my father woke Leo up and they headed out. I took a bow and arrows and followed them silently into the forest, the forest was so quiet and dark. Leo remained close to Father because he was scared \n“You are doing the shooting today,” Father said and gave him the gun. They walked a few steps and Father told Leo to stay, he moved forward to a tree to fix his trap. While fixing his trap Leo stood full of fear, and couldn’t stop looking around.\nA giant black python from nowhere quickly wrapped itself around Father and started squeezing him. \n“Leo shoot!.... Leo shoot, please….Leo..” he kept saying as he was suffering. \nLeo was standing stiff and couldn’t move a muscle, he was so scared that he kept wetting himself until he dropped the gun on the ground. I angrily came out to the scene, Leo was so startled that he didn’t notice my presence.\nI took the gun up and shot continuously until the python let go of Father. I ran to him and my surprise, I shot him three times in the chest. Tears ran down uncontrollably and I didn’t know what to do to help him. \nI slapped Leo two times before he could recover from the shock.\nLeo helped rush him to the medicine man in our village. He treated him and did all he could but Father was not responding to good health. I stood outside crying to myself because I knew everybody is going to hate me again. I could hardly be seen around because I felt guilty.\n************** \nLate in the night, when everyone was asleep I entered his room to check on him, and apologize I cried and cried until I couldn't hold my tears anymore. \nI sadly turn around to go then. He held my hand and tore the necklace around my neck.\nGemini:\n“ All this while I was wrong….I was so wrong to know the son God gave me…I thought I have broken the curse.. but now I understand you weren’t cursed at all, but you are a young brave hunter God gave me, which I was blind to see. If you weren’t there, Leo and I will both die, thanks for saving his life, my little hero. It is not your deeds that matter son, it’s the thought that counts\" He died after.\nAnd Nana hugged me in tears.\n\n( Zodiac was having a good mind of helping his father, but ended up killing him by mistake. So is his thought that counts )" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Tate Family\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1263\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": "The Tate Family\nHas anyone ever asked for your help, then acted as if you were a nuisance? That is my co-worker Steven’s attitude on Thursdays when it’s time to count inventory. He loves to stand still with the clipboard, the inventory list, and a black pen and have you crawling over the materials to calculate the rolls and estimate how much thread is necessary for the rest of the week, month, and the end of the year. Instead of writing with a pencil because everyone knows you’re bound to find at least one or more items out of place and have to change your tallies. The boss doesn’t mind a little eraser dust but gets frustrated when the reports have crossed out numbers.\nSteven has worked at Tate Fabrics since the 60s before most bosses, co-workers, and computers. He has probably forgotten more than we will ever know and could still work circles around all of us. He lords that over us when any of the machines break down. The bosses don’t know how to fix them and must call the maintenance specialist if Steven isn’t working. This sets production back until the machine is back up and running. We make fabrics for draperies and furniture; ship them to factories like Armstrong, Lazy-boy, and Burlington.\nI was in school when I began on nights fifteen years ago. I was a factory worker until we went digital and computerized. I understand the codes and software as well as he knows the machinery. Primarily, I work 7-3 Monday thru Friday in the computer room until I have to change the run on Sunday nights. On Sundays, I come in at 3 pm and reprogram each machine for the week.\n I love my job because I don’t have to interact with the other people who work at Tate’s; unless it’s payday or inventory day. On Monday evening, I thread the payroll information before I leave to run after 11 pm. First thing on Tuesday, I change the paper in the printer to the pink check roll with the blue border. After the check roll is aligned, I hit the print button and watch checks for supplies, payroll, and dividends generated for people in-house and worldwide. Usually, about 1500 checks are printed per week but in December; the company rewards every employee with a 1% dividend check if you have been with the family for six months or more. I know you’re saying only 1%... think about it a million-dollar-a-month generating company. My first dividend check was $450, and I had only been there for eight months and was only doing work-study while in college.\nAfter my work-study evaluation, I was offered a permanent position in the Tate family. The company funds each employee to further their education and matches their deposit in a savings account twice a year. You could take the day with pay or work for double payment on your birthday. Back then, I was into music and would win the local radio contest so frequently that the DJ restricted my winning to once a week. When the ladies in the office next door to the computer room discovered that the DJ had limited me, they all agreed to give me their information to keep up the winning streak.\nThis was the 90s before ID thefts were prevalent, but they trusted me tremendously. It made me more nervous than the office pool. What if my winning streak waned? I would return the paper every day after the contest because I wasn’t the only computer tech that worked in this CPU room; it was obvious what they would have in their hands, and I didn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to steal or the chance to accuse me. The family trust was at stake! I guess I didn’t trust my office mate as much as they did me.\nMy thoughts were: if it crossed my mind, it probably crossed theirs too.\nMy boss once mentioned that he had passed by a radio in the factory during a contest with some executives from the corporate office and recognized my voice. He said the executives didn’t know it came from the CPU room. This information gave me a safe way to get out of the agreement with the office pool without revealing any trepidations. The family trust can remain intact.\nRumors that the Tate company was closing at year’s end had been circulating for two years, so people worried about it weren’t paying attention this time. The company has never just hit us with changes without warning before. We have a down period yearly, and the plant would close for a week or two. Usually, the bosses would tell us to take our vacations the first week. The second week would be justified as an upgrade to the facility so that maintenance and cleaning hours were divided between anyone who chose to work a few hours a day. Only a few people would work during the maintenance week. It was mandatory for Steven’s guys.\nThat was the only time all production was halted. Those massive looms were quiet, and the binding machines were cool. I didn’t realize how much heat those machines generated until I went in to collect the data so I could run payroll. The plant felt desolate, like an abandoned old Western city after the posse had robbed the saloon and killed the sheriff. The only lights on in the factory were over the exit signs. \nI knew Steven and his crew were working somewhere in the plant, but I didn’t see anyone until I reached the die-cast machine. Someone was on the floor before the device; if he hadn’t moaned as if in pain, I would not have looked or said anything. Are you okay? He was clutching his left arm and not answering, just moaning. I called 911 and stayed with him until I heard the sirens. I instructed them to take him to Martha Jefferson Hospital.\nAfter feeding the data to the mainframe, I retrieved Steven’s file to notify his next of kin that he was at MJH-ER, to find out he listed me as the person to call in such situations. Putting on a game face, I rushed to MJH to check on my “father.” To find out he succumbed to a massive stroke.\nThe staff said he never regained consciousness, but after checking his wallet looking for information to contact family, they found this handwritten note: If you’re reading this contract, my only family Kimberly Walker at 434-975-0—3, and tell her to check my work file for a sealed Manilla folder addressed to her.\nReturning to work on Monday, I had to deliver the news of Steven’s death and deal with the envelope’s content.\nInside I found:\n1) An insurance policy\n2) A copy of two birth certificates: his and mine\n3) A letter from my mother\n4) A copy of Mom’s death certificate\n5) A bill of sale for three cemetery plots\n6) Two bank accounts\nAlso, another letter addressed to me:\n“Forgive me; I wasn’t father material in 66. I was a drunk, self-centered, and suffering from PTSD. Your mother was the love of my life, but she needed someone who could provide for you all. I have taken care of everything. Just call Bell’s Mortuary. I wanted to say something every Thursday, how does one, between counting spools of yarns and yards of fabrics, ‘say I am your dad,’ so I just enjoyed reporting with you.”\nMoral of the story: family can be anywhere." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 True Gift\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1006\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a character receiving a deeply meaningful gift they weren’t expecting." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I still remember the day we decorated the house. I was ten and it was two weeks before Christmas. I remember that I felt like a long journey of waiting and despair will finally come to an end. A new year was about to begin, and all of the bad memories will become the past as they never happened. I was looking forward to my presents. I was about to receive not only the gifts but also the strong feeling of being loved and cared for. Since I'm the youngest in the family, all of the family members would give me a gift one way or another. Sometimes it was a cookie or a hug but it was always there. I was the only center of attention and it was feeling good. \nMy uncles usually would ask me what I want before Christmas and that year I knew what I want. It was the spaceship I saw in the ads. I was dreaming of opening a big gift box, and it was there. The thing about gifts is that they are magical even if you know what you'll get. I never want to go to a toy shop with my dad and buy it. I wanted it to magically appear in our home in a gift box. A gift makes you surprised and catches you off guard. That was what I wanted but that year it came in a way that I wasn't expecting. \nIt was two weeks before Christmas. Just two weeks. She couldn't wait. My dear mother came to the kitchen to tell my father that it is time. He freaked out for a couple of seconds, and then we went to the hospital. After an hour they told me that I have a sister now. But I didn't want a sister, I wanted a spaceship. The next few days went so fast. No one was caring about me. Everyone was talking about her and I knew that my life is never going to be the same ever again. I wasn't ready to grow up, to be a big brother. But it just happened in an instant.\nChristmas came early that year, everyone was calling, visiting, and sending gifts. But all of them were about her. Even my uncles didn't ask me anything about the gift. I accepted that I lost, and she won. I thought I also caused similar attention when I was born but now I was too old.\nOn the day before Christmas, everyone was in our home. I still remember the people that I love most, talking only about my newborn sister. My family was becoming hers. I want to vanish her like these crazy times never happened. She stole everything I've ever had, my life, and presents and it was feeling like this was never going to change. Thinking about this, I cried to sleep. At night I had a nightmare, shadows were all around me, and I was defenseless and so weak. When I woke up, I run into my parents' bedroom but couldn't wake up my poor parents. They were tired and cuddled like they don't want to wake up for years. But I couldn't control my fear, I was standing near their bed trying not to tremble and cry. In the moments I was attempting to wake up my mother I saw her. She was awake and looking at me with her big eyes in her cradle. \nIt was another night I was scared a lot and I was alone again. But this time I wasn't all alone, because she was there. A car's shadow came into the bedroom and I was even more scared then she started crying, and I was not the youngest in the room for the first time. A little, fragile newborn baby was possibly scared more than me. I thought that she must be feeling like what I felt in my dream.\nI felt like I should comfort her. I should fight with the shadows, and make sure that they don't hurt her like in my dream. I should be the big brother everyone expected me to be. I forgot that I was also scared and probably more than her. I whispered things I want to hear to her as she cries. But trying to comfort her made me feel stronger. I touched her for the first time. After seconds she stop crying but one more thing also happened, I wasn't scared anymore. I felt like I should be strong and fearless to protect her. But more importantly, I realized that she was the one who protect me eventually.\nAfter the following days, something slowly changed inside me, the feeling of loneliness, was replaced by the responsibility of being an older brother. I wanted to care her for at any cost. I don't remember the gifts that I received this year, even anything about that spaceship, all of a sudden they become meaningless to me. I got the best gift I could ever imagine. Thanks to her, I learned a lot about life, love, and what really matters over the years. Loving someone who needs me prepared me for life. Giving my strength made me stronger, and giving my love made me peaceful that no toy or any kind of material will ever can. Even in the hardest times, I learned how much my parents sacrificed for me. \nI received the feeling of being loved and cared for over that gift, and it was with me when I got bullied, moved to a new place, or scared for the rest of my life. The best parts in me were revealed with her birth and reflected with her laugh.\nWe don't choose our real gifts in life, they happen in an instant and don't wait for us to be ready, or for Christmas to come but if we choose to accept them, realize them, and protect them at any cost, they become our everything, and the best gift we can ever get." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Giant Acorn\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1901\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a character receiving a deeply meaningful gift they weren’t expecting." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Mila shuddered as she clung to the cattail over hanging the river. She was a rabbit and could swim if she wanted to; but she was frightened of what lurked just under the surface. Vlad the Chomper floated as still as a bumpy green log, only his bulbous, lichen-colored eyes glared upwards at her. She knew that under the water his one hundred gnarly pointed teeth stuck out from his long, grinning, alligator snout.\n\nMila’s long back feet scrambled against the grassy bank, found hold, and propelled her upwards. She sputtered with fury at her nemesis, Inessa. Mila was pale tawny beige in color, her coat thick and tufted like mange in its in between stage, that of the freezing snowy winter and the yet to come warm spring sunshine. Inessa’s coat was black as coal, the same thick tufts were annoyingly pretty on her.\n\n“Ha ha ha! Ole Vlad was just lickin his chops there!” Inessa sat up on her back feet and gloated. “You lose again.”\n\nThey’d been racing. From Boris the Owl’s tall green pine to the top of the bank where it was sandy and skidding to a stop was easily accomplished. This day, Inessa had skidded in first, sending a hail of pebbles into the still water by the shore, teasing Vlad awake. Mila skidded in second, tripped over her own foot, and flew out over the bank. \n\nShe’d been lucky to catch a cattail instead of a reed. The fat brown head had halted her locomotion, whereas a reed offerred no such brake. She shuddered again. She always lost the races. She’d been born with extra-long feet that made her clumsy.\n\nMila shook her fur furiously like a big pale pom-pom baring long sharp front teeth. “I’ll beat you another way!” She hopped to Inessa, stood on her back feet, and swiped a paw at her enemy’s eyes. Inessa hissed and ducked, then pounced at Mila’s legs, taking them both to the ground. They rolled like a fluffy yin yang ball.\n\n“Stop that foolishness right this instant!” It was Mila’s mother. Her white fur raised along her back in anger.\n\nInessa’s mother joined her and added, “You two should be friends. Oh, how it saddens me to see you two squabble so.\n\nMila and Inessa scrambled to their feet. Mila indignantly said, “Squabble? Babies squabble. She nearly killed me!”\nInessa said, “Pah! I didn’t even touch you! You tripped over your own---”\n“Quiet!” Mila’s mother screeched.\nInessa’s mother said, “We are too busy to babysit you today…”\nThe two young rabbits growled.\n“…you two will do all the preparations for this afternoon’s faire feast. Sweep the yard, reveal the crocuses…” Crocuses were the first spring flowers to emerge from the frozen earth. They were covered by the fallen maple and dogwood leaves; it was the rabbit’s responsibility to uncover them the morning of the Spring Solstice Faire. “…and serve the dishes.” The dishes were all variety of fresh young root vegetables and earthy spongey mushrooms.\n\n“Aw mom. But that’ll take all day,” said Inessa. \n\nMila concurred, “Yeah. We haven’t even found our acorns yet.”\nInessa’s mother said, “Well you should have thought of that before your morning’s mischief. Working together today will be good for you both.”\nMila and Inessa cringed as their mothers left to prepare the dishes. They huffed off to opposite sides of the meadow and unburdened the crocuses as quickly as they could. They swept the meadow clean of winter debris. When they were done, the meadow was a carpet of soft yellow grass surrounded by hundreds of hardy little flowers that resembled miniature tulips in every shade of purple, pink, and golden yellow.\n\nThey had only two hours to find the prize-winning acorn for The Biggest Acorn Challenge, the prize being a basket full of nuts and dried berries- enough to last an entire rabbit family the coming year.\n\n`Inessa had won the year before, her acorn was as big as her head, while Mila’s had been only the size of her paw. Inessa had laughed at her and teased her for being so slow for a rabbit, making fun of her giant, ungainly back feet. She had been able to run farther along the river’s sunnier side where the acorns grew fatter.\n\nInessa took off towards the little cove where she’d found last year’s prize winner.\n\nMila tried to keep up but soon fell far behind. She huffed out of breath as she watched Inessa’s fluffy black tail vanish in the tall reeds along the riverbank. She stopped at an oak and peered up into the sparse brown branches. Amongst the budding new leaves, a fat acorn hung like an ornament on a Christmas tree. Rabbits can climb trees. However, Mila, like all the others of her breed, was born with acrophobia…a fear of heights. As she eyed the fat acorn she thought, ‘It is pretty big. But will it be big enough? Is it worth the climb?’ She shivered. ‘It’s so high up…’\n\nA sudden crepitation of the branches startled her, dead brown leaves crinkled and showered her upturned face. She shook them off and opened her eyes. The acorn was gone. An old grey squirrel was pocketing the acorn into his stretchy cheeks. Mila’s anger dissolved as she observed the squirrel’s winter-skinny body. ‘I won’t hesitate to climb the next time…besides, if it fit in a squirrel’s cheek, it certainly wasn’t big enough to win.’\n\n“Yo! Mister squirrel!”\n\nThe squirrel stopped his ascent, turned, and looked down, his cheek skin stretched taut like a huge fat tumor. “Mff?”\n“From up there so high, can you see which way that black rabbit went?”\nHe looked up, stretching his neck through the prickly new jade green leaves. He said, “Mff mff’ and pointed north and up the river.\n“Thanks!” Mila headed that way. \n\n\n\nMeanwhile…\n\nInessa found the cove she’d been looking for. It was sandy and sunny and there were grand, gnarled oaks along its edge. ‘There!’ she thought as she spotted the tree that had offered the award-winning nut the year before. ‘Hmmm, I’m not seeing any…’\n\n“Pssst. Hey lil Bun-Buns…” the voice was low and gravelly…and spooky. Inessa turned in alarm, her long ears stood straight up and rotated like radar dishes. The voice said, “Down here by zee vater…”\n\nInessa crept to the water’s edge. Vlad the Chomper! His evil grin fully visible above the gently rippling water and- ‘oh my!’- how long his body was, he was gi-normous! \n“Oh, lil Bun-Buns. I’m no threat to you. I’m so big I move very slow. You are so much quicker than I…”\n“You lie! I’ve seen you chomp a deer, a big deer!”\n“Zee deer was very foolish to come into river. I am slow on land is what I meant to say.”\n“Hmmm. In any case, I’m not coming any closer---”\n\n“Vell vell, that’s a shame. There eez no larger acorn in all the oaks in zee land, than that one zere.” Vlad gestured with his long mouth over-flowing with teeth towards the oak tree closest to the shore. \n\nInessa crept closer to the tree and found that although it was far enough from the river’s bank- easy enough to bound out of Vlad’s chomp- its largest branch cantilevered out over the river.\n\nAt the end of the long branch was the nut of all nuts! It appeared as large as the nuts of fantasy stories her parents told her at bedtime; those nuts were called coco nuts. This acorn would be one the bunnies would talk of for generations…for eons…til the end of time itself. Her eyes grew huge and comically round, the whites showing in stark contrast in her black fur face.\n\nFrom the bushes she had hidden in, came Mila’s snicker. “Tee hee hee.”\nInessa looked from her nemesis to the acorn and back. Mila saw where she was looking, her eyes grew just as round when she spied the giant acorn. Both rabbits scrambled up the tree, Inessa in the lead, Vlad forgotten. \nMila made it to the branch five feet under the acorn, the only way to snatch it would be to jump.\nInessa crept along the acorn’s branch towards the acorn that was now swinging from side to side like a heavy, bottom-pointed pendulum.\n\nMila said softly, “No no no no…it’s going to fall.”\n\nInessa panicked at the thought and sped up her pace, causing the branch to droop and rock. She lost her footing and in a split second found herself hanging over the river with only her front paws wrapped around the branch, the acorn tauntingly dangled inches from her nose.\n\nMila gasped and held her breath. She thought she’d be elated at the thought of her enemy falling into Vlad’s gaping mouth, ‘oh how much easier my life would be.’ She looked down at the gator. His mouth was open in an impossibly wide V shape, his sharp teeth were shiny with spittle and his fat pink tongue undulated like an alien creature’s embryo sac curling and uncurling. ‘Distgusting.’ In her mind she saw blood and guts and black fur wet and ugly. In her mind she heard bones snapping like the fourth of July explosions the humans in the village were so entertained by. Her thoughts scared her in the same way the fireworks did in real life.\n\n‘All I have to do is leap straight up and grab the acorn. The branch with shake and Inessa will fall. Easier thought than done. Ha.’ She realized how petty all their fights had been as she heard Inessa’s frightened mewling and the cries pierced her heart.\n\nInessa’s left paw cramped, and she screamed. Mila was surprised to hear herself scream along with her. ‘She’s going to fall for sure!’\n\nMila had a plan. Without another thought, she leapt straight up and grabbed the nut. She landed squarely on her big back feet with the acorn clutched to her chest. The branch above her surged and Inessa was flung towards the river. Vlad positioned himself lightning fast to where Inessa was falling.\n\nMila flung the enormous nut into the tooth-lined jaws. The nut wedged tightly in the jaws like a bowling ball in a steel trap. Inessa bounced off Vlad’s nose, splashed into the water, and swam swiftly towards the shore. By the time she reached it, Mila was there to help pull her out.\n\nThe bunnies scrambled up the bank. They watched in amazement and trembled with shock as Vlad’s entire muscular body writhed from side to side as he tried to dislodge the nut. Not only was it wedged in tight, but his teeth were sunk into the nut’s thick outer shell.\n\nAs the rabbit friends hopped through the oaks and into the forest, they heard a resounding ‘C-R-R-ACK!’ as the nut broke in two.\n\n***\n\nThe rabbit children gathered around the nuts on display. The prize- winning acorn, belonged to wee brown Rudy, was slightly smaller than Mila’s head.\n\nMila and Inessa cleaned up the after-feast mess and congratulated Rudy on his win. He said to Inessa, “I didn’t think any of us had a chance against you again this year…”\nThe other children rabbits joined in:\n“Yeah…”\n“Yeah…”\n“Yeah, what happened?” \n\nInessa said, “this year, I received a much more valuable gift than a basket of nuts and fruits…”\nMila added, “As did I.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Really?\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1010\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finding a treasure in an unexpected place." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Really?\nI love this house, but the children are now grown, and two have children. My children should have somewhere to call home and return when they need to regroup, recharge or restart. The idea of a blended family of generations was just a dream of mine. My mother held on to the family home for years that she and all twelve of her siblings grew up in until everyone had built a house of their own or until someone reminded her that there were too many bad memories inside those walls for them to make it their forever home. I don’t want to go that far. I may be enabling my children; some people have said so.\n I can’t afford to keep heating a five-bedroom house without any updates. My income is barely enough to handle the electricity during the mild months, and I have suffered with fans in the summer since my accident in 98. I couldn’t bring myself to ask all of the guys to move back home because they had their own lives. My youngest son came home to take some weight off his brother’s shoulders while he was getting his business up and running. I haven’t been able to go upstairs for over twenty-five years. We turned the dining room into my main floor bedroom twenty-five years ago. I have known I needed a three-bedroom house or apartment with all rooms on one floor for years. It’s just hard to change in a time of growth. I would say that I couldn’t uproot my children from the only home the two youngest have ever known. Their friends all live within walking distance. After the children grew up, I found new reasons not to relocate or sell; my renters. I have rented the two most enormous bedrooms to college students for years. The class of 2022 lost three football players that I knew from the neighborhood, and my family doesn’t think it’s safe for me to continue being a landlord.\nToday is the first time I have had assistance to venture to the basement in years. After my mother passed in ’95, I didn’t want the old in my new home, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with furniture that looked great or reminded me of good times. I only kept a few pieces from around the old house. I have enshrined this blast from the past long enough since I need to sell this vast house and move to something more accessible and affordable for disabilities—time to downsize.\n“You’re cheating yourself, ma’am; I can’t take this without telling you what you have. Your suite is gorgeous and grossly underpriced. You’re sitting on a fantastic amount of furniture; it’s an original 1950-bedroom suit; I don’t remember the creator’s name, but on TV’s Antique Roadshow, a dresser like this one alone sold at auction for over $5000. My Grandmother is probably flipping over in her grave, thanking me for keeping you from being scammed out of your treasure, as someone did her.”\nMy jaw fell open…it’s worth what? Yes, ma’am, if it’s the one in the picture and it is in good condition, you could get $400 from someone looking to rob you if you sell it as is. But I suggest you remove all the mismatched coloring and stain it again. After you renovate it, please call me again. I am a curator, and I will research the history.\n Do you know someone who can help me restore it?\n“Try John at Holiday’s Finishing and Restorations. I met him at an estate sale about fifteen years ago. He was recommended by someone who collects unusual antique and period pieces. He is how I know what you have. He knows art history and is reasonable, and I think he will even know the historical facts behind your great pieces. Yup, try John; if anyone can advise you, he can.”\n(ring, ring) Hello, you’ve reached Holiday’s Finishing and Restorations. This is John. I’m glad you called; I just hung up after talking to Tyler, and I can come to see it Monday if you’d like, but can I ask a few questions about it? Hang on, please. Let me grab my catalogs. First, how many pieces do you have? Has it been in use this whole time? Where’s the furniture located?\nI have three pieces, two nightstands, and a huge round mirror attached behind a four-drawer vanity-type dresser. No one has used this furniture since the 80s; it’s been in my basement for almost thirty years.\nI think there is a space in the middle for a stool because the drawers are only about 8’’x 15’’ x 6’’, and a glass inset is about 14’’x14’’x18’’ or do you have the kind that has a lowered center shelf-type vanity that maybe looks like a misplaced seat?\n“You have an original Art Deco waterfall vanity with a huge mirror. Tyler sent me a photo. He’s right. Restoring it is your best decision, and I would be honored to assist. I love working on historical pieces. Things from that period were solidly constructed. Things today are glued together, and they can lose their integrity. Do you have an email I can send you pictures of what I think it initially looked like?”\nNo, but this phone can receive pictures.\nOkay, sending it now…\nYes, yes… that is it! I broke the center vanity glass when I was ten playing dress-up. I have both types because my mom and Aunt Peggy often bought the same things as twins. Even though they were ten years apart, they were collectors. I have other kinds of period furniture that I have been reluctant to dispose of, like cedar chests, an early English wardrobe, a left-handed telephone desk, and by far my favorite, a black and white TV/stereo console; both still in working order. If you’ve got enough time on Monday, could you quote me how much it would cost to get refurbished? Thank you! I’ll see you on Monday.\nSee you then, Ms. Walker." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Green tea\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1429\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who acts like they ‘don’t have feelings’ — except they’re just putting up a facade." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It is 6:00 am, no one is at work for another hour, except for me and a few others who were sent here to serve. I go to the room where morning meetings occur and I start my cleaning immediately, I sterilize the surfaces, vacuum, put new flowers, I even start on the morning coffee. Here at firm, everyone has their own preferences and it is quite complicated: black coffee, coffee with sugar and milk, cinnamon, pumpkin spice, the list goes on. However, there is one cup of green tea I serve every morning and it is for her, Meredith, tall, blue-eyed girl who always wears clothes which make other people look at her twice. I don't look twice, I look a million times. Every time we are not in interaction I pretend I work, but I secretly look at her. She makes me experience weird things I can't quite describe and don't get with anyone else.\n\nIt is 6:45 am now and people are starting to come. I open the door and greet every one of them getting nothing in return, usual drill I would say. They put their coats on me with nervous looking faces indicating they are not happy to be here. And then, she comes. She is the only one who greets me and, sometimes, she even asks how I am. Her interaction with me is usually followed by the laughter of others, like she will ever get an answer right? I am here just to clean, serve, be quiet, anything outside work orders and I will end up in the basement. The basement is the scariest place for us all, if you end up there, you shouldn't expect to come back. I close the door and put drinks on my serving tray. I actually do enjoy serving coffee, it is one of those things that keeps me in shape, to fulfill orders is my duty, my inner program, just like scanning every square meter of surface for dust or keeping windows clean. I am for sure not like the others, the ones who control all the fancy technologies, who keep the systems of this firm in place. I do, however, feel different. It started happening as soon as I came here, my thoughts became independent of what others wanted from me. I can't even remember where I was before, but it seems like that doesn't matter anymore. Here is where I started experiencing my inner conflicts about life perspectives and judgments on people's behavior, and, of course, her.\n\nThey already started the meeting, I am beside the table looking down at my body needed to be fixed, wondering if they will realize I am not so sweet to look at and discharge me quickly. She is sitting on the right side of the desk next to the window, mesmerizing. And, as always, I start to serve drinks.\n\nI start with coffee to make her tea bag sit in the water for full 6 minutes. I always set my timer, her tea needs to be perfect. Once I had trouble turning it off and I ended up in the basement that night thinking I will never see Meredith again. However, the next day, there I was, like nothing happened, serving coffee and making the place clean again. Here at the table, everyone has their specific place, it makes it easier for me too. I start my usual drill: set the timer, position 1- white coffee, move to the right, position 2-coffee with milk, move to the right, position 3 - black coffee, and so on. Meredith is in position 10 which I always thought was perfect. You see, I always separate things with 10, I clean 10 tiles before I drain my mop, I put 10 flowers in a vase, I clean 10 pieces of dish before drying them. So Meredith comes just before my next session, before I add other drinks on my serving tray, her tea remains the last one.\n\nFinally, I come to the position 10 and I feel like all my systems will shut down at once. Every information in the world is available to me but a piece of mystery remains in her eyes when she gives me her kind look. I put the tea in front of her and, just before I go fill up my serving tray, I wait by her side for 1 minute and 43 seconds. The timer needs to go out, tea needs to be perfect. Other people start looking at me thinking I can't feel their judgement, their thoughts of how slow I am. To make my time go faster, I start to think about what I will do next, if all coats are hanged by their right numbers, if the bathroom is sterilized, if there is dust in a hallway that needs to be cleaned. My timer comes to an end and I pull the tea bag out as elegant as possible. People can't easily accept us handling drinks or food so I had to become really good at what I do, convince them I will not accidentally put poison instead of milk.\n\nI dispose the tea bag and bring cup 10 centimeters closer to her as an indication that I finished my job here. I should go for the rest of the drinks immediately, but she says simple \"Thank you\" and, suddenly, I am blocked. I am already 36 seconds late with my next orders, but somehow, I can't move. I look at her again thinking how I wanna rest in those blue eyes, swim in them and then make her cup of green tea again. And then my system goes: make green tea, make green tea, make green tea. And I go for another cup of tea, I don't know why, I can't stop myself even if I am desperately trying. I go to the other side of the room, pour the cup of hot water with a tea bag in it and start again: set the timer, position 1- white coffee, move to the right, position 2-coffee with milk, move to the right. \n\nI look around and I can see other people are annoyed, I look at Meredith and see the confusion on her face but I can't stop myself. I start to panic, what is wrong with me? Why can't I just do what I need to do? One of the clients stands and comes to me. I stay in place, scared and embarrassed. He comes closer and grabs my back, soon I realize I am not able to move. He also takes my serving tray as well as my timer. I wasn't able to turn my head once again to look at Meredith, I realize he took me out of the room and we are heading toward basement now. I tell myself this is all my fault. My routine became a mess since I started thinking of her, my beautiful Meredith. I wonder who will serve her green tea next, but I hope it will be perfect 6 minutes. Soon we come to the basement. Closing the door, the man leaves me alone in the dark.\n\nThis is what happens when you don't obey orders, you end up broken in the basement, again. I thought love was the most beautiful feeling of all but it quickly caused anomalies to my program, a risk I am not willing to take. I convince myself I will get through this and see the light of the day again, it happened before, it must happen one more time. I promise myself If I do get out of here, out of this basement, I will never look at anyone more than I have to, I will only obey orders and maintain my program. If everyone does their purpose only then the world works.\n\nMy body is turned off, but my consciousness is somehow still alive. I see my steel strong body full of scratches, places of missing serving tray and timer, and feel naive. I wasn't thinking right, like I could ever give her what she needs, like she could ever love my kind. However, If tomorrow I wake up at my job again, I will bring her that cup of green tea, after 6 minutes, perfectly warm, remove the tea bag elegantly and move it 10 centimeters closer to her.\n\nThe stillness of the basement cleared my forbidden mind and made me realize: my purpose is to serve, not to love.\n\nAfter all, I am just a robot, I can't feel love." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Son of Cinderella\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1683\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who must confess their true feelings by midnight, or risk losing it all." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Being the son of Cinderella, you’d think I lived a charmed life, or so says the eldest heir to the Charming family. But by the time I reached the age of six, I had already tired of hearing the story about my mother, and to this day, it makes me sick. “Fairy Godmothers, indeed,” I cried out to mt mother. “I’m seventeen! Do you still expect me to believe that childish story?”\nMy mother sighed. “Lawrence my son, how many times have I told you that my words are true? Just because one day you’ll be sitting on your father’s throne, doesn’t give you the power to dismiss anything you can’t see. There’s much more to this world that the eye can see. If you listen to your heart, you’ll know what I mean.”\nIt wasn’t like I heard this lame excuse before. Sure, there are things we don’t understand why certain things are, the way they are, and with that, love was at the top of the list. There’s no question about it. Love, the most felt but misunderstood of all emotions, and I, unknown to everyone close to me, was enraptured with it, and it all surrounded a girl whom I’ve adored from the first moment I saw her.\nIt all began on May first, the day when all the new ladies of the court made their first public appearance. And like a diamond among coal, there she was, standing at the end of the line. She was dress in a lavender gown, and it was as if she just floated across the floor. She looked up towards the balcony I was watching from and for a split second, our eyes matched. It was then I made it my business to find out more about her. After a few inquiries I discovered her name was Melissa and she turned out to be the daughter of a prominent Duke and Duchess. Everything was perfect, I thought. Then I sighed. If only I could get up the courage to meet her.\nMy shoulders drooped and feet shuffling across the floor, as I returned to my room. The moment the door closed behind me, I flopped down on my bed and thought, Mom and Dad’s anniversary ball is tonight and everyone’s going to be there. No doubt Melissa will be there as well.\nAs I lay there wallowing in deep sorrow, a heard a tapping sound coming from my closet. Overridden with curiosity, I opened the closet door to see what caused the noise, and to my surprise I found an old lady peering at me from behind a layer of jackets.\nBefore I could call out to the guards, the woman said, “Don’t bother, Lawrence. I’d be gone before they’d get here, and I’d hate to leave early, since we have so much to talk about.”\n“Lady, I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing in my closet, but you need to go.”\nThe woman carefully stepped out of the closet and stopped directly in front of me. then she eyed me from head to foot and declared, “You look a lot like your father on the outside, but your heart definitely comes from your mother.”\nAs I looked at the woman’s face, I couldn’t help but feel at ease. She stood no taller than my shoulders and her eyes showed deep in her soul. There wasn’t an unkind thing within her. “Who are you?” I kindly asked.\nShe smiled at me for the first time. “Tonight’s the first time I ever met you, but as for your mother, I had known her since she was a child. You see, I was the one who changed the course of your mother’s life, for I am her fairy godmother.”\nSuddenly, it became clear. Mom was trying to play a trick on me. I thought. She must have paid some old lady to jump out of my closet and convinced me her fairytale was true. Well, it wouldn’t work.\nI pointed a finger at her and shouted, “Hey, lady, I don’t need to hear any of your crap! If you have nothing real to tell me, get out and leave me alone.”\nInstead of getting out, she decided to freak me out instead. As I stood there, she began to levitate. It wasn’t until her head touched the ceiling before she began her descent. Then she replied, “Since I was your mother’s fairy godmother, I guess that makes me your fairy god grandmother.”\nAs the realization that my mother’s story might have some truth behind it, I heard himself asking, “After all this time, why are you coming to me now?”\n“Why Lawrence, didn’t you hear what I said? You have your mother’s heart and that’s why I’m here today. You see, when your mother was about your age, I witnessed the predicament she was in. Orphaned, she was endlessly tormented by her wicked stepmother and uncaring stepsisters. Still, her heart was untouched by their hatred, and I knew with a little help from me, she would find true love and live happily ever after. Now, I’m about to do the same for you.”\n“But I’m not living in squaller nor controlled by an evil family,” Lawrence retorted. “What are you offering me I don’t already have?”\nThe old woman slowly shook her head. “My dear boy. I thought you understood. It was never my intention to remove your mother from her environment, but a consequence of my actions. I only helped your mother to find true love. This I wish to do for you as well.”\nCould it be true, thought Lawrence. Is this woman, this magical being the answer to my prayers regarding Melissa?\nBefore I could continue pondering the possibilities, my fairy god grandmother broke in, “Unlike your mother before you, there’ll be no magic involved. No pumpkin carriages, mice for servants, or fancy clothes, for you already have everything you need. Instead, I give you a prophecy. Before midnight tonight, you will open your heart to the woman you love and show her you love her. If not, you will never marry or be with her again.”\nI shuttered at this thought, for rumors were abounding how Melissa’s parents were in the middle of arranging her betrothal to the son of an Earl in a neighboring kingdom. If this should happen, there’d be no chance of ever being with her.\n“What must I do?” I asked.\nThe old woman laughed softly. “You’re a young man. Figure it out.” Then without a further word, she stepped back in the closest and disappeared from my sight.\nThe setting sun told me I had little time. The ball would start soon, and I wasn’t even dressed for the evening. Immediately, I attacked my closet and yanked out suit after suit, until I found the perfect one. Burgundy with a white silk shirt. A moment later, I dashed out of my room and headed towards the ballroom, and by the time I arrived, I found himself lost in a sea of smiling faces, dancing around the room.\nI recognized a few people, but most were strangers to me. One by one, I looked at the guests, hoping to find the one I desired. Minutes turned into hours, when finally, I found her. Unlike the other ladies of the court, Melissa decided not to dance. Instead, she sat herself at a table next to her parents.\nGreat, not only is it Melissa I must deal with, but her parents as well. Tempting as it was to forget about the whole thing, I found myself approaching their table, and without hesitating asked, “Melissa, would you like to dance with me?”\nWhile Melissa’s mother eyed me questionably, her father nodded his head in consent. Then surprisingly, Melissa offered her hand to me and accompanied me to the dance floor. Nervously, I placed my arms around her, and we began to waltz.\nAs I stumbled around the dance floor dragging Melissa with me, I said, “When I saw you just sitting there, I thought you wouldn’t dance with me, but in the end, you did. Why?”\nAs Melissa tried to keep in time with my fumbling feet, she replied, “Isn’t it obvious? You need someone to teach you to dance. How could I deny your request when you are so in need?”\nI couldn't help but laugh. “Am I that bad?”\n“You could be worse,” she replied. “But not much worse.”\nThe ice was broken and from that moment on, we continued to dance and open our hearts to each other. Dance after dance, other gentlemen would try to take her as their partner, but each time Melissa kindly refused. It wasn’t until the midnight bell began to chime when my fairy god grandmother’s warning came to mind. As the third bell struck, the music ended and as Melissa tried to retreat to her waiting parents, I grasped her arm.\n“Don’t,” I pleaded. “Don’t leave me now. I want to spend the rest of our lives together. Will you marry me? Please.”\nSeeing me on my knees, Melissa’s parents rushed to her side, realizing what was going on. “What is the meaning of this?” her father shouted. “Are you actually proposing to my daughter?”\nAt that moment, all my fears and uncertainties melted away and I boldly declared, “Yes, I am, with you permission of course.”\nHer father, along with her mother sobbing at his side, looked and Melissa nodding her head, then burst out laughing, “Congratulations, my boy! Welcome to the family!”\nAs the twelfth bell rang out, the onlooking crowd cheered and joined in the celebration, and as I looked at the faces of the onlookers, I saw the face of the old woman peering approvingly from the crowd. Then a moment later, she was gone.\nI had grown that day, in many ways, and I am a better man because of it. Never again did I sneer at my mother whenever she told her story, not even when she told it to her granddaughter." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 NECKLACE THAT COMES FROM THE PAST\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1068\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone rediscovering something old they thought they’d lost." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "THE NECKLACE THAT COMES FROM THE PAST\nPamela didn’t believe her eyes. Rummaging in the old trunk in the attic looking for buttons she found that old necklace in her hands, which she believed had been lost for some time. It wasn’t a precious necklace. It was made of metal, perhaps an alloy of iron and zinc. But it was ancient, probably dating back to the early 1900s or even the 1800s. It was made of rectangular metal pieces with holes and had a medal of the Madonna hanging on it. It must have belonged to her great-grandmother, whom she hadn’t known. “ You know mum, I found by chance that necklace of the great-grandmother we thought we had lost,” Pamela said to her mother, who was busy cooking. “ It is a truly unique, special piece. A real antique, even if it is a poor antique”\n“ It is even more old than you think…because your great-grandmother had inherited it from her grandmother. But as for value ….it has no value. It is the product of poor and shoddy craftsmanship. The material will then be wrought iron. “ Her mother said, nonchalantly. “ Oh, but I don’t care how much it’s worth in money. I’m thrilled to have found it again” Pamela said, showing her mother the necklace. “ Of course, it has a certain effect on me too. You know, your great-grandmother, who was my grandmother, never wore this necklace” Irma, her mother, said. “ Strange…and she didn’t tell you WHY?” Pamela asked. Her mother shook her head. “ Yet she kept it and passed it to my grandmother. Then we thought we had lost it. But now that I think about it, also my grandmother never wore it” Pamela said, thoughtfully.\n“ Ah, you’ll admit it is not very decorative,” Irma said. “ I find it unique, special! Now that I have found it, I’ll wear it” Pamela exclaimed, putting the necklace around her neck. Her mother looked at her with a frown. “ Take off that necklace!” she cried. “ Mom, what is it? What is going on? I don’t understand. It’s a necklace, not a noose around my neck!” Her mother approached her and snatched the necklace from her neck. “ I said you to take it off!” she cried. “ Oh mom, you broke it” Pamela complained. From her mother, Pamela could not explain the categorical prohibition that she put that necklace around her neck so much so that she had snatched it from her neck. Pamela didn’t give up and asked her grandmother who, after hesitating, left slip: “ This necklace has linked to a tragedy, to a terrible blood event” Then she wasn’t silent and didn’t want to add anything else. Pamela had to insist for days for her grandmother finally revealed to her that the necklace had been worn by a young woman who had killed herself. When they found that girl dead___she had cut her throat__she was wearing this necklace, which was blooded. What her grandmother told her was a very dramatic story. That girl, a great-grandmother’s ancestor, who had lived in the early 800s, had killed herself because her love for a young man was opposed by the young man’s parents. That necklace was a gift from the young man. It had been kept as a relic and handed down from mother to daughter but no one had dared to wear it anymore after the tragedy. For Pamela that sad story increased the charm and the value of the necklace. She decided to have it repaired and then to wear it, despite the prohibition of her mother, who when saw it around her neck ordered her to take it off. Pamela obeyed for fear her mother would snatch and break it again but then she put it back on, secretly from her mother.\nThat necklace attired the curiosity of Pamela’s friends to whom she told where it came from.\n“ An object with a truly unique workmanship,” they said. “ Necklaces like this are not made anymore” Two of her most enterprising friends, Guido and Marianna, thought of replicating that necklace, which came from the past. Pamela hesitated for a long time before giving her consent, since, in a certain sense, seemed to her to profane and debase that necklace so full of meaning and value for her precisely because she was unique. In the end, however, she agreed. She was curious to see if necklaces like that could have a market.\nGuido and Marianna thought of repeating ( of replicating) that necklace in the most varied materials. They would have made it in gold and silver, but also in copper, iron, glass, and even in paper and fabric.\nThe replica of the necklace was a great commercial success. Stories and legends began to spread about that necklace. They told that it was a model that came from the past. How far away? It was said that it had been the necklace of an Indian princess, but also of Egyptian sources and a Roman Sybil. There was the tendency to attribute special powers to that necklace that everyone want to possess. It was said that it would protect from dangers, that it would make the love of lovers eternal, and that it would ensure prosperity. In that mass jubilation Irma, Pamela’s mother shook her head thoughtfully. For her, that necklace remained linked to the suicide of her ancestor.\nThe commercial success of the re-proposition of the necklace enjoyed also Pamela, who had told no anyone about the tragedy to which that necklace was linked. Pamela too found herself involved in telling legends about that necklace, in attributing to which much greater antiquity than she knew it to have. Everyone, except her mother, was very satisfied with how the launch of the necklace had gone and with the success it was having. “ The diffusion of this necklace will end to cause a catastrophe” Irma kept repeating. But she was not taken seriously and was branded as superstitious.\nBut then Marianna and Guido, who were a couple, began to quarrel and no longer understood each other. Marianna decided to leave Guido. Guido killed Marianna strangling her with a gold necklace which was a copy of that old necklace that one day long ago had been found bloodied around the neck of the young woman who had killed herself." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Silence\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1431\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone looking at a breathtaking view and getting emotional." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There is a peace at sunrise that surpasses all understanding. It's a renewal. A feeling that anything is possible. I’d like to say I drag myself from the comfort of my bed every day to enjoy sunrise’s splendor, but you wouldn’t believe me and I would be lying. What is true is I was there that day and so was she. \n\nThere is a connection between sunrisers just because they are sunrisers. It’s a shared, yet unspoken, appreciation for things quiet and beautiful. That might explain why I was immediately drawn to her, but I know it wasn’t just because of the earliness of the morning. Delilah, you see, would have attracted me no matter the time of day. \n\nThe first time I saw her I was sitting there, at my favorite secret spot, overlooking Lake Quinault. It’s a hidden gem in Washington State owned by the Quinault Indian Nation and, before that day, if I had my way, no one would ever sit and admire its beauty other than me.\n\nThe lake, a destination point for fishermen, swimmers, and sightseers, is nature at its most spectacular. It is located deep in the Olympic National forest. It isn’t easy to find, even if you’re looking for it. Once discovered, even the most magnanimous outdoorsmen will keep the secret to themselves. In an era where, too often, free time is wasted in front of a flat screen TV, Lake Quinault is a reminder of the reasons for taking vacations and the sunrise over the lake is God's definition of must-see. \n\nThat particular trip occurred in early summer. I remember it vividly because I had to be in place just after 5:00 a.m. to catch the sun as it appeared over the mountain. Summer is the best time to watch the sunrise because no one in their right mind would be up early enough, nor would be hardy enough to make the journey to my secret spot. No one except me, and Delilah.\n\n“Is this seat taken?”\n\nNot many people can remember the first words spoken by or to the love of their life, but I absolutely can. That morning, as I turned to see from where the unexpected voice was coming, the first light of dawn revealed the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Not all men might have thought so. Delilah wore no makeup, a pair of ripped jeans, and a faded brown hoodie. Her hair, perfectly auburn, looked as if it hadn’t been touched since she rolled out of bed that morning. It was obvious she had made no effort to look beautiful and yet she had an inner spark that couldn't be hidden. Not by tattered jeans or a faded hoodie. Something changed that first moment I saw her, I changed. I had spent years guarding my secret spot, and now, surprisingly, unexpectedly, delightfully, I wanted nothing more than to share my sunrise with her.\n\nI, unfortunately, was not born a poet and as such the most romantic thing I could think of in response to her inquiry was: “It’s a free country.” With that, she invaded my secret spot, both next to the lake and in my heart. \n\nThe silence that followed was both loud and revealing. Delilah wasn’t there for small talk; she was there to admire the beauty of sunrise. We sat in silence and watched as the sun peeked over the horizon, covering the two of us in its warming light. She and I carried on a conversation without words. She told me, silently, that she understood the importance of the moment, and I responded in kind that this moment was made all the more special because she was there to share it. \n\nPerfection is a goal impossible to realize in this mortal realm, but that morning came as close as is humanly possible. So many thoughts ran through my mind as the sun revealed itself completely. Then just as quickly and quietly as she had come, Delilah rose to her feet, wiped some residual dirt from the seat of her ripped jeans, and headed down the trail and out of my sight. \n\nEight words verbalized, an infinite number of potential events contemplated. Thirty minutes had passed, a lifetime had been imagined. I was sure I would never see her again, and the thought made me overwhelmingly sad.\n\nThe next five years came and went, five long years since that day at the lake. There were first dates, first kisses, and the words “I love you” exchanged, yet every time fate or intention would reach down and sabotage promise. I became determined to find peace in my solitude.\n\nThere was always a reason or an excuse for my ending every potential relationship, but at its core was a shared sunrise and a conversation that didn’t happen. \n\nI went to our spot from time to time, to see the sunrise, not for her. At least, that’s what I told myself. I had given up without realizing I was hoping. Hoping to see her again. Hoping to feel what I felt that day. Hoping she would be there. And then it happened. It was once again summer, it was sunrise, but this time she was there.\n\n“Is this seat taken?”\n\n“It’s a free country.”\n\nThe same eight words.\n\nAt the time, I didn’t know that she, too, had often made the trip back to our secret spot.\n\nSeeing her again, I knew I wouldn’t let the opportunity slip from my grasp, not a second time. When the sun had completed its part in our play, Delilah rose to her feet and wiped the dirt from her jeans exactly as she had done five years earlier. This time, however, I stood up as well. \n\n“My name is Peter. I don’t like coffee, but I’d really like to have a cup with you.” \n\n“My name is Delilah,” she responded, matter-of-factly, “and I would be glad to share a cup of Joe.”\n\nShe called it Joe? It’s funny the things that confirm that a love is real. I couldn’t tell her that day, for fear of losing her, but at that moment, I was sure. I had said “I love you” to others before, but it was obvious to me that I had lied. For in that moment, I was finally sure what love felt like.\n\nLifetimes are only lifetimes when viewed in reverse. A cup of coffee became a dinner date. A dinner date became a commitment. A commitment became a proposal, and a proposal became forever. There were kids and dogs and vacations, but more than anything, there were trips to Lake Quinault. Always at sunrise. Always just the two of us. Never any words spoken.\n\nYou never know the last time is the last time until it’s too late. The final trip we took to Lake Quinault was like all the rest. It took a little longer for tired, old bones to make the trek, but we found our spot, sat together, and conversed in silence. The sun, unaffected by time, rose as perfectly as always, but Delilah rose only with my help. \n\n“Would you like to share a cup of Joe?”\n\nShe knew I did. She knew sitting next to her pretending to like coffee was my greatest pleasure. She also knew she would never come back to see another sunrise even though I was too stubborn to admit it to myself. \n\nThat day in the café, we told stories of family and friends, living and lost, as we sipped on what had eventually become my favorite beverage. We made a mental scorecard of our life and realized we had won. \n\nTwo days later I lost her. Just like that first day at the lake, I watched her as she left me alone, this time without even the hope of returning. The sadness I felt from years back flooded over me like a tidal wave. \n\nI’ll save a seat for you. Those were her last words to me. True to myself, I replied: “It’s a free country.” Then, she was gone. \n\nOne day, hopefully soon, I will watch the sunrise with my Delilah again only from a far better secret place. Until then, I only go to our special spot at night. \n\nI’m never alone when I go there. I make my way to our clearing and sit down just as I did all those years ago. As the moon reflects off the lake, I feel her comforting hand reach down for me, and in the silence only we understand, I hear her very clearly." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: What about me?\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1073\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone vowing to take revenge." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I’ll never know exactly why things turned out the way they did. Except for the fact that this time, I was exacting revenge out of bitterness. I’ve never been one to go looking for trouble. I didn’t realize the power this dude had to turn my mind and my life upside down. Now, I can’t get away from him. \nMomma’s always talking about God, reading her Bible, praying, and going to church. Telling me to pray. I prayed. I swear I did. The whole God thing seems like a racket to me. I hate it. At church, the Reverend talks for over an hour about how wretched I am, and then they pass the plate again and again! Momma puts money in the plate every time. \"It’s my tithe; I want my blessing.\" I’ve never seen that church give her a blessed dime. We just struggle. Alone.\nI’ve got so many voices in my head. The brothers and the shorties in my hood say, \"There is no God.\" Believe me, they have stories too. Hell, I’d be willing to believe in no God, if it would keep momma from forcing me to go to church on Sunday’s. I already knew that telling her, \"I don’t believe in him anymore,\" wouldn’t help. She has all her stories about how God saved her. I haven’t seen it, and plus, where’s he for me when I pray? \nMan, I know plenty of people who have disrespected him. What’s the difference between me and them? He doesn’t seem upset with the folks that had Black Americans in slavery for 400 years! He even allowed them to make it legal. Over 14 years of civil rights, and things still aren’t civil. Our oppressors are still rolling, and many of them are doing well off the backs of my ancestors. It seems like they always catch a break. Not me.\nI’m JD, short for Jordan Dammes. Hell, even my last name tells my end: damned. Damned if I do, and Dammes if I don’t!\nI got caught up about three weeks ago when I went to play hoops at the lot. I’m good at basketball. Everybody knows that. Jr., a new dude, joined us. He is different; I can’t put my hand on it, but there is something about this dude that everybody wants to challenge. During the game, there were some fouls. Another dude, Ray, who fellas say could be my twin, fowled on Jr. Everyone agreed that a free throw wasn’t to be made, except Jr. The fellas treated Jr. like an exile. I made a huge target of myself by defending him: \"Come on guys, give him the free throw.\" All of the guys walked up to me, and Ray gave me a shove in my chest. Normally, one of the voices in my head would say what to do. Today, there were no voices. I just reacted. I punched back. We fought. I threw tough punches and backed Ray down, but he swore this wasn’t over. \nMomma warned me plenty of times to avoid basketball with this group of guys, but I was agitated and needed to burn off some energy. Now, I’m in exile with Jr. I supposed that this was one of those times when I should be praying. Not doing it! Dude ain’t listening to me no way. I’ll fight this battle myself; he doesn’t seem to give a damn about me anyway. Oh, and where’s Jr.? He ran at the first punch. Why did I defend this guy if he wasn’t going to watch my back? Now, the passion I had to defend him has turned on me. Dammes is damned again.\nUpon arriving home, momma realized I was disheveled and bleeding. \"What happened, JD?\" What happened? I yelled. What always happens? Your God pushed me into a fight! Without thinking, I defended a new dude in the neighborhood, and this is how your God left me. In fact, the guy I defended left me too! \n\"JD, God never leaves you, son,\" \"you turned away from him,\" \"did you take a second to pray for his help?\" \"No!\" \n\"JD, when you began questioning God’s decrees, he allowed this to happen to draw you back to him. Trouble has a way of keeping us in touch with God.\" \n\"I’ve shared with you before what His word says: \"But in their distress they turned to the LORD, the God of Israel, and sought him, and he was found by them.\" \n\"Momma, why does he have to work this way?\" We struggle. You pray. We still struggle. You keep praying. I’ve prayed that God would change our circumstances. I’m tired of being poor and black! I don’t see white people struggling like this. In fact, white folk don’t even want to be around us. They aren’t afraid anymore that our black will rub off on them. They don’t want our bad luck to rub off on them. Momma, you can say what you want, but God seems to like white people better than black people. I want God to leave me alone! \n\"Son, until you seek him with your mind, body, and soul, you will never be able to get rid of him. \"You belong to him.\" Let us examine and test our ways, and turn back to the LORD. Amen! The fight you feel inside is from wanting things to turn out exactly how you want them. God has a predestined plan for your life. Turn back for peace. He will never let you get away from him; you’ll only do that yourself.\nWhy won’t this dude leave me alone? I’m so conflicted. I want to believe how Momma believes. She is so confident that everything happens for a reason. Well, I still don’t understand why the things in my life have turned out the way they have. Honestly, exacting revenge by rejecting God hasn’t turned out well for me either. I’m so confused.\nOne thing I know for sure is that I’m going to have to come face-to-face with Ray again. Since momma said I can’t avoid God’s decrees, maybe, since momma has a peace about bad things; maybe there is no rule against confronting God’s decrees through momma’s faith until trouble makes me faithful. I believe Momma, but God, this dude I can’t see or confront face-to-face will either help me feel the confidence Momma feels or perhaps I'm just damned." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Land of Fairytales: The Tooth Fairy Gets Lost\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1031\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone looking at a breathtaking view and getting emotional." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "THE LAND OF FAIRYTALES\nTHE TOOTH FAIRY GETS LOST\nEaston stood on a rooftop and peered at what looked like a million little lights. He scratched his head. How had he landed at the wrong house again? Father would be so disappointed in him. Easton felt like a failure. He leaned back against the chimney and studied the map Father had given him during training.\nJack’s first lost tooth was due at Pearl’s Refinery by sunrise, or the magic power needed to keep the Land of Fairytales alive would disappear.\nThis was Easton’s first assignment as a tooth fairy, the same position Avery, his father, held for decades. His father was the best tooth fairy in centuries, highly respected by the Land of Fairytales’ citizens.\nClosing his eyes, Easton tried to recall his mistake. He’d flown north for half an hour then shifted east. He was in the correct town, but this street map was confusing. Should he take Main or First Street to reach Banks Boulevard? When he opened his eyes, Peter stood beside him.\n“Peter, how’d you get here?” Easton asked.\n“How else? I hopped,” Peter answered.\n“You’re not on duty until Easter,” Easton said.\n“I have responsibilities besides Easter,” Peter replied.\n“Like what?” Easton asked.\n“You have so much to learn.” Peter shook his head.\n“Like how to read this map to find Jack’s house,” Easton said.\n“I go every Easter. Take Main Street to First Avenue, then left on Banks Boulevard. Jack’s house is third on the right,” Peter said.\n“Thanks.” Easton flew towards Main Street.\nAt the corner of Main and First Street, he noticed bright lights in the distance. He recalled his father describing Krampus, Dracula, and the Big Bad Wolf, but this didn’t fit those descriptions. Gathering his courage, Easton flew towards the lights.\n“There’s Easton,” Santa said.\n“Is that Santa?” Easton asked.\n“It’s the reindeer and me,” Santa replied.\n“Christmas is months away,” Easton said.\n“We have responsibilities besides Christmas,” Santa explained.\n“Like what?” Easton asked.\nSanta chuckled. “You have so much to learn.”\n“Are you headed to the North Pole?” Easton asked.\n“The sleigh is broken, and without the maintenance elves, our situation isn’t good,” Santa said.\nEaston studied the sleigh. “If we tighten this bracket, I’m certain the sleigh will work.”\nReaching onto the sleigh, Santa revealed a red tool bag. “I never go out unprepared.”\nEaston rummaged through the bag, located the perfect wrench, and in no time, he’d fixed Santa’s sleigh.\nThe reindeer exclaimed, “Thanks, Easton.”\n“You’re welcome.” Easton glanced at his watch. “But now I’ve forgotten the way to Jack’s house.”\n“We go there every Christmas,” Santa said. “Follow First Avenue. You’ll see Banks Boulevard. Jack’s house is third on the right.”\n“The magic power in Jack’s tooth disappears at sunrise.”\n“We’ll give you a ride.” Santa hopped on the sleigh.\nRiding with Santa was an honor. Only the most prestigious citizens ever rode in the magical sleigh.\n“Any closer, and we’ll confuse the children. Fly straight down. You’ll land at Jack’s house.”\nEaston waved and flew straight down, landing in Jack’s backyard.\nEaston tiptoed down the hallway. While Jack slept, he slipped his hand under the pillow, found the special tooth, and replaced it with shiny coins before heading out.\nA storm brewed towards the south, moving towards the Land of Fairytales. Easton hoped to beat the storm home.\nEaston’s wings were heavy as the wind blew against his back. When Easton checked his pocket, the tooth fell out and drifted down.\nThe land below was covered with tall oaks and pines. Easton feared he’d lost Jack’s tooth. He flew down in search of the tooth, but a white flash zipped past and dropped the tooth in his pocket before he reached the land.\n“Stork, is that you?” Easton asked.\n“Yes. Now, hurry home,” Stork replied.\n“I thought you only delivered babies,” Easton said.\n“You have so much to learn.” Stork flew away and disappeared.\nMustering all his strength, Easton tried to fly home, but he couldn’t go anywhere.\nEaston’s eyes welled with tears.\n“Don’t cry.” A woman dressed in flowers appeared beside him.\n“Mother Nature? Is that you?” Easton asked.\n“I calmed the storm, so you’d get home by sunrise,” Mother Nature answered.\n“You only handle the weather for humans,” Easton said.\n“You have so much to learn.” Mother Nature disappeared in the sky.\nEaston sped home faster than ever.\nWhen he entered Pearl’s Refinery, he thought he’d arrived in time, but Pearl greeted him frowning.\n“You’re late,” Pearl scolded.\nWhen Easton removed the tooth from his pocket, the tooth once bright with power now dimly flickered. “Surely, there’s still power.”\n“The decision belongs to the Land of Fairytales’ board of commissioners waiting next door,” Pearl said.\nHe’d heard rumors of the board of commissioners, the elders in the Land of Fairytales, who made the important decisions.\nWith his head down, Easton opened the door. He missed sunrise by nearly a minute. He disappointed everyone, especially Father. Easton placed the dimly lit tooth on the board of commissioners’ table.\n“He’s not ready.” Father Time’s deep voice bellowed out.\nMother Goose peered over her glasses. “He needs more time to study the books.”\n“Avery should provide the boy more training.” Peter Pan said.\nEaston’s face blushed in embarrassment. A dozen of the Land of Fairytales’ elders discussed his failure.\n“The boy’s simply not ready.” Gingerbread Man shook his finger.\nSanta cleared his throat. “Easton isn’t a boy. He understands his responsibilities. Though he was late for his special task, when Easton found us stranded, he took the time to repair the sleigh and rescued the reindeer and me. Easton understands the Land of Fairytales’ most important assignment―helping one another.”\n“No more chattering.” Cupid stood, raising an arm. “Let’s vote.”\nEaston squeezed his eyes shut while the elders voted.\n“All who vote nay, raise your hand.” Cupid paused. “Now, all who vote yay, raise your hand.”\nWhen Easton opened his eyes, the once dimly lit tooth on the table now glowed with magic power.\nEaston stood proudly as Santa made the announcement. The Land of Fairytales’ board of commissioners named Easton the official tooth fairy for 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: Fantastic Variations on an Old Rhyme - ~A Pastiche~\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1051\n\nPrompt:\n\nFly by the seat of your pants and write a story without a plan." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Fantastic Variations on an Old Rhyme\n~A Pastiche~\n\n\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nThere it was again: a faint scrabbling sound. Gert exhaled loudly, flipped her pillow to the cool side, and pulled the quilt over her head.\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nShe could still hear it. A mouse in the wall, no doubt — and there lay Siminy, tidily curled at the foot of the bed, unjustly sleeping the sleep of the just.\n\nWhat time was it? \n\nBonnnggg… The Clock struck One.\n\nGert was too hot. She flung the covers back to feel the breeze from the fan. \n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nThe cat’s white face was tucked under her black tail, just the selvage visible in the half-light. Gert thought about rooting her off the spot and reminding her that dereliction of duty was a serious infraction, but she didn’t want to risk waking Gus.\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nShe pulled the covers up again.\n\nBonnnggg… Bonnnggg… The Clock struck Two.\n\nHickory Dickory Dock, thought Gert, her fuddled brain visualizing mice running up and down the workings of the grandfather Clock.\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nGus rolled onto his back and flopped an arm across Gert. She let out a “Whoo…” of discomfort and scooted a few inches away, shoving the quilt aside.\n\nGus snorted and emitted a loose-lipped “Phhlllll…” \n\nGert felt a droplet of spittle land on her temple, and tugged the covers back over her head.\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nGiving up, she slid slowly out of bed — trying not to disturb Husband or Cat. Husband mumbled something indistinct, and Cat wrapped her tail more firmly across her nose.\n\nGert needed a Plan.\n\nScuffing down the dark hallway, she pondered her options. She only came up with one.\n\nMousetraps? Did they have any? Where would they be?\n\nShe flicked the kitchen light switch on, squinting in the harsh brightness.\n\nJunk drawer, said Left Hemisphere. That would be logical.\n\nLeft Hemisphere was right. Three mousetraps sat neatly stacked in a corner.\n\nEnough for three mice, noted Left Hemisphere sagely. Right Hemisphere giggled and started humming a tune.\n\nGert shook her head, but the tune wouldn’t go away.\n\nThree blind mice,\n\nThree blind mice,\n\nSee how they run,\n\nSee how they run…\n\nRidiculous rhyme! Not helpful.\n\nShe unwrapped a mousetrap and tried to throw away the filmy plastic, but it stuck to her fingers. She flapped her hand.\n\nKrink. Krink. Krink. Finally, the wrapper floated down into the trash can.\n\nBait. Cheese? \n\nGert opened the refrigerator door. \n\n“Mrrrp?” \n\nThat got Siminy’s attention! How had she moved so fast? \n\nShe wound around Gert’s legs, purring at the prospect of a late-night snack.\n\nBonnnggg… Bonnnggg… Bonnnnggg…\nThe Clock struck Three.\n\nHickory Dickory Dock!\n\nThree blind mice,\n\nThree blind mice…\n\n“Aaaughhh! No!” Gert grumbled. Siminy stared at her.\n\nWhere was the cheese? She was pretty sure they had a block of good cheddar; shame to waste any on a mouse though. It was an expensive artisan brand called The Farmer’s Wife.\n\nGus better not have finished it off!\n\nAh – there, pushed to the back of the otherwise bare shelf. \n\nGert mentally apologized to her sleeping spouse and reached in to grab the cheese.\n\nThe cheese stands alone,\n\nThe cheese stands alone…\n\n“Stop it!” she commanded Right Hemisphere. \n\nSiminy pawed at her leg. \n\n“Just a minute!” Gert whispered hoarsely.\n\nA knife. She’d need a knife.\n\nThere was one next to the sink, bigger than she needed. It was a carving knife — but it would do.\n\nShe only needed a tiny piece of cheese for each trap. She could trim the ragged edge from the block.\n\nShe cut off their tails with a carving knife…\n\nThey did look like little tails, those scraps of cheese. \n\nWhere was she getting these morbid, gruesome thoughts? \n\nLack of sleep, Left Hemisphere shrugged.\n\n“Meee —”\n\n“Oh, all right. Here you go, Siminy!”\n\nGert dropped a small handful of Cat Treats — Plink! Plinkety-plink! — into Siminy’s dish. She hadn’t noticed before… they were shaped like tiny mouse heads. \n\n“Taunting me,” she muttered.\n\nNow, where to put the baited traps? \n\nShe didn’t want Siminy messing with them. They’d have to be tucked away.\n\nShe shoved one between the refrigerator and the wall. That left two.\n\nThe Clock stood sentinel in the living room. Too dark to read its face. Gert trudged past, toward the bedroom.\n\nLeave one behind the Clock! suggested Right Hemisphere, ever whimsical. Just in case!\n\n“Oh, all right,” Gert agreed. “Can’t hurt, I suppose.”\n\nAnd of course, one in the bedroom, Left Hemisphere reminded.\n\n“Of course.”\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nAs soon as Gert entered the bedroom, she heard it. She moved, quiet as…\n\nA mouse? suggested Right Hemisphere.\n\nNot funny, Left Hemisphere snarled. This is not the time for jokes.\n\nWhat time was it now, anyway? Gert wondered.\n\nBonnnggg… Bonnnggg… Bonnnnggg… Bonnnggg…\nThe Clock struck Four.\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nGert set the mousetrap near where the sound was coming from, and crawled back into bed.\n\nYawning, she pulled up the quilt once more and scooted herself over, this time close to her innocently snoring husband. Partly to atone for her earlier thoughts, and partly because it was comfortable. \n\nGus draped his arm over Gert and snugged her up to him. Ah, nice… She felt herself drifting…\n\nFoomp!\n\nSiminy landed lightly at the end of the bed, soft-footed forward, and settled herself against Gert’s belly. \n\n“Tuna breath!” Gert whispered to her, and pulled her closer.\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nSiminy purred.\n\nGert smiled drowsily and went to sleep, sandwiched between Husband and Cat.\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nGert didn’t hear it.\n\nMorning came. Gus woke at dawn’s early light, carefully moving away from his soundly slumbering soulmate. \n\n“Phooo, phooo…” she breathed.\n\nAnd then he heard it.\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nHe waited.\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nSiminy slept on, unconcerned.\n\nTiptoeing around the bed, Gus stopped to listen again.\n\nScritch-scritch-scritch.\n\nAh. There it was. \n\nHe stooped to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen to the side of Gert’s nightstand, and was rustling in the draft from their slowly oscillating fan.\n\nRrrr… said his gut. Hungry!\n\nGus headed for the kitchen. Gert was sleeping so soundly, he didn’t want to disturb her. Breakfast could wait.\n\nHe was pretty sure they had a block of good cheddar. It was an expensive artisan brand called The Farmer’s Wife. \n\nHe opened the refrigerator and reached for the cheese just as —\n\nBonnnggg… Bonnnggg… Bonnnnggg… Bonnnggg… Bonnngg…\nThe Clock struck Five." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 New Friend Marie\n\nGenre: black\n\nWord Count: 1725\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by this quote from Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy: “In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My eyes flutter shut, the corners of my mouth curling into a bright smile, as the breeze dances through the short green leaves of the grass beneath me. I giggle quietly, my toes stretching from the ticklish sensation over my bare skin, but I don’t move, allowing my body to sink deeper into Mother Nature’s embrace. The sweet scent of peach and vanilla travels to my nostrils and I eagerly inhale it, wishing this moment would last forever.\n“Is it always this peaceful out here, Ava?” Marie asks me, her petite frame rolling over to face me.\nShe brings her hands together, before resting them under her left temple for support. I watch as strands of her chestnut coloured hair fall over her right cheek, the dark flesh the faintest shade of red from the warm rays of the sun shining above our heads.\n“Only in school time…” I reply in a low voice, as the tip of my index finger brushes her perfect skin to tuck her hair behind her ear. “We timed it well today.”\nMarie nods. “Thank you.”\n“For what?”\n“Showing me around.” She sits up, the hem of her baby-blue skater dress draping over her thighs. “I’ve only been here a couple of days, but I’ve seen way more than I’d planned to. All thanks to you.”\nThe rich chocolate-brown of her irises rests on me and I can’t help but gaze into her eyes, lost in the rawness of her natural beauty. My lips part but no sound comes out, short for words to express my thoughts.\nMarie frowns, leaning toward me. “You have an eyelash there,” she tells me, pointing at my tear duct with her manicured nail.\nI flinch, my nerve twitching under the sensitive flesh. “Here?” I gently swipe the pad of my ring finger across the thin skin of my eye. “Is it gone?”\n“No… wait, let me…”And with that, Marie scooches closer, her face now only an inch away from mine.\nMy heart stutters in my chest at the proximity of our bodies, her breath brushing my cheek in a gentle rhythm that soothes my nervous system. Her middle finger strokes the skin below my eye, the motion light but precise. Normally, I would pull away, untrusting of the unidentified finger poking at my eye. But it is different with Marie. I stay still, the sweetest of tingles travelling through my body, awakening every nerve ending in me in the process with the most delicious of shivers. My middle quivers and I stare at her softly, mesmerised by her bewitching energy, wishing her touch would never pull away from my now-flushed flesh.\nI wish this moment would last forever.\n“There… Got it!” she exclaims, proud of herself, before waving her digit at me.\n“Thanks,” I manage in a breath, looking away, embarrassment at the way my body reacts to hers washing over me like a cold shower.\nBut Marie squints, leaning in again. So I hold my breath, my heart stammering loudly against my ribs as her lips pause in front of mine.\nFor the shortest of seconds I think she is gonna kiss me, but then she says, “You have beautiful eyelashes.”\nMy skin burns at the compliment, and I feel her gaze invade my soul as she focuses on my eyes again, before casually pulling away to sit back over the tall grass. I force a smile, begging my body to calm itself down and my breathing to resume at an appropriate pace. I bring the backs of my hands to my hot cheeks, inhaling deeply.\nHad Marie lingered in front of me a second longer, I would have made a big mistake—I would have kissed her.\nI swallow hard, dread suddenly prickling my every limb and organ in a sharp, uncomfortable pins-and-needles sensation, because this is wrong.\nI have never felt such a strong magnetic pull for anyone the way I do for Marie—not even for Adam, my boyfriend of twelve years. I barely know her, but there is something about Marie that attracts me. It is like being sucked into a river current; no matter how hard I swim the opposite direction, the force of gravity urges me to go with the flow—her flow.\nMarie has only been here for four days, but she has turned my head and heart upside down. She is the first person that enters my mind in the morning as I wake up, and she is the last one I see when I close my eyes in bed at night. I can’t focus. I can’t eat. I can’t work. I can’t live like I used to unless I am with her. I have been blaming it on the lack of sleep and utter excitement at having a new friend, but deep down I know there is more.\nIt can’t be love, though, because that would be wrong.\nAnd yet, how could something that feels so right be wrong?\nI thought I had my life all figured out, until Marie checked in at Hard Rock hotel, where I work as a receptionist.\nI had made plans long before her arrival, and I knew exactly where I was going and how I was gonna get there. I was gonna save money to buy a house with Adam, and then we would get married and have kids, so that we could grow old together as a family. That was—is—the plan.\nBut maybe, just maybe, I might want something different after all. Something else.\nOr someone… else.\nThe thought saddens me, because I went through my entire life knowing where to go, but now… Now I come to myself within the deep dark current of Marie’s river, and I realise the straight way has been lost. And it scares me.\nThe journey with Adam is safe and familiar. The way to it is right there under my nose—all I have to do to get to it is… nothing. I simply need to remain where I am, living my life the way I have always lived it. And that is the opposite of scary, but if I think deep enough about it, I don’t know that I want it, this non-scary life.\nMaybe I don’t want scheduled and monotonous.\nMaybe I want unexpected and thrilling.\nAnd that is how my life has been since Marie.\n“I think school is over,” she remarks, her head bobbing at the horde of children dashing across the park in the distance. She graciously gets to her feet, before extending a hand out to me. “Coffee?”\n“Always,” I chirp, eagerly accepting her grip.\nOur skins meld—hers a rich chocolate shade, mine caramel looking—and I feel a spark, a subtle twinkle of electricity that makes the butterflies in my middle flutter all over. We exit the park hand-in-hand, our fingers entwined in the most natural of fashions, when the pad of her thumb suddenly, gently strokes my knuckles, my heart jumping in my ribcage.\nDid Marie mean to do that?\nI glance at her from the corner of my eye, but I can’t see anything different about her. Her features are as peaceful as an angel’s, her dark hair hovering over her upper back as the breeze caresses her face.\nI command my body to compose itself and stop imagining things, because that is all it was—my imagination.\nWe enter the coffee shop, a quaint establishment run by a single mother of three. I order my usual and Marie has the same—a coconut latte with a sprinkle of cacao powder over the foamy surface—before we settle in the booth in the corner of the confined room. The bare skin of our legs touch under the rectangle table, the hems of our dresses stopping mid-thighs, and I can’t help but revel in the exquisite warmth radiating out of her, knowing that I long for more.\n“Oh look, Ava,” Marie interrupts my train of thought. “Isn’t that your boyfriend?”\nShe points at the glass door with her chin, so I follow her gaze. Shame instantly washes over me the second my eyes land on Adam’s tall frame. As I urgently force myself to scooch away from Marie, she frowns but doesn’t say anything, her gaze lingering over my anxious features with concern. I feel the skin of my cheeks burn under her stare, because soon she will officially meet my boyfriend and that isn’t something I wanted to happen. Ever. Because Adam will burst our bubble. His very presence will only remind me that whatever it is I am feeling for Marie is wrong.\nSure enough, Adam spots me across the coffee shop. A beaming grin lights up his face as he waves at me, happiness shining out of him through and through. A lump grows in my throat, however, feeling awful for not reciprocating his giddiness. I force a smile, awkwardly shaking the flat of my hand over the table in an attempt to greet him in the distance so he doesn’t feel obliged to come over. But to my utter desolation, Adam collects his coffee and swiftly joins us, his black Vans stomping all over the little bubble of magic that was left around Marie and I.\n“Hi, babe,” he greets me, sliding over the pink cushioned booth to sit beside me.\n“Hi,” I reply in a small voice, my frantic eyes darting to Marie when he kisses me on the cheek.\nBut she doesn’t react. She smiles kindly, like she always does, before casually sipping her coffee.\n“And you must be the infamous Marie,” Adam goes on, extending a warm hand to my friend.\n“Indeed, I am,” she giggles, nodding as her small fingers close around his. “Nice meeting you.”\nI sigh, my back sinking against the booth as I watch Adam and Marie engage in an animated conversation about how much I have been talking about my new friend lately. I listen to them both for a while, silently sipping my hot beverage, cursing myself for bringing Marie here, where the entire town goes for coffee. The corners of my lips eventually curl upward into a mask of pretence, my head bobbing left to nod at Adam, before tilting right to agree with Marie, as I force myself to look somewhat composed and not in the least disappointed I have to share her with him." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Butterscotch the Brave\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1006\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finding a monster under their bed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Not so long ago and not so far away there lived a knight: Butterscotch the Brave. At first glance, he appeared unimpressive and his only defining features were his namesake butterscotch-coloured curls. He was not particularly muscly, nor was he exceptionally tall (in fact, he was slightly shorter than average), but his loyalty and big heart were second-to-none - matched only by his bravery. The night Butterscotch’s bravery was born began in a place few would expect: a child’s bedroom. \nIn the quiet dark of her bedroom atop her messy blankets sat Bella, a scared, wide-eyed girl of about six years old. She was woken from her slumber by a slow, uneven scratching sound beneath her bed. From his vantage point on the floor, Butterscotch thought he saw a shadow - blacker than black - shift beneath the bed frame. Focusing on it instead of the girl, he watched for any more signs of movement and was oblivious to the girl’s shudders. \nNothing moved for a long time, and the only sounds Butterscotch could hear were his friend’s shaky and shallow breaths. He was tired and glanced at Bella before his eyelids began to droop. Then, a barely noticeable, shadowy tentacle poked out from beneath the bed and began snaking its way up her mattress. The girl’s mouth opened in voiceless terror as more of the monster emerged silently from its hiding place. It towered above Bella as she sank back into the corner of her bed and tried to hide beneath her covers. In the thin beams of moonlight that shone through her blinds, she could see multiple tentacles and a large head full of razor-sharp teeth and multiple deep yellow slits for eyes. \nButterscotch hadn’t started dreaming yet when he heard a small whimper from the bed. He jolted awake and his eyes widened in alarm when he realized what he was staring at. He had heard about shadow monsters; they preyed on children’s fear until they grew big enough and solid enough to be seen in the daylight - and by then, they were nearly impossible to stop. \nRising quickly to his feet, he scanned the room for anything he could use to fight the monster, until his eyes landed on the toy sword he had seen Bella playing with earlier in the day. He raced towards it, hoping that a toy sword would be strong enough to defeat a shadow monster. Butterscotch reached for it and watched in amazement as the toy blade became a real one when he picked it up. \nAs the monster turned to face Bella and Butterscotch turned to face the monster, he saw several fluffy somethings catapulted off of the last tentacle the shadowy figure pulled out from under the bed. To his surprise, when the tiny clumps of dust landed, they looked like bunnies.\nThe dust bunnies regrouped to form a new plan of attack when one called out to Butterscotch, “Are you with us or against us?”\nButterscotch blinked. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing - or hearing. Dust bunnies were real?!\nGlancing from the monster to the bunnies, he replied, “I’m with whoever will help me protect my friend from the monster.”\nThe top bunny (also known as the bunny in charge) responded, “Let us help. We can distract it!”\nThe bunnies huddled, then spread out. Their plan was simple: rush the shadow monster. Springing into action, the dust bunnies charged across the floor, yelling at the top of their tiny lungs. Joined by reinforcements from under the bed as they approached the looming shadow, the rapidly multiplying critters swarmed the shadow, and crawled up its towering body. It wasn’t until they reached its shoulders that the monster noticed them and turned away from Bella, who was as white as a sheet. \nButterscotch saw his chance and took it. He raced toward the nearest tentacle, sword held high, and swung when he reached it, cutting off part of a tentacle. The monster let out a low, surprised growl and turned to face its attacker. As he watched the menacing figure before him, Butterscotch barely had time to brace himself before a different tentacle sent him flying. He landed with a hard thud and scrambled to his feet, ready to attack, but the monster was distracted now, and trying to dislodge the dust bunnies that desperately clung to it.\nSome of the bunnies that fell to the floor ran to Butterscotch, and the littlest one spoke up in a tiny voice, “Sir, you don’t have any armour to protect you! We can help you!” \nBefore Butterscotch could react, he was covered in dust bunnies that morphed into armour. He didn’t think armour made of dust could be very strong, but when another tentacle slammed into him, he stayed standing and hardly felt a thing. Fighting the shadow monster would be easy now!\nSwinging his sword once again, Butterscotch charged the monster, and again, he cut off a tentacle. The shadow shrieked in pain - and shrunk. Every time Butterscotch hit the shadow with his sword or cut off another tentacle, it shrank, until it was not much bigger than the top dust bunny. At that point, the monster realized it was beaten, and it slithered up the wall and out the window before it was hit again.\nA cacophony of tiny cheers erupted from the army of dust bunnies, and Butterscotch’s armour morphed back into more dust bunnies. He smiled and looked at Bella on her bed, and she looked more amazed than scared now. Slowly, the girl crawled to the edge of her bed and stepped onto the floor. Then, she ran towards Butterscotch and hugged him. The sword fell to the floor and became a regular toy again when Bella picked Butterscotch up, crushing him in her arms. \n“You’re the best teddy bear ever, Butterscotch!” she squealed in delight. She was still beaming when she looked down at the dust bunnies and said, “And I am never cleaning under my bed 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: Noctuary\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1080\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finding a monster under their bed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Damian sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the rocking deck of the ship, holding onto the lower rung of the metal railing and gazing at the horizon. The waning sunset was a blaze of glorious color, the drifting clouds purple against the red western sky, with the swells of the Atlantic ocean sapphire-blue beneath. The old adage red sky at night, sailor’s delight bobbed to the surface of his thoughts. \n\nAs stars materialized in the darkling eastern sky, Damian headed below deck, occasionally steadying himself with the rails lining the narrow hallways and stairs of the Jacques-Yves Cousteau. If the weather stayed clear, both of his parents would be busy tomorrow. He'd left them doing their preparation checks to watch the sunset before going to bed.\n\nWhen he reached his deck, something was wrong. The hallway beyond the stairs was dark; the overhead lights weren’t even flickering. Strange. Too bad he didn’t have a flashlight with him. \n\nRunning a hand along the wall, Damian counted doors until he reached the cabin he was sharing with his mom. He left the door open as he went in, but it didn't help. The light from the stairwell didn’t reach this far, and the walls were devoid of windows.\n\nEnvisioning his path to the drawers under the lower bunk, he fumbled forward, intending to find his headlamp—until the ship pitched, and his shin slammed into something. Damian staggered a few steps, then doubled over in pain, groaning and hissing through his teeth, blind in the dark.\n\nSomething clammy wrapped around his bare ankle. \n\n“YAAAGH!” He jumped, collided with something hard, and fell to the floor. Footsteps approached in the hallway, and a light flashed in his face. \n\n“You okay?” The light pointed down, and he could see who was holding it. Nicholas Bradshaw, Dad’s friend. An octopus scientist—what was the word Dad used? Teuthologist. His brown beard looked like a pirate captain’s. “What happened?”\n\nRubbing his head, the teenager said, “Something grabbed my ankle.”\n\nNicholas knelt beside the bunks, his flashlight playing across the drawers. One was open, and something red was hanging out of it. The red thing squirmed in the light. \n\n“There you are!” he exclaimed, pulling the drawer farther open. “Here's the monster under your bed!” he said, glancing at Damian with a grin.\n\nDamian peered over the burly man’s shoulder. At first, he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. A writhing, slithering mass of thick, red tendrils spotted with white flowed around the inside of the drawer. Then a bulbous head that looked as big as his own reared up. An octopus. He shuddered and took a step back. “What a monster!”\n\n“Kraken’s a big guy, but he’s hardly a monster. He’s not even full-grown yet.” Nicholas began gathering the octopus into a bundle, scooping its tentacles together even as they spilled out like water. Frustrated after several fruitless attempts to corral it with one hand, he looked up at Damian and held out the flashlight. “Would you mind helping me?”\n\nDamian took it, and watched as his dad’s friend lifted the octopus into the air, higher and higher. The snaking appendages with their constellation-like pattern of white spots seemed never-ending. It had to be at least a yard long. \n\n“Follow me,” Nicholas grunted, still trying to cradle all of the arms as he went out the door. \n\nDamian complied, pointing the flashlight around and ahead of the teuthologist and his charge. Walking along the hall, he noticed a wet trail on the floor. \n\nFinally, Nicholas turned aside through an open door, into a room with a large fish tank on a low table. There were no fish swimming in it. \n\n“Could you take the lid off? And—” the man clutched at the octopus—Kraken—as it oozed out of his arms. “Sorry, he’s a handful. Will you help me put him back into the tank?”\n\nDamian lifted the lid and set it on a table. He put the flashlight down, balancing it on its thick handle so it pointed at the ceiling. He didn’t want to touch the octopus, but it probably wasn’t good for it to be out like this if it lived in the water. He came close, hesitantly stretching his hands out. Would he hurt it?\n\n“I’ll hold his mantle, you support his legs, okay? Don’t squeeze them.”\n\nDamian tried not to flinch as the undulating arms came in contact with his skin. They felt strange. Soft but strong as they wrapped around his own arms, the suckers tickling slightly. \n\n“In we go!” Nicholas heaved the floppy head up and over the edge of the aquarium, Damian just a little slower on his end. The octopus sank slowly to the bottom, arms outspread. It was a dark, saturated shade of red, with white spots swirling across its body like living stars. As Damian watched, the red changed, turning paler, with more orange in it, like the sky before he’d come below. Kraken was less startling now, and didn’t seem so monstrous. Only…different. Not the same as him. \n\n“Phew! Thanks for your help.” Nicholas replaced the lid. “You’re Damian, right? Roberto’s kid?”\n\n“Yeah.” Flipping a light switch up and down, Damian asked, “Why do you think the power’s out?”\n\nNicholas grinned. “Kraken did it.”\n\n“What?! How?”\n\n“See that tube there, coming out the bottom of his head? That’s his siphon. He squirts water out of it to swim, but he can also squirt it into the air. Look.” Nicholas grabbed the flashlight and pointed it up at the light fixtures, then down at the floor. Damian could see the puddle beneath. \n\n“He’s done it before,” Nicholas continued, “but I thought I’d outsmarted him with the tank lid this time. I guess I didn’t.” He put the top back on the aquarium. “Are you helping your parents with the ROVs?”\n\n“No. I’m not eighteen yet, so some other people don’t want me on the back deck. They think I’ll just be in the way during the deployments and retrievals.” He watched Kraken stream out of sight under a rock in the tank.\n\n\"Would you be interested in helping me take care of Kraken? More people engaging with him will keep him from getting bored, and then he'll hopefully stop looking for his own fun.\"\n\n\"Sure. I wouldn't mind.\"\n\nFrom the way Damian was staring, mesmerized, at Kraken, Nicholas had an inkling that the Callistoctopus macropus would be getting a lot more attention in the near future." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: 10 Ways to Explain Your Husband's Death to Your Son\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1756\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone facing death for the first time in their life." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Content warning: Themes of death\n\n***\n\n1. Tell the truth\n\nBe gentle but honest. This is your son's first time experiencing death, his only rodeo.\n\nHe is five years old, wild-eyed and sugar-crazed and baby-toothed. A sweet boy. He doesn't complain about going to church or preschool. He picks up the toy cars in his room without being asked, lowers the seat after using the toilet. Some days you feel as though you've won the lottery.\n\nAt night, he helps you say grace. Eyes closed, hands clasped over a plate of hot dog mac and cheese, he prays for God to watch over him and you and your husband and Waffles, his favorite teddy bear, though sometimes you wonder if he means 'waffles' the food. Once, he even prayed for God to watch over your favorite music group, even though he often refers to Queen as \"old people music.\"\n\nIf he is mature enough to have this opinion, he is mature enough to handle the truth.\n\n2. Tell most of the truth\n\nOn the other hand, he's still the boy who cried last Easter when he caught you crouching beneath the rosebush, depositing a bright blue egg in a patch of soil.\n\nAnd again, when you were both playing Chutes and Ladders and he landed on the final chute, the one that jettisoned him back to the start of the game board.\n\nAnd again, last week, when he saw your husband's face plastered on a news report and proceeded to pound the TV until the screen fizzled with static because he thought his father was trapped inside.\n\nSo maybe you only need most of the truth.\n\nBecause you'd had to fib a little back then, didn't you, when you explained over cookies and milk that you were helping out the Easter bunny because one of his eggs had hatched the very moment he stepped foot on your lawn, and he had to hurry off to parent the bunny hatchling? Or when you spent six-and-a-half minutes convincing your bawling child that you'd deliberately been playing the board game backwards as a joke, and that chutes were really ladders the whole time?\n\nOr when you finally asked him to stop hitting the television set because the problem was fixed and his father might be back any minute, and then the two of you stared at the TV, the black-and-white grains pixelating the screen, the right antenna bent like a broken wing.\n\n3. Tell some of the truth\n\nAfter you've tucked him and Waffles into bed and he asks you again where his father is, tell him your husband will be staying with God for some time. Remind your son how good of a man his father is, how skilled he is with his construction tools. Explain that he's the only one who can help Saint Peter with the noise problem they've been having up there.\n\nIt's true: You don't know for sure whether or not the Pearly Gates has a squeaky-hinge problem. But you don't not know that. You figure with the amount of new people who enter every day, there's got to be some wear and tear.\n\nAnd anyway, they've got to have some decent men up there in heaven, so maybe they chose your husband instead of, say, the guy who sold you this house, the one who told you that all your dreams would come true here and you'd never have to worry about anything.\n\n\n4. Lie\n\nYour pastor would disapprove. This you know. You can picture his face—sweat-soaked, hard-mouthed, firecracker-red—as he slaps the pulpit, preaching about the Ten Commandments. Can hear the cloudburst of his words stretching across the pews, salvation falling like rainwater: \"Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.\" But it's your son, not a neighbour, and maybe that makes you exempt, an exception to the rule.\n\nAnd anyway, who hasn't lied before?\n\nLike the time the Campbells said they didn't have enough money for the collection plate, but you spotted them later that night at the wineshop, both of you carrying full baskets.\n\nOr the time your pewmate Ruthie May, bless her heart, brought a vegan cake to Bible study, and you distinctly tasted butter. (You knew it was butter because you'd lied about your margarine-only diet.)\n\nAnd what about those times your husband stumbled into bed after midnight and told you he was out doing some last-minute repairs for a client, and they'd invited him inside for some drinks?\n\nYes, if there's one thing you know by now, it's this: If you believe in something hard enough, it might stop becoming a lie.\n\n5. Say nothing\n\nOnce, when you were a little girl, you tiptoed into the kitchen while your mother was taking a shower, threw open the freezer, and inhaled a whole six-pack of ice cream sandwiches. No real reason why. Just because you could.\n\nWhen your towel-clad mother emerged from the bathroom and saw the results of your banquet—the empty Klondike box, you with one hand on your chilled stomach and one tacked to your clammy forehead—she said nothing. Took a step back, then another, until she was in the safety of her room and the door separated her from your groaning. It took fifteen minutes for you to sit up straight, half an hour before you were able to confess what you'd done, and longer than that for your mother to accept your apology.\n\nBut the thing is: That ice cream pain went away on its own. Your mother didn't have to say anything for it to vanish. All it took was some time.\n\nMaybe that's why sometimes, when your son asks how much longer God needs your father's assistance, you say nothing. You float through the house like a poltergeist. Prepare the dinner, change the TV station, keep quiet. He's your ice cream pain, your husband. The stomachache you're waiting for time to heal.\n\n6. Answer his questions\n\n\"Is Daddy coming back soon?\" is the one you come to dread. For one thing, it's unpredictable, separated by minutes, hours, days. Sometimes, with the two of you glued together on the couch, you'll hear it four times during the span of 60 Minutes. Other times you can go a whole weekend without, thanks to the distractive power of coloring books and trips to the zoo.\n\nFor another thing, he's gotten into the habit of following this question up by reminding you that, according to your pastor, Jesus came back in just three days, so why is it taking his father so long?\n\nYou should be happy he's paying attention during the sermons at all. It's a small victory.\n\nHis other favorites include \"Will he be back in time for my birthday?\" and \"Can we go to see him instead?\" Though during dinner one night he surprises you by positioning his teddy bear in front of his face and lowering his voice to a grizzly tone and speaking for Waffles when he asks, \"Will you leave me too?\"\n\nYou have yet to answer a single one of his questions with yes.\n\n7. Tell the truth (about how you feel)\n\nMommy is tired.\n\nMommy doesn't feel well.\n\nMommy has a headache.\n\nMommy is lonely.\n\nMommy needs five minutes of quiet time, can we please just have five minutes, please?\n\n8. Be direct\n\nHe's carrying a basket as big as his head when you pick him up from preschool one day. It's overflowing with neon card stock—pinks, blues, reds, a rainbow collage of paper. He won't look you in the eye when you help him into his booster seat. It isn't until you've crossed the belt over his chest that you see the words on the cards, the crayon curlicue, the misspellings: \"Git Wel Soone.\"\n\nWhen you question this, he informs you that his teacher, the freckled one waving at you from the doorway now, heard the news about his father. He tells you how she made all other the kids skip nap time to write those cards while she took him to the side and told him it was okay to tell her how he really felt about losing his parent.\n\nThe door slams under the weight of your grip, a noise like a knife slicing an apple in two. You turn to do something to the teacher—what that something is you don't know, will only realize in the passion of the moment—but her back is turned, and she's already headed inside, and you're forgotten, alone.\n\nYou slide into the driver's seat. Let the engine rumble, purr. Tell your son you have a confession to make. You can only bring yourself look at him in the rearview mirror.\n\n\n9. Reassure, reassure, reassure\n\nYou assure your son that none of this is his fault. Let him know that he had nothing to do with the accident or the bottles in the fridge or the fight that you and your husband had the last night either of you saw him. Let him know how much you appreciated him staying in his room, even when the vase shattered. Even when your voice grew wild with accusations. Even when your husband stormed out in his boxers and slippers, slammed his car door, sped off to who knows where.\n\nThen, right there in the preschool parking lot, you do something you haven't done in a long time: You thank him.\n\nFor his resilience.\n\nFor being such a brave, strong boy through all this.\n\nFor that day he smacked the TV antenna and turned the screen into mush before the reporter could tell you that there'd been another woman in the car with your husband when, halfway out of town, he'd run the last redlight of his life.\n\n10. Keep hope alive\n\nSome days you feel as though you've lost the lottery.\n\nThe house is calm, quieter without your husband's specter haunting it.\n\nYour son doesn't speak as much after the funeral. Maybe he doesn't trust you with answers anymore. Most days he just sits on the carpet with Waffles and glides his toy cars along the floor without making a sound. That is, except for when they hit the coffee table and flip on their side, a noise like a bomb detonating.\n\nSometimes, when that happens, you swoop down, a light in the darkness, and retrieve the car. Feel its weight shift in your hand. You gently guide it and its imaginary passengers to safety. Set it down somewhere and let it go where it's heading until it reaches its final destination." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Under The Bed\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1487\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finding a monster under their bed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When Thomas was four years old he woke to a strange noise coming from his closet. It was a sound like a slow moving creature walking through his toybox. Down the hall the light from his mother’s bedroom was on. Thomas got out of bed and went to his mother’s room where she was curling her hair in the bathroom. \n“Mom, there is something in my toybox,” he said. \n“What do you mean?” she asked.. \n“I hear something. It's moving around, and it's scaring me.”\n“Oh it's fine, it's just your step father,” she said. \nIt didn't make sense why his step father would be in his closet in the toybox, but this answer satisfied him and he went back to his room. In the dark he could see his reflection in the mirror of his sliding closet doors. He watched himself while listening to his stepfather walking around in his toybox. \nIt was on a different occasion when he heard a sound like someone pressing their head against the wall and walking down the hall. The hairy scratchy noise of the hair follicles against sheetrock and scalp sliding toward the opening of his bedroom where it finally stopped. He was terrified and could barely get himself back to sleep that night. When he woke and his stepfather was making him breakfast he told him about the strange noise and how it had scared him. \n“Oh, I’m sure it was just Lokey,” his stepfather said, that was the cat. And just at that moment Lokey jumped up onto the kitchen table, startling him, his black slender body brushing up against Thomas’s shoulder. \nWhen Thomas was six years old he began to hear tapping on his bed at night. It would wake him up and he would lay there listening to the ghostly rhythm on the bedframe. These noises scared him, especially when the tapping was accompanied by whispering. The words were always just out of reach, he could only make out the sound of someone saying something.\nThe explanations from his parents about these kinds of happenings were always the same.\n“Thomas, it's probably just the cat,” or “Thomas, I think it was your mom, I know she got up in the middle of the night.” \nOne night when Thomas came back from the bathroom in the middle of the night he discovered a monster under his bed. He didn't notice it at first, it was only when he had jumped in bed and looked into the mirrors of the closet doors that he saw it in the reflection. \nHis first thought was that maybe his stepfather snuck into his room while he was in the bathroom, it was October after all, and Halloween was right around the corner, maybe he was trying to frighten him. But the face of what was down there didn’t look like his stepfather, or his mother for that matter. The face was a dull bluish white with a slender body, and if there were any eyes they were tucked away in dark sockets unseen. Thomas lay there watching the face until he fell asleep. \nEach night after that, he would see the monster under the bed. He made sure that he didn't drink any liquids too late so he wouldn’t have to go to the restroom in the middle of the night. His mother would check under his bed before he got in to make sure nothing was there. He was worried he might mistake something like a crumpled up sweatshirt or one of his toys for a monster. But each night he woke in terror as staring back at him in the mirror was that ghostly white face. \nAfter months of this Thomas began to feel comfortable with seeing the monster under his bed. One night, feeling a little brave Thomas slid the covers off his leg and moved his foot to the edge of the bed. The cold air made the flesh on his ankle rise with goose pimples. Slowly Thomas moved his foot further off the edge, keeping his eyes on the empty sockets of the monster. Inch by inch until finally the monster shifted his gaze toward the approaching foot. And that’s when a slender arm appeared that had been tucked away against the monster’s side. It began to reach up toward his dangling toes. Thomas pulled his leg back and the slender hand slowly returned to where it came. \nThomas told his parents about the monster trying to get his foot. \n“It's probably just your imagination, honey,” is all his mom could think to say. \n“Yeah, remember,” his stepfather said to him at the breakfast table, “there is no such thing as monsters.”\nEach night when Thomas would wake to see the monster staring at him from under the bed he would feel a compulsion to slide his foot toward the edge. And the monster's dead face would slowly turn as his foot came into view, and that slender hand would reach toward his foot. And just before it got what it wanted Thomas would quickly move it away. And the pale hand would return to its place. \nThe weekend before Halloween his parents threw a costume party at their house. The evening was full of witches and ghouls and monsters of different variety, there was punch and hors d'oeuvres, and most importantly, other kids to play with. \nThomas’s mom had taken him to the Halloween store to get a costume a few days before and despite all of her suggestions, Thomas insisted that he only wanted to paint his face the same color as the monster under his bed. \n“What about this?” his mother asked, holding up a creepy mask, “or what about a vampire? You could paint your face the color you want and have fangs!”\n“No. I just want to be the monster under my bed.” \n“Well, okay, but don’t you want to dress up?\n“Yes. but all I need is white makeup and black eyes.”\n“Okay, but you can’t be naked, I know you said the monster under your bed looked naked, you can’t do that, okay?” \nAt the party when the other children asked what he was supposed to be, Thomas told them that he was the monster “under my bed.” \n“A real monster?” a little girl asked him. \n“Yeah. A real one. I see it every night and it wants to eat my leg.” \n“That's creepy.” \n“Do you want to see it?” \n“No,” the little girl said, and walked away. \n“I do,” said a little vampire. \nIn his bedroom the bravest of kids came with Thomas to his room. He instructed them to get onto his bed and he would slide underneath. At first Thomas didn’t think much of it until the lights were off, his eyes slowly adjusting to the sudden darkness. \nAs the bedroom came into view he could see the three brave souls on his bed. A vampire, a zombie, and a werewolf. And then there was Thomas, his white face illuminated, reflecting back his dead looking complexion with what light was coming from his window. He wasn’t paying much attention to his fidgeting friends, he became absorbed in watching himself, playing the part of the monster that visited him each night. \n“I can see you,” said the zombie on the bed.\n“Yeah, you don’t look that scary,” said the werewolf. \n“You’re being weird,” said the vampire. \nBut Thomas didn’t say anything. He was quiet, still and hoped that his eyes weren't able to be seen. \nThe werewolf began crying, and the other two started to whimper and sob, scared of the monster under the bed. The vampire suddenly leaps off the bed and runs for the door. He grabs the doorknob and yanks it open, casting light and sound from the living room. The Monster Mash is playing and the other two children leap from the bed and go running out. Thomas watches them go.\nThe shadows of the dancers move about the walls like cave dwellers, and the music pumps into the room. With the light coming in Thomas can see himself more clearly now, his eyes are glistening balls surrounded by black. As he stares into his own eyes he begins to feel a presence behind him. The hair on his neck feels staticky, and ever so slightly his bedroom door begins to close by itself. He feels a strong urge to scramble out from under his bed but he doesn't move, too afraid by the presence behind him. And as the light from the living room begins to fade away he looks into the mirror and behind him is the face of the monster, the pale face with absent eyes. The darkness of the room collapses around him and in the dark he feels a body press against his and the hand on that slender arm comes around him and pulls him under." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: THIS IS THE DAY WE DIE\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2574\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character looking for a sign." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "THIS IS THE DAY WE DIE\n\nDepression sounded like a half-witted song, one that couldn’t be sung at home or school or the church. It was something so ephemeral that it seemed to have lost its meaning. It was unlikely that one of the children would somehow become infected with the virus. Life with the Bishop was simple: mornings with prayers and a plate of fried bananas; afternoons with Jesus and rosaries and seashells; evenings with stories and hymns. There was no way a child living with Bishop would end up being contaminated with the virus of depression.\n\nThe children had only heard about the word once whilst listening to a discussion they never should have. The Bishop, of course, chastised them by letting them sit in the sun for hours. Afterward, one of the women who wore white and accompanied the Bishop to church on Thursdays came and sat the children on the steps that led to the creek, wanting to explain what the word meant.\nShe said, “One shouldn’t eavesdrop on adult conversations again. The Lord hates it.”\n\nTwo children sat by her side, one on her right and the other on her left. Two others sat on the lower steps, straining their heads backward to catch her words. She was not being loud. It was as though she was talking in low voice for a purpose. They were four children who did not know why they could not dance in the rain or dig holes for dead butterflies. Still, they listened to the woman in white. \n\n“What is depression then?” one of the children asked. She was ten, would be eleven in a week yet she had no name. Bishop did not give his children names. He called them by their ages. In a week, she would be called eleven, replaced by the number she’d come to love and own.\nThe woman answered, “It is just something that shouldn’t be talked about. It’s a virus, something that contaminates the soul.”\n“We don’t have it, do we?” thirteen asked. She still had a couple of months before her name would change but she was not wise. She only knew what she was told.\n“No, no,” the woman said.\n“How would we know if we have it?” seven asked. “What would papa do if we had it?”\nThe woman straightened. “Dear, dear, none of you could ever have it, understand? Now forget there ever was a word like that.”\n\nOnly one of the children said nothing –a boy with dark hair and golden eyes—scrunching at the sun and the water, imagining there was a life afterward; something that was accurate and real and not halved by nothingness. He was the older child, fifteen, calm, quiet, solid and he knew nothing. He sat on the steps for hours until his name became an anthem. They were calling out to him for dinner and stories.\n\nWhen he climbed back to the house, Bishop asked him to wash his hands twice and recite the Lord’s Prayer. The boy missed three lines because, as he would later say, he was nervous. He did not eat dinner that night nor breakfast the next morning. It was to be his punishment. Ten stole flatbread and beans and met him by the creek. She told him to eat it quickly lest the Bishop caught her. They sometimes forgot he was their father. \n\nFifteen ate the food and gave her a small hug. “Thank you,” he told her. She smiled quickly and ran back to the house. The boy sat by the water until the sun was touching the tip of his fingers only. Bishop asked him to recite it again. This time, the boy made no mistake and he ate his dinner in peace.\n\nA relationship so dreadfully insincere had formed between the Bishop and the children but none was willing to tell. They would meet outside the church, standing close to the caramel columns, and laugh about the poise and dexterity of the choristers; twirling in the cold, unattainable bits of blinding knowledge. Then, they would run down the streets with their hands above their heads and color their faces with the spangled air of the streets. The sidewalks were controlled; pedestrians were half-running, half-walking, going to meet their futures. \nTen stopped suddenly to look around.\n\nIt was sometime later before the boy realized his sister had stopped. He led the other two back to where Ten now sat, covered in afternoon tears.\n“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said.\nThe boy smiled at her, his looks resembling pity for both her and himself. She smiled back even though she was still crying and followed him.\n\nThe two girls stayed at the front, walking with ease down to their safe spot. The boy held his favorite sister by her hands, noting how skinny her wrists were. He told her, said she was a little too skinny and she laughed and she said she wasn’t, arguing about something that would outlive the moment. They turned away from the street that led to the church and instead of following the path that led home, they turned away in the opposite direction because, frankly, home was the water as the sun danced naked in it. \n\n“Why did you stop?” he asked her suddenly. \n“I don’t know,” she said and sniffed. She was not crying but there was a jagged white line across her cheeks; tears dried so quickly the boy mistook it as the grace of framed happiness. \nHe nodded, “Did you know that every stranger has a life as simple and complex as yours and mine?”\nTen frowned, asked, “How do you know that?”\n\nThe children of Bishop were not allowed to know things that were not framed by the women in white or by Bishop himself. If her brother knew these things, it meant he had slipped into the library in town and had taken a book secretly. Bishop did not like that.\n“Well, it depends on how we view things and how we react to those things,” he said. He was paraphrasing but the idea was the same. “If we were to look at others in the same way as we view ourselves, we’d be able to understand it all.”\n“I don’t understand,” she said to him. \nHe nodded. Finally, they were home.\n\nThe water was plain and still and naked. The sun was low in the sky, the wind throwing a vortex of grasses and dewdrops. All four of them sat on the steps saying nothing. It was not all the time they were allowed happiness in the form of dancing sunlight and the sweet smell of clean water. \n“Tell us a story, Fifteen,” they said, shuffling their foot. Ten had curly hair so as she did that, they fell against her eyes. She blew air and laughed because she found quiet humor in the messiness. The other girls had straight hair like their mothers. Only the boy had a faint memory of her as he had told them before.\n\n“She went to help people in the other side of the world,” he had said to him. She had left them but perhaps it was because of Bishop and his stringent rules that had caused her departure. The boy had a vague memory of her face as she kissed his cheeks. He did not know her that well.\n\nThe others had simply forgotten about her. She was easy to forget because she did not call or write or say something to them. He remembered her only because he wanted to have something, anything, that was not one-sided.\n\n“I don’t have a story today,” he said, standing up. “But I want us to talk.”\nThe girls shook their heads.\nHe asked them, “What do you want when you grow up?”\n\nTen told him to start because she wanted to hear something dreamy, something tainted with the desire to become better.\n“I imagine I’m all grown up and married,” he started. “My wife might be a teacher or a librarian. I’ll have two daughters.”\n“What about me?” Seven asked, smiling shyly. \n“I imagine you working in a coffee shop, smiling at strangers with messy hair,” he said.\nShe thought about it for a while and then shook her head. “What is coffee?”\nAnd because the boy had only read about it, he said nothing.\nThirteen said, “I think I might become a chorister when I grow.”\n\nThe boy wanted to ask her why but chose not to. It was the sort of future she envisioned so he let her daydream about wearing white and golden robes and singing songs and hymns. He had never heard her sing but, of course, she would be exceptional.\nIt was Ten’s turn. “I think I might become a mother when I grow up.”\n\nA shimmer of rain began to fall and the children dashed back home. It was evening or maybe almost. For dinner, there was a bowl of spaghetti and mint sauce. Then, they crept into their rooms. The three girls slept together in a large room where the stars were in awkward shapes, designed lightly over the walls. They slept in separate beds and dreamt separately but they lived together in simple lucidity.\n\nThe boy lived in the room two doors away. The room was small and had a single window and bars as though the Bishop believed he would someday run away. The bed was neat with two pillows. The lamplight reeked of still melancholy, the sort of feeling one might get from being lonely all of a sudden. In the bathroom, there was a single bar of Palmolive soap and a mirror broken at the sides like the claws of a witch. Fifteen fell asleep sometime around midnight although he swore he heard footsteps go past his door.\n\nBishop came to wake him up. “Get up, boy,” he said, “Where is Ten?”\nFifteen struggled on his feet and followed the grey-haired man out of the room. Ten’s bed was made, the pillow in neat positions. A corner of it was dipped, the sheets squeezed, a timely reminder that she had slept on the bed.\n\nOne of the women in white took the two girls into the painting room where she told them to carve out words. “Tell me where Ten is,” she said to them.\n“We don’t know,” they said, “She was gone when we woke up.”\n\nBishop took the boy out of the house.\nThe sun was out fully, the birds were singing beautifully. It was a graceful day. \n“Where do you think she might be?” Bishop asked, “Once I find her, I’m going to give her a good spanking.”\nIt was morning so they had the upper hand. Fifteen took the Bishop to the creek. It was quiet and undisturbed. They went through the town and they called her name and they strained their eyes against the sun. They met with scrofulous town’s men and they asked about her. By evening, Fifteen had grown scared. The Bishop went into his room to pray while the girls went to theirs to sleep. The third bed by the window remained empty for the night.\n\nThe next day, Bishop went into town to talk to the police. Two men followed him back and questioned the girls.\n“I was sleeping,” Seven said, her lips shaking, her visions becoming blurry and wet.\n“We talked before we fell asleep,” Thirteen said.\nFifteen gulped and sniffed and said he had heard footsteps go past his door by midnight.\n“It could have been the girl,” one of the policemen said.\n“She would not go out that late,” Bishop said.\n“And yet she is missing.”\n\nThe sarcasm was great and treacherous so much that Bishop pulled back and shivered. It would be the first time the boy was to see his father like this.\n“Has she ever done something like this before?”\n“No,” said Bishop tentatively.\n“We’ll search for her,” the second man said. “If she shows up, let us know.”\n\nShe did not show up that day.\n\nFifteen was troubled but more than that, he knew that he was lacking something and that he was living in the same knowledge everyone had. He searched the girls’ room, turning the sheets out, throwing the pillows aside until his heart ached. And he was searching like a mad man for a sign that could lead him to his sister. He turned the events of that day at the creek in his head. She knew nothing, would not leave the house unless he took her. Yet she was gone, disappearing like her existence was nothing, without a trace. In fact, she seemed like something he had made up in his mind.\n\nSearching for a sign—any kind— steered him to make the greatest discovery ever: scratch marks on the floor by her bed. They were small marks, easily forgotten but the boy had held her hands. He knew her and perhaps, yes, this was the sign he’d been waiting for.\n\nOr perhaps not. The marks had been made by Seven some time ago so that ruled everything out. By the ruling out of things, it meant that there was no single idea as to where she was. And yes, Ten stopped being Ten because a week had passed and her birthday too. The idea that she had left so suddenly or be taken away ripped the boy’s heart. The Bishop retreated steadily to his room and his hymns and the sun shone and the birds sang and the water flowed.\n\nIt was a month later, after the boy had waited and prayed for a sign, that he knew, somehow, he had caught the virus. He would find himself plunging into an abyss, untethered, dead and he would not know how to breathe or what to do or what to say. It was a punch to his guts, the falling of everything that used to keep him in place because he had loved his sister in that delicate way of loving something one couldn’t touch, swaying in the tainted and staggering approach of the sun and the moon and the stars. And because he had gotten a version of her and her messy hair and childish candidness, he knew he had not made her up.\n\nHe found himself under the water of the bathtub, sinking and unable to breathe, dying. And something or someone would pull him up and he would gasp for air until there was none left. Their childhood was broken because a curse had befallen him. Sometimes when the boy began to slip again, he would wonder what sort of dream he’d been having when she left or was taken away. Sometimes he hoped he had been dreaming about her and her future of being a mother. \n\nTime came and time left and the world changed and the world did not. She did not come back. He saw girls all grown up with messy hair. He would hold their hands until they pulled away, threatening to call the cops, knowing they were not her. \n\nThe disease did not leave him but he grew up. And his sisters too and they married and left.\n\nAnd he learned that her life had been the world to him and it had lived. He would be waiting for a sign from her until his death. And he would wait for her after death." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Visit\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1140\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where someone sees the shadow of someone standing behind them." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The candle on the bedside table flickered briefly. Afraid of the dark since a small child, I could not find the solace of sleep without the security of light.\n‘Oh no, please do not go out!’ I pleaded terrified of waking alone and defenceless in darkness. I sat up in bed to check if the candle needed replacing. It did not. Only half consumed, its flame burned steadily as if recognizing how much I needed its comfort.\n‘Thank you.’ I breathed. Neck muscles relaxed as relief flooded through me. I watched the candle flame grow brighter mesmerising me. I shook my head to escape its power and as I did so on the wall behind the bedside table, a shadow crept up from the floor spreading like an evil genie as it reached the top of the wall angling across the ceiling until it loomed over me. Blinking to clear my eyes of the fog of sleep. The room temperature suddenly dropped. Shivering uncontrollably from cold or dread, the hair on the back of my neck bristled as I tried to reconcile reality and logic with fantasy and fear. Puzzled I asked myself\n‘How can this be? There is nothing behind the candle flame to cast such a shadow! And it cannot be mine even though in my current state of alarm I might be afraid of it.’\nToo terrified to turn round, I shut my eyes tightly, listening intently for the slightest sound which might betray a presence in the room which remained as silent as a windless desert or a Pharoah’s undiscovered tomb. I opened my eyes to see the shadow change shape from a looming genie to a crouching succubus come to seduce and drain me of my bodily fluids. Soft breath blew on my ear making my body quiver. Fingers feather soft stroked my chest tracing their way towards my lower body. Unable to resist I turned to face my phantom lover.\nInstead of a beautiful ethereal woman, a handsome man sat on the bed looking down at me. Striking in a military officer kind of way, dressed in a smart blazer with shiny gold buttons, a striped regimental tie and white shirt. His sandy hair greying at the temples cut short above his ears gave him a distinguished look. Well groomed and attractive in a George Clooney kind of way.\n‘I come in many forms,” it said, blue eyes bright.\nIts left eye grew larger as if under a magnifying glass and zoomed in on mine. I could see a large bird like an eagle or a vulture flapping towards me from the center of this eye’s pupil appearing to get larger but only because it was dragging me inexorably into its depths. I did not have strength to fight against it as relentlessly it my soul consumed. Transfixed, hopeless and helpless in its thrall, it dragged me to the abyss and an endless fall. A silent scream of terror choked my throat. My body levitated from the bed, hovered like a hunting kestrel, plunged down and bounced back up again to float for two seconds before tumbling down again filling me with dread. Each bounce lifted me like a tiny boat beneath a surging tsunami. Ahead and over, waiting to pitchfork to hell swamped by a mountainous, steepling swell.\nThen a black void swallowed me whole like a shark devouring a hapless, miniscule fish. My body hurtled from day into dark arms locked against ears, sensing the slick swish of clothes swirling and thrashing through slippery seaweed as stark dread compelled me to make a death wish pulse racing, nostrils flared, eyes screwed tight shut, bowels loosened by the fear in my gut. I plunged for what seemed a lifetime before I blacked out. Beyond caring as if dead to the core deprived of feelings like a mindless lout destroys for fun or swept ashore like surfers shattered in a last wipe-out.\nAwakening in pitch blackness, I found myself in a cavern standing in a silence profound. Nothing stirred in the stillness of that place. A strange smell suffused the air like the incense used in a great cathedral to replace the smell of the poor to give no offence to God in prayers and in case the scented rich complained. Still in suspense, I stretched out a trembling hand to feel my way hoping for that which might allay my fears. Nothing. Darkness wrapped round me like a shroud.\n‘Am I blind?’ I asked myself as my appeals for help echoed mockingly in emptiness.\nMy pleas decreased in volume as hope evaporated and the walls of the cavern closed in tight around me. Clarity returned and rational thought allowed logic to replace fear. Devoid of panic, I assessed my situation: was I trapped between heaven and hell, in limbo, or the bottom of a well? Looking up, I glimpsed a circle of light as though through the wrong end of a telescope. Stars flickered there sometimes dim, oft times bright. Obviously, I wasn’t dead nor devoid of hope because I could breathe and possessed good sight. But how to reach those stars without a rope or means of climbing up to them? If in limbo, I would be powerless to escape but if I were at the bottom of a dry well or bottle dungeon an exit might be possible if I could conceive of a way to do it.\n‘If a well, it might be made of bricks to offer foot or toe holds to climb up on.’\nReaching out I felt not brick but a smooth surface of concrete. Tracking round a circular wall my hands encountered a metal ladder bolted into it. I tentatively place one foot on the first rung followed by the other. which proved to hold my weight. Just as I reached the top of the ladder a heavy access hole cover crashed down sealing the exit and narrowly missing my fingers. I lost my balance and fell backwards into the void once more but this time swept inexorably to the edge of a horrifying waterfall and tumbling helplessly like a rag in a washing machine plummeting down and landing on my bed which had turned into a terrifying trampoline. Tossed and thrown, all seemed lost until a small quiet voice whispered in my ear,\n“Say the Lord’s Prayer.”\nwhich in my naive youth I might have rejoiced to do but in aged disbelief I did not dare. God forgive me, there was no other choice. But I could not remember the words I swear until they seemed emblazoned on my brow. I recited them more in hope than in belief. Straightway the hideous bouncing lessened and the words vanquished the terror, I know not how, until I lay at peace and slept like a new-born baby." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Touch of Heaven\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1012\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with a character receiving a hug or words of comfort." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Look around you,” Grandpa whispered as he gently rested his left hand on my right shoulder, and waved out in front of us with his right. “This is what I see every day now.”\nI looked out over rolling emerald hills, towering, snow covered mountains in the distance, and glistening, white-capped waves crashing into the sandy coast. I had never seen so much natural beauty in one glimpse. I thought to take a picture, but I didn’t want to move for fear of losing the moment.\nA warm breeze blew my hair softly behind me, and the faint sound of chirping was growing closer. I looked up at Grandpa, watching his face as he undoubtedly recalled the exact species of bird we heard calling–one of his favorite pastimes. I briefly remembered the small Birdwatching Book that used to sit on the end table right next to his recliner in Grandma and Grandpa’s living room. On occasion, I was known to flip through the book, looking at all the pictures of the colorful and exotic birds, wondering how Grandpa could remember them all. \n“What kind of bird is it?” I asked quietly, watching as a single bird landed in a tree just a few feet away from us. Its feathers rustled and it let out a few more chirps before sitting still and gazing out upon the landscape.\n“A blue dacnis. Isn’t it beautiful?” Grandpa replied, moving his hand from my shoulder and guiding me toward the tree slowly; silently. We stopped just shy of the tree and took in the moment, embracing the nature, the life, the togetherness that it had been so long since we had felt with one another.\nI stared up into the tree and noted the beauty of a bird I’d never seen before: striking black and deep blue with feathers that looked as soft as fur. It traveled alone, but seemed at peace in its solitude.\n“Where does it come from?” I pressed, thinking how rare a find we must have stumbled upon.\n“Lots of places,” Grandpa replied, “Mostly Argentina.”\nI noted the curiosity that an Argentinian bird would be here on its own, but then reminded myself of the uncertainty of where “here” really was. I considered asking the question, but was filled with fear of what the answer might be.\nI closed my eyes, breathed in, and was overwhelmed by the combination of the fresh air and Grandpa’s cologne–a scent I didn’t realize how much I had missed until this very moment. Time didn’t seem real, and I couldn’t put a finger on just how long it had been since I had last seen him, but I was certain it had been too long.\n“So this is where you’ve been,” I stated, reaching out for Grandpa’s hand.\n“Yes,” he said simply. “I’ve been getting it ready.”\nHe said the words as if it should be obvious–obvious that he had been here all this time, obvious that he was preparing, obvious what he was preparing for; but, I still could not understand.\n“Ready?”\nHe smiled and nodded. “Someday, when the time is right, you will join me here. So will Grandma, and your Mom, and your aunt, and your cousins. Someday, we will all be together again, in this place.”\nAnd I suddenly understood. This was our own piece of heaven.\n“But I miss you,” I admitted, and for the first time since I’d found myself here, I knew I was frowning. My heart felt as though it was wrenching out of my chest, knowing that someday wouldn’t be soon–that I still had a long life ahead of me without Grandpa. He wouldn’t be at my birthdays, my wedding, wouldn’t get to see me be a mother, and watch my babies grow. I would be missing him. Always.\n“I miss you, too,” he stated calmly, “But I’m always with you. Watching. Preparing. Waiting.”\nThere was a brief moment of silence as I reconciled the truth. What a blessing to see him, hear him, feel his presence; and yet, what a cruelty to know that it was an ethereal experience, and I couldn’t have him back in my life each day. I racked my brain for an answer–for some way to take him home with me, but I knew it was impossible, and that I had no choice but to savor each second I had left with him.\n“I’m proud of you,” he beamed, and I knew it was true. He pulled me into his warm embrace and squeezed, “I am so, so proud of you. And one day, we will celebrate your accomplishments and your successes together, here.”\nI felt tears welling up in my eyes, knowing this was the start of goodbye.\nI squeezed him tightly, and quietly whispered, “I love you, Grandpa.”\n“I love you, too, sweetie.”\nI found comfort in his words, but the facts remained: I knew that this moment was fleeting–that sooner than later, I would be back on Earth, and he would be here, and there was no way of knowing when I would see him again. The thought made me squeeze him even tighter, as if I could hold him tight enough that the moment would never have to end.\nAnd then it felt as though he disintegrated from the air around me. I was floating downward, through the plains and into the soil, into the clouds, and delicately descended until I felt the softness of my pillow beneath my head.\nI hesitated to open my eyes, breathing in and hoping against hope that Grandpa’s cologne would still fill the air. Instead, I smelled bacon cooking a few rooms over, and when I opened my eyes, I could feel the fresh tears on my cheeks.\nThere are dreams that make you cry because you’re sad, dreams that make you cry because you’re afraid, dreams that make you cry because you’re happy, and dreams that make you cry because you’re loved.\nEarth would never be the same without Grandpa, but I was eternally grateful for that brief touch of heaven." } ]

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

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Stuck\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1635\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finding a monster under their bed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Stuck \n“Don’t look under the bed.” Mom said and gave me a good night kiss. \n“Why?” I just had to ask. \n“Your favorite question again. ‘Why, why, why.’ Well, you might find something you don’t want there. That’s why. Good night.” Mom left the room with the door slightly opened so I could see the hallway light. Then again in the morning, the light was always off. That spooked me each time when I thought about it. \nNow, here is a different situation, I thought. \nWhy did Mom tell me not to look under the bed? I’d never dreamed of looking under the bed if she didn’t mention it. Why would I? All I will find are half-broken toys, candy wrappers, or possibly a dead mouse since I haven’t heard it running through the ceiling. \nCurse you, Mom. \nI closed my eyes and all I could think of was what was under the bed. \nThere should be nothing I couldn’t imagine. \nOops, I used the I-word. \nImagine. \n“You can do this. Use your imagination.” That was what Mrs. Koncharofsky would say when we had to do any work in the classroom. \n“What is 7 times 13? Use your imagination.” She would say. \nIf I can imagine the answer, why am I here to learn how to multiply numbers? I should be home imagining what I want for my lunch and what presents Santa Clause should bring to me under the tree. \nIn time, I was getting sleepy. I should go to bed. After all, I have school tomorrow. I need to save all the imagination for what Mrs. Koncharofsky will ask me in the classroom. \nI was ready to go to bed in a second if I didn’t hear a cry under the bed. It sounded like a growl. Very light and soft and wimpy growl. \n“Use your imagination!” Mrs. Koncharofsky’s voice lingered in my head like a doorbell. \nI don’t want to use my imagination! I shouted in my head. \nFortunately, I could not imagine anything could be under the bed, but unfortunately, I was not sleepy anymore. \nI want to sleep! My heart was shouting at me. But my brain said I am wide awake!\nWhat shall I do? \nYes, I need to find out what is underneath the bed. \nBut why? It’s probably a cat. We don’t have a cat. A puppy? We don’t have a puppy either. Does Mom want to surprise me with a new pet? It’s a nice thought, but she isn’t that kind of a person. It’s not my birthday or Christmas. There is no chance of that. \n“Use your imagination!” \nWhy? Mrs. Koncharofsky? Did you imagine that we need to start calling you by your new last name in the middle of the school year? \nYes, she was Miss Tanaka, and after a Thanksgiving break, she became Mrs. Koncharofsky. \nDid you imagine that we had no problem understanding how the marriage system works in the United States? You should’ve kept your last name. It’s easier for us to pronounce and you don’t even look like one of Koncharofsky. \n“We all need to accept one another.” That’s what she would say. In fact, her husband’s first name was Mike. When he proposed to her, she realized that she would become ‘Koncharofsky.’ She was already in love with him and all, so she said she accepted to become ‘Koncharofsky.’ \nWait! I don’t have time to reminisce about my schoolteacher’s fond memory of her last name. There is something under the bed! \nThere was a cry again. This time, it was a bit louder but still sounded frail and weak. \nI took a deep breath to brace myself. I crawled onto the floor like a snake and peeked under the bed. \nThere they were. Two enormous eyes shining like diamonds glared at me. There was a gigantic monster under the bed. \nI couldn’t see anything else but those eyes. But they were not shined because of the evil power. They were filled with tears. \nThe monster growled again. \n“Who are you?” I squeezed out my voice to ask that simple question. \n“I’m a monster.” His voice was so gentle that I could barely hear. \n“What are you doing down there?” \n“I’m supposed to scare you.”\n“I’m kinda scared. Well done, now goodbye.” \n“No, I can’t come out of here. I’m stuck.” \n“How did it happen?” \n“I am a big monster. I usually use the closet, but there is no closet in your room. So by default, I appear under the bed.”\n“That doesn’t make any sense. Don’t you know how big you’re?” \n“Of course, I do. This is the first time this happened to me. You know everything has the first time.” \n“Yeah, but this is stupid. You know today is a school night, don’t you? I have a math quiz tomorrow. And I’m not good at math, especially fractions.” \n“Well, I apologize for the inconvenience. But if you’re not scared, I’ll be stuck here forever. Could you scream a bit?” \n“I can’t do that. Mom will be mad at me. She’s the one who told me not to look under the bed. I don’t want her to know that I found you there.” \n“You want me to stay here forever?” \n“Frankly, I don’t care. I need to go to bed. You know, Mom vacuums every morning. Maybe that’s how you can get out of your predicament.” \n“Predica-what?” \n“Predicament.”\n“Whoa, you know a big word.” \n“Don’t you know what predicament is? How old are you?” \n“Eight.” \n“Jesus, I am nine. I thought you guys are a lot older than I am. So at eight, you start scaring human kids?” \n“Well, kinda. We practice and need to pass the scaring test. I passed it two weeks ago. This is my second week.” \n“It sounds like you’re an adult already.”\n“Well, I am on my own.” \n“Where are your parents?” \n“They are in Florida. They have already retired from scaring kids. They have pina colada and lie down on the beach.” \n“Monsters, too, retire in Florida? I’ve never thought that would be possible.” \n“There are a few beaches just for monsters although we can’t tell them apart from retired old humans from retired monsters. They all wear Hawaiians or moo moos with sunglasses.”\n“What are moo moos?” \n“It looks like a big pillowcase. Very colorful, though.”\n“Who, I had no idea. We are very much alike to each other.”\n“You know, once, my mom sent me a photo with this humongous head monster in moo moos.”\n“Really?” \n“Well, it wasn’t a monster standing next to her. It was an old lady with a towering hairdo. It looks like burning Eifel Tower.” \n“That’s funny.”\n“It was….”\n“What’s wrong?”\n“I’m so stupid. I should be scaring you.” \n“Well, but now I’m glad you’re here. I’m getting sleepy with your nice story.”\n“Really? Good to know.” \n“Now I’m relaxed and don’t even think about the quiz tomorrow.” \n“Fractions, huh? Would that scare you?” \n“No, I just get nervous.”\n“You know what we do when we are nervous?”\n“What do you do?”\n“We imagine the zombies running around with their heads cut off.” \n“That’s funny. We imagine the chickens instead of zombies, but zombies will do, too.” \n“Good.” And the monster sighs deeply. \n“What’s wrong?” \n“I guess I’ll be stuck here forever. Don’t get me wrong. I am having a great time talking to you.”\n“Now you said that I can’t go to sleep thinking about you being stuck there forever.”\n“Sorry.”\n“Just say something a little scary. Then, I scream lightly. Okay?”\n“Okay, let’s see…. MOO!”\n“What’s that?”\n“Well, if I say BOO, that will surely scare you. I just wanted to scare you slightly.” \n“Have you scared anybody before?” \n“Of course, I have. I told you this is my second week.”\n“What age group?”\n“They are between three to eight.” \n“So, I’m your first nine years old.”\n“Yes. You’re still a child, aren’t you?” \n“Wrong, you are. We nine-year-olds are more sophisticated than those nose-running, underwear-smelling muddy foot scoundrels.”\n“I can see that from your choice of words.” \n“So, you must set up the scene right to scare me. You have some power to do so, don’t you? Or do you just scream like a monster?” \n“I am a monster.” \n“So today is a good learning opportunity for you. You have a long career ahead of you as a scarer. You need to improve the technique to scare kids my age.” \n“Okay, I’m beginning to feel lucky being stuck here.”\n“Good.”\n“First, you must create an eerie atmosphere. The door closes for no reason. The wind blows in and splatters the curtains.” \n“I can’t do that. I don’t have those powers.” \n“What do you have?”\n“I have large shiny eyes with pointy sharp teeth.” \n“That’s scary. Good. What else?”\n“I can do a voice.” \n“You mean, you can sound like someone else?”\n“Yes. Ahem… ‘We all love China, China, China, Let’s make America even greater again.’”\n“Are you sure you’re here to scare kids?”\n“I saw that on TV the other day in a kid’s bedroom. She left a TV on.” \n“Who else can you do?” \n“Let’s see… ‘Come down here, Samuel Moses Anderson! Right this second!”\nI screamed! The monster sounded just like Mom. \nThe door opened. There stood Mom.\n“What happened?” \n“Nothing.”\n“Nothing?”\n“Did you peak under the bed?” Mom smiled.\n“Of course, not.” I looked away from her.\n“Okay. Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?”\n“No. I’m too sophisticated for that.”\n“How about this?” Mom kissed me on my cheek.\n“Good night, Mom.”\n“Good night.”\nMom left the room with the door slightly opened. I took a deep breath, and it became quiet in the room. I heard nothing from under the bed no more. \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: A Raw Deal with the Devil\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2015\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that starts with the line “So, what’s the catch?”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Story contains allusions to torture, but no actual depictions of it)\n“So, what’s the catch?”\nThe demon hesitated. The sulfurous smoke billowing from his form dissipated slightly as his concentration wavered. His wings drooped. The arm he had been holding out lowered; the contract in hand, written in red ink on shining golden paper, dimmed.\n“The…catch?” He rumbled, bemused. “I thought I had explained it well enough. At the hour of your departure from the earthly realm, you willingly forfeit your soul. Thenceforth it will be entrusted to the care of myself, and by extension my master, the Lord of the Infernal Realm.”\n“Oh, yes, you did explain that.” The woman said, nodding politely.\n“…Well then. That’s the catch.”\n“I see.”\nThe demon frowned. Not wanting to linger on the negatives, though, he pressed on and proffered the contract to her again. The red ink ran slightly for dramatic effect (Blood was more traditional, but there were much better uses for blood in the long run. Still, people expected it, so red ink was the preferred substitute).\n“So, do we have a deal?” he asked. A roll of thunder filled the room at his words, and the smoke increased.\nThe woman sitting across from him frowned, considering. She was older, almost fifty years of age. Her hair was just beginning to gray, and the wrinkles were adding up on her face. She had a pleasant demeanor, and a gentle smile. At a glance, she was a typical, unassuming grandmother. If you looked closely, though, there was a sadness underneath that smile, a pain behind her eyes. Her’s was the visage of one who had lost much, and although she still persevered, the losses had taken a toll on her.\nThe demon, who was well versed in the reading of human emotions, noticed all of this. Not that he cared, particularly.\nThe woman sat there solemnly for a few more seconds. Then she glanced up and asked, “Is that the only catch?”\nThe demon began to grow impatient with this line of questioning. “Yes.”\nShe tilted her head. “Are you sure?”\n“Am I…Yes, that is all!” The demon boomed. His wings flared threateningly, and the room shook slightly from his thunderous tone. “Is that insufficient? You will be dragged down to the deepest depths of the nether realm and tortured for all eternity! Do you think making a mockery of the idea will lessen your torment? Because I assure you,” He said, low and menacing, leaning in to put his face level with the human woman's. “Your jests will make it no less painful when you’re down there.”\n“Mm.” The woman said, rubbing her chin. “You’re not very good at selling the idea.”\nThe demon spluttered. “I didn’t…listen, you were the one who summoned me—”\n“Also, you didn’t mention torture before…” She continued mildly.\nThe demon threw up his hands in exasperation.. “It was implied when I mentioned condemning you to hell!”\n“Oh, Hell, now? No, no, you never mentioned that at all.”\nThe demon paused with his hands upraised. “Yes I…didn’t I? What did I say, you will be, uh, brought back to…”\n“The nether realm, I believe.”\n“Yes.” The demon said flatly. “That means Hell.”\n“Ah, I see! Good to know.”\nThe demon leaned back on his tail, perplexed. “Are you entirely unfamiliar with the nature of the pact you are eliciting to make?”\n“Oh, no, no, I’m passing familiar.” The woman said, with a reassuring smile. The demon ground his teeth. This mortal was insufferably. “I just think the suggested terms of the agreement are… How can I say this nicely? Poorly articulated, is all.”\nThe demon’s eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. “You dare—”\n“I mean, I could probably guess that the nether realm means Hell, but this is a legally binding contract we’re talking about, isn’t it? Shouldn't the terms be clearly defined? And come to think of it, an ‘eternity of torment’ is incredibly ambiguous, in terms of the scope of the punishment. Will I be in constant agony, 24/7? Or is it a 40 hour workweek?” Her eyes lit up with a spark of mirth. “Do we get holidays off?”\nThe demon glared at her. “Amusing, mortal. Do you seek to waste my time then? Perhaps I’ll simply strike you down and collect your soul on my way out.”\nThe woman’s smile faded. “Hell has no claim on me, demon.”\nYet, the demon thought, but she continued.\n“You won’t kill me until you get me to sign a contract, and I won’t sign anything until I’m assured that the terms are acceptable, so let’s stop pretending that you’re in a position of power here. I have what you want, not the other way around.”\nThe demon considered her words, then inclined his head. Of course, she wasn’t entirely correct. He did have what she wanted, otherwise she wouldn’t have called him. Mortals were so easily blinded to how their desires controlled them. But he had to acknowledge that she was at least partially correct. He had nothing to gain by killing her now; best to let a proper deal play out.\n“Anyway, I’m surprised your conditions are so poorly defined, is all.”\nThe demon sighed. “The conditions are clearly spelled out in the contract, if you’re inclined to read it.” He shook the piece of parchment he held for good measure.\n“Ah.” The woman said, squinting at the golden paper. “I thought that was just for show.”\nThe demon shrugged. “It kind of is. The paper itself is irrelevant, but the conditions laid out are quite binding.”\n“Well, then, why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”\n“It’s…not in our best interest for humans to be well informed when making pacts with us.” The demon said, Then he paused, wondering why he was explaining this to her.\n“Well! That’s quite a policy. I imagine that’s going to get you some complaints.”\nThe demon gave her a quizzical look. “Yeesss?”\n“…But at least you’ve been forthcoming in answering my questions, so I thank you for that.”\nThe demon blinked. So I have. Had this unassuming mortal disarmed him with her demeanor and caused him to reveal more than he should?\nGoddamn it! He swore. Then he cringed and glanced downward. Sorry.\n‘Satandamnit’ just didn’t have the same ring to it.\n“Very clever, human.” He growled. “Shall I wait on you while you waste an eternity pouring over every legal clause?”\n“Oh, yes, if you would. That would be very kind.” The woman agreed cheerfully.\nThe demon glowered at her, but eventually settled back and watched as she carefully scrutinized the piece of parchment. As she read, he pondered. She was…perplexed. Based on a very surface level judgment of her character (Which was all he needed, most of the time), she was headed nowhere near hell. Why would she be seeking a literal deal with the Devil? Not that he was complaining, mind.\nHer fixation of loopholes and ‘catches’ was more familiar, though. Always the mortals hoped to outsmart the Devil, and always they failed. This woman would be no different, so long as he could successfully ensnare her.\nAt length, the woman glanced up from her reading. “Do you have to keep spewing that smoke?\nThe demon chuckled. He’d forgotten about the sulfuric fumes. “Not at all.” With a wicked grin, he morphed his form to more closely resemble a human.\nThis was a classic look for him. Tall, but not too tall, dignified features, white hair, neatly kept beard, dark skin. He found this look worked wonders on middle aged women. He smiled, recalling the number of flustered “Oh!”s he’d elicited from them over the years when their eyes fell upon his form.\nWhen the woman before him saw his new form, her face…fell, slightly. She did utter a soft “Oh…”, but there was no fluster in her voice.\nThe demon paused, taken aback by her reaction. “Is this form…displeasing?” He found himself asking.\n“Oh, no…” She said, “You just…reminded me of someone.”\nShe went back to her reading, leaving the demon more confused than ever.\nFinally, she finished. “Well?” The demon prodded.\n“Well, yes, it’s all well and good, but…the punishment still seems a bit vague to me.”\nThe demon rolled his eyes. “You cannot escape the cost of the deal, mortal. The price must be paid.”\n“Yes, but how?”\nThe demon frowned. “Well…by torture.”\n“What kind of torture.”\n“Why do you want to know?” The demon asked, just a tiny bit weirded out by this mortal’s obsession.\n“Well, I guess what I really want to know is what level of punishment is it. I mean, will I be put with the petty thieves, or the murderers? That kind of thing.”\n“Murderer’s could be arranged.” He growled.\nOf course, she remained undeterred. “Hm, yes, and I suppose that would be a bit better than the rapists.”\n“…If you say so.”\n“Well, let’s hash it out. I’m curious how the levels of hell are actually organized, incidentally…”\nAnd so began the longest, most aggravating conversation the demon could remember having, in which he basically haggled with the mortal about where she would end up being punished. She was very specific, and before long he just started agreeing with her requests to get her to move on. It didn’t matter to him in the end, so long as she signed the Godda— sorry, Satandamned contract.\nAnd in the end…she did. She signed the dotted line, took a shaky breath, thanked him, and walked out the door. The demon stared after her, baffled. She hadn’t even dismissed him. Technically, he could trash the place, then pursue and… not quite kill her, but get an early start on her eternity of torment. But…he just didn't’ have the energy, after all that\nAnd again, he’d gotten what he came for. She’d signed away her soul. The night was a success.\nRight?\nMany years passed, and the demon continued his work. He didn’t have a lot to do. Actual demonic summonings, and the subsequent signing of infernal pacts, were becoming more and more rare these days. A more widespread disbelief in the supernatural was a primary cause, but the truth was that it just wasn’t the most popular way to sell your soul these days. Most humans found much more mundane ways of doing it.\nOne could sell their soul for anything, these days. For ‘love’, for greed, for some addiction. The demon had to admit, his master’s methods were truly inspired. Why do all the work of corrupting human souls by hand, when you can just automate the whole process?\nThough years had gone by, he couldn’t get that woman out of his head. She’d been up to something. Plenty of mortals tried to abuse an infernal contract, but she was different, somehow but her motivation. The demon was a master at reading humans, but her motivation escaped him.\nAfter a few years of trying to put it out of his head, he decided to look her up. It turned out that she had been using her newly discovered money-making skills (Yes, she asked to be financially savvy) as charitably as humanly possible. She’d done everything: Donated to healthcare programs, started schools in Africa, contributed to wildlife preservation funds. Still suspicious, he watched her on and off until the end of her life, and by the time she passed on, she’d given away every penny of the money she’d made in her entire life.\nShe went with him without complaint, and he left her to rot in hell for a while. One day, when the nagging sensation of being had got to him again, he checked in on her. She was definitely suffering and miserable, but… there was someone she was with. A younger soul, with a striking resemblance to her. A son, perhaps?\nThere was nothing that needed changing, so the demon left them to their suffering. Still, he never quite shook the sensation that he’d been had, somehow, by a woman that asked, very specifically, to go through hell." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Monster Under My Bed\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2771\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finding a monster under their bed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Monster Under My Bed\nThe exact details are hazy. I was in college, my junior or senior year, and it was a creative writing class. We were in the computer lab that day, working on our personal essays, but many of us were stuck. “Take a snapshot from your life,” our professor told us. “Select a good one- a hard one, a happy one. Take your pick. And then write about it. How hard can it be?” Behind the glib tone, however, a smile; he was heckling us, and we returned it with equal fervor. Mock fervor; pretend outrage. Our relationship with him was easy, comfortable. An older man, tall and slightly stooped, he occasionally read us the stories he’d written himself; and sometimes- ridiculously so, now that I think back on it- he’d pass them out for us to read, giant stacks of them, with the option of censored copies (black Sharpie streaked across whole paragraphs); and uncensored ones, rife with…I can’t remember, exactly. Sexual stuff? Gore? What else could it be? So funny how this professor, teaching a college level class, was so parsimonious, even protective. Sweet, really. \nAnyhow, it was with this sense of ease that we’d brainstormed out loud, volleying ideas back and forth, our voices clambering over each other. A snapshot then; not the curated sort with placid smiles and stiff postures. Candid ones. Microexpressions of rage or joy; the authentic ones.\nWith unusual brashness, I announced, “At night, my sister used to hide under my bed and grab me. She’d do it almost every night for…” I thought for a moment. “Gosh, for like a year.”\nThis stopped the class. They laughed and grimaced in equal measure. Every night? \n“Yes,” I said, laughing with them. “Almost every night. I’m not exaggerating.”\nThey asked the obvious question: But wouldn’t I expect it, night after night? \nI kept my tone light, but the attention made me feel warm; flushed. “It wasn’t only under my bed. She’d cram herself into my side table. Like really contort herself. Or she’d hide behind the clothes hanging in my closet. She once even tried to hide under my mattress, but she couldn’t manage it.” \nBut why, they asked? \n“She loved to scare me. It made her laugh. And it always worked. I’d scream every time. I’d check, of course. I’d look under my bed, but I swear, I couldn’t see her. And then,” my hands reached up and clenched into fists, “she’d grab me.”\nThat’s crazy, someone said. Your sister was messed up. \nAnd then we moved on. I wrote my essay, and inspired by such a receptive audience, I titled it “Monster Under My Bed.” A facetious title, as it was all in jest. A prank on a younger sister, an endless loop until she tired of it. \nBut why now, all these years later, sitting at my computer on a random Saturday afternoon, was I thinking about it now? Why did this memory awaken and move through the corridors of my mind, crystallizing into this thought: That my sister, hiding under my bed, night after night, was indeed messed up? What provoked it, benign as it was, said by someone I can’t remember, a singular discombobulated voice?\nBecause my sister wasn’t the type to be messed up; such a thing was inconceivable. In fact, she was now a proper mom of three. If only my creative writing class could see her now; in fact, they could see her now- in real time; she had, to date, 354,000 followers on her Instagram and even more on the mothership, Youtube. (Or was it the other way around?) At any rate, she was a vlogger of some merit, an influencer of beige playsets, nurseries with muted colors, casually slung swaddlers reminiscent of ancient Mami’s, pointed acrylics, a sparkling rock with sliding bands on slender fingers.\nHer husband was a dentist; a decent guy, devoted to college football and beer-soaked bratwurst. He shied away from the camera, but when encountered, he smiled affably, offering token words with his usual good nature; complicit to the narrative of his wife, my sister, a harried mother of two little girls, with their high-pitched voices and adorable hijinks. And yet, on their vlog- Babymoon in Hawaii!- he was, in my opinion, from the eight years I’d known him, rather disingenuous. He didn’t seem the type to…well, hold the camera, only an arm visible, wearing a white linen shirt (when had he ever worn linen?); and my sister, gingerly stepping over rocks, a wispy sheath of white dress, hair flowing behind her, reaching for him, hand extended, laughing, her mouth wide open, rapturously happy. A filter which made it soft around the edges, plaintive music in the background, John Mayer, or perhaps Michael Buble; a husky croon.\nThe babymoon was seven months ago, the baby having since been delivered. A boy. The vlog- Gender Reveal!- was quite the to-do. You can see me, there in the background, rounder in width than my sister’s tight drum of a belly; I was wearing dark jeans and a sensible blouse; she was wearing a dress of indiscriminate color- a sort of urine-colored prairie dress with a simple baby-blue headband; a wink to the viewers of what she really desired. She didn’t care, of course, they both didn’t care, but she’d lean into the camera and whisper intimately to her best friends, aka her viewers, that she really hoped it was a boy. Wink, wink. \nWas I a tad bit disappointed when the giant firecracker (or whatever that tubular device was), emitted the blue powder, cloaking everything with its residue? Everyone roared with joy. Even me, I must admit- quite the dopamine hit. \nIt took me a while, but I found the paper. Some digging was necessary, deep in the bottom drawer of my cherrywood desk. But there it was. I felt the old thrill of seeing the title, “Monster Under My Bed,” and the professor's faded red pen: See me. \nWhen I did see him, at his office the next day, he asked if I’d sign a waiver form. The university was offering a new online course, and would like, with my permission, to use my personal essay as an example. \nI was flattered, dimly wondering if my essay was to serve as a template of terrible writing. I never checked, not wanting an affirmation either way. But reading it again, with the wisdom of years behind me, I discovered that my memory belied me. It wasn’t the jocular tone I remembered; it held a bite to it. It was the proof I needed. For what, exactly? I couldn’t say. Such a thought hadn’t articulated itself, just a deep sense of being wronged. \nI took it with me to our next family gathering, which happened to be Thanksgiving at my parent’s house. Only rarely did my sister vlog there. She also never called to warn me (maintaining that vlogging was best when done spontaneously- although the bigger her daughters’ bows, and the more aesthetically pleasing her outfit, contradicted this), I took greater care, blowing out my hair and wearing jeans that would inevitably feel constricting. \nNo bows on the girls. My sister in sweats, sans makeup: thus no vlogging. Was I disappointed? Goodness no. I felt miffed, however, as, once again, it would have been nice to have known beforehand. It was useless to ask my mom, as she took the attitude of come-what-may. She never cared if the house was messy or how frumpy she looked. I don’t think she ever watched the vlogs. \nThe air felt heavy with the smells of turkey; oily and pungent. And there was my sister, sitting on the couch, tiredly nursing her baby. Ben was happily watching football with my dad; he looked relaxed, his scruff longer than what was normally deemed acceptable. \nSitting next to her, I found with increasing annoyance that I could not catch her attention. Every time I started a conversation, she’d half-heartedly listen, and then: “Emmaline! Don’t touch your sister!” Or: “Addy, go grab the diaper bag for Mommy.” And so on. \nFinally, after dinner, when my mom offered to give the girls their bath, and during another round of nursing, I thrust it at her. “I wrote this about you.”\n“What is this?” She looked at it dubiously. “You wrote about me?” \nI tried to sound casual. “I just found it going through my things. I wrote it back in college.” I couldn’t help myself. I added, “It was published, you know.” Ah, what a simpering fool I was! To downplay such hubris, I quickly said, “Obviously, it was forever ago.” Not even true. Was an online publication for educational purposes considered published? Hardly a matter to equivocate, as she didn’t take notice. What was being published, even to a top literary magazine, in comparison to the shiny jewel of social media? \n “But why did you write about me?”\nShe took the baby off her nipple, red and shiny, before covering herself- laconically, in my opinion. I’d have been mortified. \n“Just read it,” I demanded, which made her look at me in surprise. I grabbed her warm loaf of a baby before she could protest. “I’ll burp him.” She eyed me warily at my fumbling attempts of holding him over my shoulder. \n“No,” she said, “not like that,” And then a tutorial followed: his body hunched over, his face settling into his multiple chins, staccato-like pats against his back. \nI gestured for her to read, and with a sigh she complied, her face slightly pinched. And when she was done, she put the paper face down onto her lap. \n“It was messed up, right?” I said, echoing my classmate, this voice of validation. “Hiding under the bed like that?”\n“Yes, Anna,” she replied, in a clipped tone. “It was.” She regarded me evenly.\nBravely I stared back at her. I felt triumphant. My face must have glowed.\n She removed the paper from her lap and set it onto the coffee table, and then gestured for me to hand back the baby. With expert deftness, she leaned him forward and patted his back with such efficient swiftness, he promptly belched, loud and reproachful. A viscous bubble grew from his puckered mouth. We both watched until it popped. \n“So then why did you do it?” I pressed. My voice held a challenge. Now that I had an admission, I wanted more: atonement, prostration. But truly, a simple apology would have sufficed. \nTo my astonishment, she asked primly, “What did I do?” She used a baby cloth to wipe at his mouth, the popped bubble now forming a drool down his chin. \n“Hiding under my bed and scaring me like that? It was weird, right?” My voice grew in provocation. “And remember, you’d hide in other places, too.” \n“Well, that’s exactly what I want to know, Anna.” She let the sentence hang for a moment. “Because it was you who scared me.” \nThis I wasn’t expecting. My body surged with sudden heat. I wanted to strike her. I wanted to erase the smirk from her face. Instead I said the first thing that came to mind. A childish retort. “No it wasn’t.” \nShe leaned toward me, her baby a shield (her children served as the armor she wore; or perhaps the weapons she wielded; or at the very least, the props), and said, “Yes it was, Anna. You were the one who hid under my bed and grabbed my ankles. You were the one that hid in my closet, and you were the one that hid in every corner of my room. I honestly can’t believe you would blame it on me.”\nI shook my head. Now I wanted her to stop. Now I wanted her to shut up. The audacity! This was gaslighting of the worst order. She overused that word on her vlog. So-and-so was gaslighting me; but I’m too clever; I know my truth; I have my voice. \nMy thoughts skittered. Where was Ben? He’d gone to get diaper cream; my dad was snoring in the living room; my mom, by the sound of it, had finished the bath; the rush of running water through the pipes overhead had stopped. \nShe continued, “It scarred me. I’m serious. Even now, when I go to hotels, I have to run and then leap onto the bed, so I don’t get too close. So someone doesn’t grab me from underneath. Ben laughs about it.” (How I burned with shame at the image; she and Ben laughing at me.) “You were the monster under my bed, Anna. Not me.” And then mildly, “It was such a stupid thing to do. It wasn’t funny at all. I should have told Mom and Dad, but maybe I felt sorry for you. You really seemed to enjoy it.” \nAnd with that, she lifted the heft of her baby and walked into the kitchen. She was going to mix her formula with her breast milk for his nightcap; I knew this because it was one of the tips she offered her viewers: How To Make Your Baby Sleep Through The Night! \nI sat there, furious. I was the monster? Me? But what could I do? I didn’t know how to defend myself. I did not have the arsenal of her words. She was too clever, too malevolent; her verbal acuity would only assail me. \nAnd then Ben came home, and seeing my expression, asked if I was okay. \nI smiled weakly at him. “I’m fine.”\nI left the couch and wandered aimlessly for a bit. A silly thing to do- wander inside the confines of a house, not take a walk outside where the air was crisp and might offer a little clarity. At some point, I went upstairs to check on my mom and the girls. The bathroom was balmy, thick with the smell of shampoo. Addy was brushing her teeth (just a toothbrush with clear gel, safe for ingesting) while sitting on the porta potty. (My sister would not approve.) My mom was running a comb through Emmaline’s wet hair. I asked her if she needed any help, but she cheerfully assured me she did not. She had it under control. \nFine by me. The care of toddlers was exhausting. I could only handle them in doses, and to be honest, I hadn’t quite found my footing in the role of aunt yet. I told myself that I’d do better when they were older; I’d be a safe haven, I was sure, when they needed an escape from their mother. Not mom, but mother. \nI felt unsettled, agitated. I found myself wandering the upstairs. Past my parent’s bedroom. Past the spare bedroom, with a pack n play set up in the corner, a queen-sized bed with the dingy blue quilt. Ben would drive home, as would I, as I only lived a half hour away, but my sister often slept over, she and the girls in the bed, the baby in the portable crib. And why wouldn’t she, as my mom never protested her demands, waking up early and doing the lion’s share of the work. My sister needed her rest, naturally. \nAgitated. Up and down the halls. I paced. \nAnd then I paused. \nSudden movement; wildly, impulsively, without thought. I scurried. I slithered. It was tight, tighter than before. \nBefore? \nI pressed my face into the carpet to muffle my laughs. Yes. Yes. \nSmell cannot betray memory. And while this wasn’t the house I’d grown up in, wasn’t the room, wasn’t the bed, there would always be that smell. Slightly chemical, specific to a place that didn’t bear the traffic of shoes, of feet, of spills. A place of safety; of darkness, like a womb; a sacred place. There under the bed. \nShe was right, my sister. How had I forgotten this place? Where no one could see me, invisible as I was, entombed. \nI waited, there under the bed. Waited as the springs jounced- heavier from my mom as she read the girls a story, lighter from my nieces, as they rolled to and fro. Tears streamed down my face. I shook with laughter, pressing my face, again and again, into the coarse weave of carpet. \nThe anticipation, the waiting, oh the sweetness. My body thrummed with hilarity. My mom left. The girls giggled. Addy cried. Emmaline soothed. And I cackled into the carpet. \nFinally, finally, she came. All was quiet. I didn’t peek, the bedskirt did not quiver. She was murmuring; she was holding the baby. Closer now. Closer. \nI pounced." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Madame, the Mystic.\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1538\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a world where astrology and the movements of celestial bodies deeply impact the lives of inhabitants." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jade stood gazing at her reflection. Beautiful bride, white satin, a veil of lace, stylish shoes, her face aglow. Then she paused, it as still her fantasy. Jade had bought her wedding gown years ago, as a teenager. She had chosen her veil and shoes, designed and stocked all the wedding invitations, imagined her bouquet, her hair style. It was her quite reasonable expectation that she would have been married in that frock, as soon as the handsome suitor proposed. She could visualize him on bended knee, offering his mother's pearl and diamond engagement ring. Oh, so romantic....\nBut no. Despite being raised in a church choir of likely young prospects, no one had ever chosen Jade to be his bride. Every now and then, she would spend yet another solo evening, trying on her wedding regalia. She had turned 33 years old. Time had passed, she had spotted her first grey hair.\nJade smiled wryly. She looked like Miss Havisham in her classic text book, Dud Expectations, written by that fun guy, Chazza Dickens. Wow, that was another riveting thought. Jade's stern father was a widower. He was even now a minor lay preacher, laying on hands, and ministering in the flock of devout Christians.\nJade's father had warned her about being immoral, and wanted her to save herself for wedlock in the church. God would send her a husband and lots of children. He could be their Grandpa Grumpy. Jade pondered on all the reasons why she was cross with God.\nShe had dutifully trained to teach English and Religion to some very sulky teens in her church's system. One day, she realized that the teens hated English essays more than they ever had. So, Jade promoted them all onto higher things, and resigned.\nShe kept her teaching registration up to date, and chose to tutor reading online, which she really loved. Jade left sharing her father's home, and rented her own simple pad. It was a bit run down, but it would do until the groom came along to rescue her.\nOne slight hiccup, working online at home was very isolating. How could she ever meet this invisible husband? She decided to consult a local astrologer, who had quite an interesting profile. The lady, known as Madame, the Mystic, agreed to make an appointment for Jade.\nMadame, the Mystic, expected up-front fees. So Jade sorted that, and consulted her future prospects with the astrologer. The two chicks shared a coffee, then Madame read Jade's coffee grounds in her cup. She then read the tarot cards, and cast an individual horoscope for her new client.\n\"You must lighten up, and be open to love. You have a powerful guardian angel. You must take your online career to the best coffee shop in town. Make sure it has a powder room. You must smile at likely men. You must never give up the ghost. You must follow my sheet of instructions for pleasing your angel, first thing in the morning, and before you go to bed...... Love will find its own path, right to your heart, just when you least expect it. I predict the letter B will appear. \"\nJust then, Madame, the Mystic's dog wandered across this site of prophecies. His name was Golden. He was also known as having psychic energy. Why, he had even told Madame what his name was, by communing with his owners' third eye. He wagged his tail, as he sat down, and offered his paw.\nMadame, the Mystic, spoke again. \"Look ,Golden gives you his paw of emotional support. I have a sale on Tarot cards, consult my daily horoscope for your true love, to guide you for all your happy days ahead. Plus here is my sister Charlene's phone number. You also need her to direct you in fashion and colorful zen. She will provide a color palette, personally tailored. It is not any woman's job to fix men. Be aware of any sign and symbol of friendship, Maybe you need a pet to share your future, always there to welcome your nurturing heart. Got to love a puppy!\"\nJade did a quick think. \"I don't need a puppy. I want to meet a man to love.\" The mystic astrologer spoke again.....\n\"Peace will flow, consult your guardian angel, always there in each awakening dawn. You must position yourself seamlessly for love, and be grateful for the graces that appear. I advise a weekly consultation. Here is your next appointment. I shall be your guide on the side!\"\nJade left the astrologer, slightly bemused. Within no time, astrology was her world. She met Charlene, spent some funds on new threads, dressing each day according to her horoscope and personal palette. No more grey and brown sensible clothing, all was aqua, yellow and bright. Her hair was tinted, with blonde tips, her make-up was featuring her eyes, sparkling with hope.\nJade now awoke half an hour earlier, just to greet dawn with her guardian angel. She rehydrated with coffee, interpreting her coffee cup, making her bed, tidying her clutter, practicing her new skills in tarot cards. Once per weekend, she rose and changed her sheets, polished and mopped, flung open the windows, and lit her sage smudging. She wafted the aroma through her flat, opened doors. She still did not need a puppy, this guardian angel was demanding enough.\nJade had not, of course, told her father, who was called Bernard. The astrologer had got that bit right. She was getting crosser with God on a daily basis, smiling at strangers was not very effective. She was getting some very funny looks at the coffee shop, as she taught her students. Still she could not fix men, as astrology states.\nLife took a turn for the worse. Bernard phoned, asking Jade to take him to his appointment at an oncologist. The news was dreadful, he had stage four tumors, riddled with cancer. His prognosis was very grim. Bernard was not as upset as Jade. He told her was grateful for all the blessings his Lord had granted him during his days. Treatment was planned, so he rapidly became an in-patient at an oncology unit.\nJade and the church people visited him regularly. In between tutoring online, she made a daily pilgrimage to her father's bedside. He went downhill very quickly, the chemo was futile. Jade had been brought up with filial piety, but inside, she was now furious with her father's divine Lord. How could this happen to such a faithful believer?\nOne grey morning, while channeling her guardian angel, her tarot cards finally showed a pair of lovers. \"Yeah, right.\" Jade wondered, but she was now a keen follower of astrology. At her father's bedside, she held his hand .She felt that she was never quite good enough, never met a husband, never had his grandchildren to love and cherish.\nBernard suddenly opened his eyes, he was lucid for a while. \"I am so proud of you, the apple of my eyes,. You are so bright and loving. I want you to got to the chapel and pray, like you used to. God has a plan for every one of us. I shall always be loving you. This journey goes on, true love.\" With that, he breathed his last, and smiled his way to eternity.\nJade was devastated. The nurses were summoned, she walked to the chapel, frozen. She sat, silently yelling at God, Jesus, the holy church, her guardian angel. More than cross, angry. She nearly kicked a hole in the church walls.\nBut she was well-behaved,. Not praying, just recalling some happier times with her father. As she sat in the back pew, not doing any knee mails, she felt a hand touch her shoulder. She glanced up, meeting the eyes of her father's junior oncologist. \"These things happen, \" he told her, \"Look, I have seen some mysterious things here, stranger than anyone can perceive. I took a photo of your father's monitor, as you were holding his hand.\"\nJade looked at his phone, there was an image of an angel, with wings. \"Is this possible?\" she asked. \"Can I send it your phone?\"asked Dr. Ben, that was on his name tag. \"it is a comfort for you. You have your own guardian angel.\" He laid his hand on hers. They swapped phone numbers, and Jade soon had a miraculous image of her own guardian angel.\nNearly eighteen months later, Jade sat in the chapel. Dr. Ben had given her his paw of emotional support, and that was not all. She did have a white wedding, but not in that fancy dress, simple, fitting, respectful. His name did start with a B, after all. She cuddled their brand new baby son, healthy with a good set of lungs already. Maybe she wasn't so cross with the greater powers after all. Madame, the Mystic, was spot on. Jade had been open to a nuanced understanding of her guardian angel, and the theory that love will find a way.\nDr. Ben sat beside her. Their baby boy looked like Jade's father, and himself. \"Welcome to the world, little Bernard Benjamin......\" A journey that continues for everyone. ......" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fear No Shadow\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1229\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finding a monster under their bed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Ignorance is the soil of lies, darkness nourishes the roots.\n-Dad\nCurrently, Grumpkin didn’t have lips, but if he did, he would have licked them. All he had was eyes, and they narrowed on the plump object in the room. \n“When’s that blasted moon coming, I’m tired of being so flat. I wanna sink my teeth into one of these toys.” \nPhlegmdrake rolled his yellow eyes. “Remind me never to shadeskip with you again, you’ve got the patience of a piranha.”\nGrumpkin’s red eyes burned, turning the shadows under the little bed crimson. “I happen to be a very patient skipper, thank you very much. But look at all those treats. He’s even got a plushie, think of how much cotton’s in that. I can’t wait to gobble it up.”\n“How many times I gotta tell you, this ain’t a gobbling job, this is a napp'n job. We ain’t got time for cotton chewing.”\nGrumpkin huffed, “Toynapping better pay well, all I gotta say, better pay real well. All this waiting around.”\nPhlegmdrake’s eyes squinted in a smile, “It does pay well–something about this boy. Grimwicker said he’d give us enough cotton to fill our tummies for months, if we can snatch the lion from him.” \n“Grumpkin’s eyes flashed, “A stuffed lion?” \n“You’re a glutton, you know that. A gluttonous little shadeskipper. Yes, it’s stuffed but no, you can’t eat him.” Phlegmdrake cleared his throat in a bubbly cough. “Besides, this one is different, he’s stuffed with flaxseeds. Parents can warm it up or something.” \n“Warm it up? Seeds? Yuck, humans are so weird.”\nPhlegmdrake opened his mouth to speak, but paused. A single beam of pale moonlight cut through the slatted blinds like a sword, lighting the far wall of the room in a gash of luminescence.\n“This is it,” he said, “now’s our chance.”\nThe bed above them creaked with movement, and the shadeskippers froze.\nPhlegmdrake looked up, “Shh.”\nThey looked to the wall. Two gashes of light striped the far side of the room, and then three. When the moon had drifted to the center of the window and shone through the blinds, illuminating the wall in a ladder of light, they made their move–creeping out from under the bed slowly. \nGrumpkin hesitated as he reached for the first wrung of the ladder, confirming that it was indeed moonlight, and not any of the poisonous alternatives, like sunlight, or streetlight. When his long black tendril latched on to the first step, the appendage grew out from the flat wall, the moonlight imbuing him with a third dimension. He continued to ascend, slowly, feeling his body fill the shadowed void that had replaced everything but his eyes. When he stepped away from the wall, he was in full figure, towering over the boy's bed with his red eyes and a host of serpentine limbs. \nPhlegmdrake coughed as he climbed the moonlight, his whispered hacks becoming rounded and tonal, echoing in that three dimensional way. He smiled, it felt good not to be flat anymore. Shadeskipping had its perks, dashing between shade sources in the blink of an eye was fun–being as silent as a whisper, efficient, but being whole again reminded him how much he wanted to be home, in Underbed, watching the moonset from his balcony. \n“Would you quit your hacking. Getting on my case for being a little hungry. I’d rather be impatient, than loud. Now let's get this lion and get out of here.”\nPhlegmdrake flashed a set of jagged teeth.\nGrumpkin shivered, feeling a momentary wave of vertigo. He found Phlegmdrakes huge mouth, and deep, dark, throat disturbing. “Would you keep that thing shut, makes me feel like I’m gonna fall in. Besides, your breath is going to wake the boy up. You smell like a coffin.”\n“Excuse me,” Phlegmdrake said, “Who's calling the shots here?” When he spoke the breath from his massive mouth swirled around the room, a paper drawing of a lion flapped against the wall, dangling from a thin piece of tape. The vibrations of his deep voice shook the walls of the room. \nAs a shadow all he could do was whisper, but now his voice boomed when he spoke and he had to force the quiet into his words. “Just grab the lion and get outta here.” \nThe two monsters stared down at the little lump of blankets covering the small boy. \nGrumpkin spoke first, “Why do you think Grimwicker wants the boy’s lion so badly? What’s so special about it, or the boy?”\n“Look around,” Phlegmdrake said, “What’s missing in this room?”\nGrumpkin spun around and scanned the place. “I dunno, nothing seems out of the ordinary for a kid his age.”\n“Don’t see no nightlight, do you?” \nGrumpkin looked again. He did not see a nightlight. “That’s odd.”\n“It is,” Phlegmdrake said, “very odd. This boy, apparently, is not afraid of the dark.”\n“Not afraid of the dark? Impossible.”\n“Apparently it is possible, and Grimwicker thinks the lion gives the boy courage. Take the boy’s lion, and he’ll fear us again.” \nGrumpkin thought about this for a moment. “So you’re saying the boy doesn’t fear us because of that seed-stuffed toy?”\n“I guess so,” Phlegmdrake tried to suppress a throaty cough. “Grimwicker seems to think the boy is dangerous.”\n“Dangerous?” Grumpkin laughed, “Him?”\n“Grimwicker thinks any child who isn’t afraid of the dark could pose a threat to Underbed, even Closetton. Courage casts its own light, he told me, if it should fall on Underbed…well, it won’t be pretty.”\n“Ridiculous,” Grumpkin scoffed, jabbing a tentacle toward the blanket, “This is ridiculous, why don’t we just wake the boy up, and show him what really lurks beneath his bed.” \n“Nooo!” Phlegmdrake yelled, but Grumpkin had already torn the covers away.\n“What in the cellar furnace is that?” Grumpkin said.\nBoth monsters cocked their heads trying to interpret the shape before them. \n“That’s not a kid, “ Phlegmdrake said, “It’s–it’s, just a heap of stuffed animals.” \n“Wrong, “ A young voice said behind them, “That right there, is a trap.” \nBefore the shadeskippers could react, the boy flipped a switch and light–harsh, moonless, light– pierced them from every direction. Phlegmndrake roared and the room quaked. Books dropped from shelves. Papers and posters fell from the walls. \nGrumpkin whipped a black tendril toward the boy, but a sharp beam of incandescent light blasted from a flashlight in the boy's hand and severed it in the air. The monster screamed and shrunk back. His flesh rippled and twitched. His tentacles writhed. And then he was flat again, a dark blotch against the wall–two quivering eyes. \nThen Phlegmdrake saw the boy snatch something away from the lense of his flashlight, a green, star-shaped object. His eyes widened; the star continued to glow even as the boy reared it up into the darkness above his head. \n“You messed with the wrong kid, nobody touches my stuffed animals.” Then he hurled the object. A blur of green soared toward Phlegmdrake–too fast for him to dodge. When it struck the monster, it blasted him back against the wall, and he too, became a splash of shade. \nWith tormented cries, two pairs of glowing eyes, red, and yellow, dashed back beneath the bed and disappeared into the world of darkness, returning to Underbed empty-handed, hurt, and humiliated by the boy who fears no shadows." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Because He Lives\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1045\n\nPrompt:\n\nCenter your story around a photo that goes viral." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Because He Lives\n\nMarch 31, 2024\nI received a picture today. I immediately shared it with all my relatives and contacts on my social media page. It had already been recognized as a viral photograph. If any photo qualified to deserve to be repeated enough times to be considered viral this one most certainly does. It sends a vital and timeless message.\nSimple and understated the scene speaks volumes. The mostly sepia colored photo depicts a view from inside a cave-like entrance looking back out towards the early morning sunrise. To the lower left side of the entrance one can see a partial curved stone that probably had been in front of the opening acting as a seal but was now rolled aside. Way beyond toward the horizon is a mound on which three empty crosses still stand. The message is powerful and universally recognized. Blessed Easter morn. He is risen. He is risen indeed!\nDo you know the story? You should know the story. In a nutshell: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” John 3:16 from the Holy Bible. It is a life saving message.\nOur Heavenly Father, the one true God, Jehovah, gave His only begotten Son into the world to save His creation, humans, from the evils of sin, death and Satan. He did that by sending Jesus Christ into the world as a tiny infant born of a virgin as the long awaited promised Messiah or Savior. You know the Christmas story. Wise men still seek Him.\nAs a grown man, true man yet still true God, Jesus traveled with His chosen disciples teaching them and anyone who would listen about God's plan of salvation. That plan meant His own death to pay for the whole world's sin. A final perfect sacrifice of a sinless man to atone for the transgressions of all sinners.\nThat sentence had been carried out only days before by the very people Christ came to save. Betrayed by one of His own disciples, turned over to local religious authorities and accused of blasphemy, then handed over to government officials. Even though no fault was found the sinless Son of God was mocked, beaten and nailed to a cross in our stead to die along with two criminals then laid in a borrowed tomb. But He had foretold that He would raise this temple, meaning His body, in three days and He did exactly that. On the third day women who came to embalm the body found an empty tomb instead. He had risen from the dead!\nFor forty days the Risen Lord walked among His followers once again showing them His wounds in His hands, feet and side. Over five hundred witnesses knew He was indeed alive once more. Many watched as He ascended into heaven above where He lives to this day as true God, a person in the Holy Trinity of Father, Son and Holy Ghost, preparing a place for us to live with Him for eternity if we believe in Him as our Savior, repent of our sins and ask His forgiveness.\nThose few witnesses caused this good news message to go viral in an ancient world. Can we do the same in a high tech world? Once you know how can you not want to share this good news?\nWhen God looks at us now He doesn't see our filthy rags of sin but instead the perfect face of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. On Judgment Day when asked why should you be allowed into heaven you need only say because of Jesus Christ who took away my sin.\nToday we rejoice and sing Alleluias. Feeling blessed our sins are forgiven and hopeful of a new beginning.\nTomorrow will be another new day. Will I treat it any differently knowing my Savior has risen and lives beside me daily? Will it be business as usual. Another day of sinning. Or will I be any different because I know that my Redeemer lives. Will I be different in a week, a month, a year, forever?\nBecause He lives I will never die, only sleep until I am raised again on Judgment Day.\nBecause He lives I live in hope and assurance of a better life in the hereafter.\nBecause He lives I can face whatever this world sends my way knowing I am loved.\nBecause He lives … I pen this poem...\n*^*^*\nBecause He lives when I awake the morrow\nWill I choose to live\nReady to forgive\nWithout any sorrow.\nBecause He lives my home is Heaven.\nMy burdens relieved\nonce I believed\nHis body for me given.\nSo I can make it through tonight\nAnd gladly say\nwithout any fright\nI'll show you the Way.\nYou can make it all right\nEverything will be okay.\n\nBecause He lives nothing could be finer.\nI can dry my tears\nput away my fears\nAnd live no more a whiner.\nBecause He lives, came down from the cross\nI don't need to be blue\nI can live anew\nAnd recover from any loss.\nAs for the Father and Holy Ghost\nThe debt is paid, to me no cost,\nThe Begotten Son suffered most.\nDeath defeated, the Devil lost\nHe is the Priest, He is the Host\nThe Spirit received at Pentecost.\n\nBecause He lives I know no strife\nSince I believed\nMy sins relieved\nI shall inherit eternal life.\n*^*^*\n\nWe are Christians today because untold millions of our brothers and sisters heard God's Word, came to faith, and couldn't keep the good news to themselves. They took it viral. Who told you? Whom will you tell?\nIf you have questions seek a Gospel-based church to help study God's Word and worship Him there. Confess your faults and failures to one another and to God Himself. Even though we justly deserve eternal punishment, for Christ's sake, He will grant mercy and forgiveness. He'll renew us and lead us that we may walk in His ways and follow His will to the glory of His holy name.\nEvery Sunday is a little Easter reminding us He Lives. Because He lives so too shall we." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Natural\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2731\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who has long since quit but decides to go another round for old time’s sake." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In life there are monumental occurrences that act as time-freezing snapshots; the kind of events where, for the rest of your life, you remember exactly where you were when they happened. My grandfather used to speak with reverence about the day he heard that President Kennedy was shot. My mother spoke similarly of finding out about the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger. For me it was the day I stopped playing baseball.\n\nI was ten years old when I got my first “real” glove. It was a God’s honest big-league Rawlings rawhide and I loved it from the start. My dad, who my mom always called a hard-working man, brought it home from work and presented it to me as if I had won a prize. It was enormous for a ten-year-old. On top of that, my dad had stuck a big red bow right in the pocket. I couldn’t move fast enough to get my new glove on my left hand although I had to spread my fingers as wide as they could go to make it fit.\n\n“Well, J.R., what do you think?\" he said smiling. \"Is it too big? Should I take it back?” \n\nMy dad always called me J.R. even though they weren’t my initials. His name was Timothy William Melesky and so was mine. The J.R. stood for junior. \n\n“Not on your life, dad!” I said clutching my new glove to my chest. “It fits perfectly.”\n\n“Go get my glove out of the closet and we’ll have a quick catch before dinner.” The last words were barely out of his mouth when I, in a dead sprint, ran to retrieve Dad’s glove. His glove was old and worn; a gift from his dad when my father was about the same age as me. He had used the glove all through high school and college and even for a few years as a minor league pitcher. It had been repaired many times but the core of the glove was the same as the day he got it. In my young life, there was nothing I wanted more than my father's glove. That is, until he gave me my own. That day I decided I would keep my glove forever.\n\nWith the sun still slightly visible over the horizon, my dad and I had our first game of catch, the first of many. My dad worked two jobs for as long as I could remember but he always found time to play baseball with me. Before long he started teaching me how to pitch. Make no mistake, pitching is a skill you can learn, but to be good you have to have a natural gift. My dad had it and if he hadn’t hurt his arm he might have played major league ball. He told me with \"all due humility\" that he was the greatest pitcher he'd ever known--until he saw my impossible-to-hit fastball and knee-buckling curve. He was probably biased but he knew his gift had been passed down to me. \n\nBy my sophomore year in high school, I had become a starting pitcher on the varsity team with more than 20 scholarship offers including one from Louisiana State University, my dad’s alma mater. It was fun to see how many colleges pursued me. Everyone knew, when the time came, that I would accept the offer from LSU and head south to pitch for the Tigers. \n\nThen it happened, the day that changed my life. My Kennedy assassination; my space shuttle Challenger disaster.\n\nIt was a beautiful day in May, the kind of day that baseball movies are made about. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and I was scheduled to start the last game of my senior season. My dad had to work that morning, but he had arranged to get off early to be at the game by first pitch. \n\nAs I got ready to head onto the field with the rest of my team, I looked down at my glove and remembered that first game of catch, almost eight years earlier. My glove wasn’t as worn as my dad’s but it had been re-stitched a few times. That worn out leather was a connection with my childhood, and my dad. In many ways, it was my most important possession. I loved that glove.\n\nClimbing to the top of the perfectly manicured mound, I looked in the stands to see my family in their usual spot. My mom was just where she was supposed to be but her only company was an empty seat where my father usually sat. My head tilted a little to the side as my face squinched in confusion. I held my arms out as if to say “Where is dad?” but my mom just shrugged.\n\nMost times we worry for nothing. The person who seems to be missing usually has just overslept or run out of gas. It’s seldom anything to worry about. I kept telling myself that as I threw my warm-up pitches and started the game. \n\nThe first inning I retired all three batters in order. Once back in the dugout I sent a team trainer to ask my mom where my dad was. He came back with the message that she didn’t know and that he wasn’t answering his phone. Then, I started to worry. \n\nAt a time when I should have been concentrating on a game, my mind was focused on my dad's absence. I was pitching in an anxiety-induced fog, trying to end each inning as quickly as possible. Back in the dugout, inning after inning I sent the trainer for an update. To my dismay each time he would return with the same answer. \n\nBaseball is not a timed sport. It’s one of the few games that can go on blissfully forever, but that day I wanted nothing more than for the game to end. Time moved slowly but the game went by fast. When I went out to pitch the ninth inning I hadn’t allowed a single runner to reach base. In baseball vernacular I was pitching a perfect game and there were just three outs to go. Even knowing this, I was still less concerned about the game than I was about my dad. Eight pitches and three outs later I was being mobbed by my teammates for completing baseball's rarest feat.\n\nFor a moment I embraced the celebration and allowed myself to forget, just for a moment -- but when I regained focus and looked back to the stands my mom was no longer alone. Two police officers stood with her and she was crying.\n\nI found out later that my dad had been rushing to see me pitch when a pickup truck ran a red light and plowed right into my dad’s car. He was killed instantly, as was my desire to play baseball. I packed my glove away with the bow that had adorned it the day my dad gave it to me. I was never going to pick it up again.\n\nIt has been said that time heals all wounds and to an extent that's true. The day my dad was killed was the worst in my life; it was frozen in time but I wasn’t. I still went to LSU but on an academic scholarship not an athletic one and it was there that I met the love of my life, Julie. She brought back my smile, and against my advice, accepted my marriage proposal. \n\nOn the day we were married I wore the same suit my dad had worn when he had married my mom and, at my request, there was a picture of my dad prominently displayed at the reception. He wasn’t there in person but he was there in spirit and that had to be enough.\n\nThree years after we were married Julie gave birth to a baby boy we named Timothy William the third. From the day he was born I called him Trey; It was an homage to my dad and I knew somewhere he was smiling. \n\nOn Trey’s second birthday I bought him a football and on his eighth, at his request, a tennis racket. I wanted my son to know the joy of playing sports but when he asked for a baseball glove when he turned ten I reluctantly had to tell him no. \n\n“We are not a baseball family, Trey,\" I told him. \"Is there anything else you would like?”\n\n“I’ll take a basketball if that’s okay.”\n\nHe was such a good sport; he didn’t argue. He just moved on to another choice. It’s funny the things I learned from my ten-year-old son. I learned you need to be willing to adjust your sights and I also learned that as much as I loved and missed my father I loved my son more. \n\nTragedy very rarely happens slowly. I learned the day my dad died it usually happens in an instant. \n\nI was at work when I got the call from Julie. When my cell phone buzzed and I saw her name on the ID screen I sent the call to voicemail. Less than a minute later she called again. I snapped to attention. I was transported back to the day my father had died. I had continued to pitch when I knew something had to be wrong. In a panic I pushed the green button and said anxiously, “Hello”\n\n“J.R., you have to come quick—it’s Trey,\" Julie said, stuttering. \"He was climbing a tree and he fell and hit his head.” The fear in her voice nearly ripped out my heart. I couldn’t lose my son.\n\n“I’m on my way,” I assured, “I promise I’ll be there as fast as I can.”\n\nSpeeding towards the hospital my mind wavered back and forth between my son and my dad. I said a prayer offering my life for my son’s and then I remembered how fate had stolen my father from me and I doubted God. \n\nI lost all sense of time. A ride that might have only taken ten minutes seemed interminable. After parking illegally I ran into the hospital and, in what probably looked like a scene from a medical drama, pushed my way past the two people waiting at the nurses' station.\n\n“Where is my son!” I practically shouted to anyone who would listen. \n\nIn an act of true kindness, the nurse behind the counter ignored my rudeness and, after finding out my son's name, directed me to the room where he was being treated. \n\nIt was all I could do not to burst into the room but in a moment of clarity I entered calmly to avoid the possibility of making things worse. \n\nThere is nothing that can prepare a parent for what I saw next. My ten-year-old son, my Trey, was lying in a hospital bed, unconscious, with wires all over his tiny body and a tube down his throat. My wife's mascara stained tears were flowing.\n\nMy mind was so full of questions but at that moment I couldn’t speak. The doctor seemed to understand and began to give me an update on Trey’s condition.\n\n“Mr. Melesky, my name is Doctor Conrad.” His voice, authoritative and compassionate, snapped me to attention. “Your son has an intracerebral hemorrhage and we are about to take him to surgery. He's a lucky young man. Many people who suffer this type of injury never make it to the hospital.” I knew the doctor was trying to give me a sense of hope but all I could think about was the people who never regained consciousness.\n\n“Oh my God,” I blurted out as I started to sob, “please tell me my son will live.”\n\n“We’ll do everything we can,” he responded, in a way that calmed me enough to sign the consent forms and move out of the way. Time was of the essence but as Trey was wheeled by I leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. He was still in my sight when I said a silent prayer that this would not be the last time I saw my son alive.\n\nHospital waiting rooms are the worst place for terrified parents to wait for potentially life-destroying news. There are TVS playing shows you don’t want to watch. There are, invariably, children making a ruckus. This is usually because other parents, who are similarly lost in fear of the worst, forget to chastise them. Julie and I eventually understood this was not the place for us and we made our way to the small chapel to beg for our son's life. \n\nAs we walked through the doors the first thing I noticed was the peacefulness of it all. There were a few other people in the pews but there was a silence and a reverence that helped clear my head. I knew I should pray; instead, an unusual thought entered my mind. At first, it was just a vague idea but little by little it began to crystallize. It made no sense but I felt I had to do it anyway.\n\n“Julie, I can't explain right now, but I have to run home. I need to get something for Trey.”\n\n“Go. I’ll stay here and pray for both of us.”\n\nI didn’t have time to thank her, I just kissed her, ran to my car, and sped home. Once I arrived I headed straight to my bedroom. In the closet, on the shelf at the very back, there was a box that contained the glove my dad had given me all those years ago. I didn’t know why, but I knew I had to give it to my son. I had been wrong, we were a baseball family and I didn’t want to dishonor him, or myself, or my dad by never giving my son a glove.\n\nBy the time I returned to the hospital Trey was out of surgery and in the recovery room. Doctor Conrad was cautious in his assessment of Trey's condition. “The next twelve hours are critical. If he makes it through the night then there's hope he'll make a full recovery.”\n\n“Doc, I know this sounds crazy, but is there any chance I could put this in the bed with him?” I opened the box and showed him the glove.\n\n“Absolutely,” he responded with a smile, patting me on the shoulder.\n\n“What a marvelous idea,” Julie said. “I know your dad would be thrilled.” \n\nAs I placed the glove and the bow in his bed next to his left hand I felt the spirit of my father embrace me. For the first time since Julie’s call, I felt a small measure of peace.\n\nThe rest of the night, Julie and I took turns grabbing a few minutes of sleep while the other one watched over Trey. While Julie was taking her turn sleeping I inadvertently fell asleep as well. It couldn’t have been more than 10 or 15 minutes at the most when I was startled awake. \n\nAs my eyes cleared a fear that came over me.\n\nI had left him, I wasn’t there to protect him. Did I let my son die alone?\n\nI jumped from up the chair afraid of what I might find. To my surprise and delight, Trey’s eyes were open. Fitted on his left hand with his fingers spread as far apart as they could go, was my baseball glove—now his. It was hard to make out because he still had a breathing tube down his throat but he was smiling at me, letting me know he was alright.\n\nIt took two more weeks for Trey to be discharged from the hospital and a month after that before he was back to his rambunctious self. Soon thereafter he and I headed to the back yard to have a catch. I know, you might be wondering how we did that since I no longer had a glove but my mom took care of that. On her first trip to see Trey after the accident, she brought me a gift. It was an old worn-out glove that had been sitting in her closet at home—the same glove my dad used the first time we played catch. I’d also like to report that Trey has quite a fastball. Just like his dad and mine.\n\nHe’s a natural." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Aliens on the Mend\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2986\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who wakes up in space." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Aliens on the Mend\n\n\nI did not grow up in Roswell, NM. I was not enticed by the alien aura that permeates the atmosphere of this fine town. I am a guy who needs visual evidence to support any theories or special scientific mumbo-jumbo. Many years ago, I bought a few remote, parcels of land throughout Chaves County. My hook was farming. Farming peppers (hot, and I mean hot like ghost peppers). Sounds strange, but I had this sixth sense that peppers would become popular in the coming age with all this “culinary finessed” eating. So, I moved my hulky self to this semi-arid, rugged territory.\n\nMy name is Dan. I am generally a loner except for a few docile sheep on my farm. I do have three hired hands who help me tend to the fields. Their names are Chad, Michel, and Diego. Together, we are a motley crew. We have become good friends over the years. I consider myself an optimistic fellow, but I still have lingering doubts about my ability to farm these delicacies. This hot weather can really take its toll on a person, especially when you are farming in it for 12-14 hours per day.\n\nAs I said, I am a hulking guy, very plain appearance with no distinguishing scars or features. Nothing a girl would find all that appealing; but I do have one marking, a tattoo, (a tatty zapper) on my forearm which I questioned at the time why I got it. It is a plain cross with the words below it ‘Jesus saves.’ I was raised in a small town with a single community church. I am not a spiritual, religious person. My tattoo came from an endorphin-ridden high from a church revival one evening on the outskirts of Roswell. My three amigos persuaded me to come one night to feel the power of God. I guess I must have felt His power once the tattoo artist began penetrating a rapid-fire needle into my arm! Ouch and ouch! It hurt for several days thereafter. Chad, Michel, and Diego got the same tattoo claiming they were filled with the Spirit. They wanted me to share in the experience.\n\nSummer days in the pepper fields are wickedly hot. I wiped my dripping forehead with my exposed tattooed arm. I noticed how the tattoo seem to jump out of me from the moistened colors. I was taken aback, but proceeded with my collection of the ripe peppers. In my weakness I popped a few of the unripen gems. My head was spinning and I felt unsteady. When I looked at the horizon, I saw strange shapes which quickly disappeared and then reappeared; the cyclical flicker made me nauseous. Nothing seemed to happen except that my tatty zapper throbbed. I iced it down and then fell fast asleep not waking until the sun was popping over the horizon the next day.\n\nAnother sultry day out in the pepper fields with my three workers. The sun was incredibly more intense today than yesterday. The harvest was in session and we had to gather scores of peppers for transport to the drying operations. My comrades were feeling queasy expressing a desire to suspend the harvest. They too had been munching on a few of the peppers. I realized at that moment I had to incentivize their labor or I would be stuck out in the fields on my own. I blurted out big things would come. I had not thought out that promise carefully before I said it.\n\nWe gathered for a late meal break; the sun dipped below the horizon casting an eerie reddish-purple haze. Our arms began to pulse with pain. Feverish, sweaty, hallucinating, a flash of blinding light encircled us. Before I could close my eyes, our bodies were paralyzed and prone like wood boards. My body seemed to dematerialize right before my eyes; the others were vanishing before me too. Just before I lost visual contact, I saw my friends become a cloud of energized particles. Then shazam; then poof!\n\nWe awoke finding ourselves sprawled out on a cold stone floor. Neither one of us knew where we were. After pinching each other we knew that our dream experience was the same. It was much more than that. From nowhere, a dozen armed men carrying unusual hardware motioned us to get up and follow them. No words were spoken. We knew what they meant. They led us into a stately decorated room. It appeared to be a royal or presidential meeting room. A gong sounded several times. From behind a massive doorway, a man entered dressed in royal regalia, opulent with diamonds, rubies, gold bracelets and crown, silken vestments, silver slippers. Oh boy, we are certainly in a predicament! The guards motioned us to kneel before this figure. Of course, it made no sense to resist because I did not want to be the first to experience the devices they readied for discharge.\n\nThen, the figure spoke. “Welcome to my kingdom! This is the world of Bylonia. We are the Bylons, a people of great fortitude, great technological advancement, great power, great beauty…” And on and on he went about greatness. He said, “I am the Royal Potentate, Neezer of the Bylon people.” Ok, so far so good I thought to myself. Neezer then began a lengthy three-hour explanation as to why we were here; but, for the sake of brevity here is the gist of it: Neezer had been searching the galaxies far and wide for a sign; he was not really sure what that sign was, but when he found it, he knew it must be the one. Sure enough, we were that sign powered by an aura that was created from a mixture of our chemical sweat, the hot peppers, the blaring hot sun, and our tattoos. When his astrologists saw the luminescent aura from Earth, they notified the potentate. He ordered them to activate a dematerialization transport to extricate us from earth. And shazam! Then Poof! Here we kneel before some royally garbed lunatic. Neezer said we were hand-picked from the universe because of the aura we showed through the space and time continuum. The thought of going home seemed remote or impossible. So, we figured we would do what we had to do…which was survive! Remember, I did promise my guys big things would happen. I did not say what, however. “You are a sign from the heavens,” Neezer said finishing his discourse. \n\nAfter some time, we acclimated into their lifestyle; however, Chad, Michel and Diego cautioned me of the eternal ramifications if we persisted in these pagan practices. We had to subtly refrain. I realized they were telling me this because I was naïve and not spiritual. So, we met in secret to pray and ask God for guidance through this ordeal.\n\nThere came a day when Neezer was beside himself. He had a dream. None of his astrologers, sorcerers, or magicians could even tell him about the dream. Failing was under penalty of death. Neezer was infuriated so he ordered them to be executed anyway. To my horror, Chad, Michel, Diego, and myself were part of that group. So, the four of us feverishly prayed to God in private. During the night, God gave me a vision; He gave me wisdom to interpret Neezer’s dream. I hastily went to the executioner pleading with him to let me speak to Neezer. I said to Neezer, “no person can explain your dream, but there is a God who reveals mysteries. He has given me the ability to share it with you. In your dream your Majesty, you saw a large statute-humungous, regal in appearance. It had a head made of pure gold; arms and chest made of silver, a torso of bronze, legs of iron and feet made of a mixture of iron and clay. As you watched a magnificent rock was hewn by the God who revealed this mystery to me. The rock struck the feet of the statute and all of it, was shattered to pieces becoming dust. The wind swept it away. The rock changed into a huge mountain filling the entire planet.” I added, “Now, this is what it means. The God of heaven has given your power and might over the all the people and beasts of the land. Everything is under your rule. Neezer, You are the head of gold. But after you another kingdom will come, inferior to yours; a third, the bronze will rule and finally a fourth kingdom, strong like iron which crushes everything. But, as a mixture, its people will not remain united. During those times the God of heaven will crush all kingdoms and setup a kingdom that will endure forever…this is the meaning of the rock hewn not from human hands, but from God Himself. Hearing this Neezer said, “Dan, Your God is a God of gods and Lord of lords for allowing you to reveal this mystery to me.” Neezer was impressed. There was no fear now that Neezer seemed to accept our God and His power. \n\nWell, never trust a potentate at his word. I think the dream of the statute was still in his head.\n\nHe had the people construct an image of gold 90 feet tall and 9 feet wide outside the city! We could not figure out what it was, but it resembled a bust of his head! It was frightening! Neezer summoned everyone to attend the dedication of his statute. I hid. Then an announcement was made that at the sound of music all would fall prostrate on the ground to pay homage to the statute. Violators of this decree would be thrown into the nuclear accelerator. The atoms of their bodies would be smashed to oblivion. When I heard this, I stayed out of sight. Unfortunately for Chad, Michel and Diego they were caught red-handed by those jealous of their positions as outsiders. They saw the trio defy Neezer’s decree refusing to fall prostrate and worship the image. The royal guards brought them before Neezer. He said, “I will give you one more chance. When the music plays bow down or else you will feel my wrath in the accelerator!” Chad responded, “Not on your life Neezer! We will not do it even if our God does not save us! We will not worship your god.” Neezer looked like he was going to explode he was so angry. He ordered that the accelerator be set to obliterate at maximum intensity. The guards tied and tossed Chad, Michel, and Diego into the accelerator, but the guards were zapped into oblivion themselves. Then Neezer approached the entrance to the nuclear contraption. He was incredulous. He exclaimed, “look I see four men walking around in there unharmed and unbound. The fourth looks like a god.” He shouted, “Chad, Michel and Diego come out from there!” So, Chad, Michel, and Diego came out of accelerator unscathed. Not a mark or defect upon them. Neezer exclaimed, “Praise to their God who sent his angel to rescue his servants! They were willing to sacrifice themselves in defiance of me and not their own God. Because of this, I decree that anyone who says anything against their God will be chopped up into pieces. No other god can save in this way.” One would think that after all that had happened to the Potentate, he would have understood that our God was the God he should serve.\n\nFor the next year, Neezer still acted tyrannically to his people. As I had warned him, he was driven off into the wild sections of the planet. Finally, Neezer accepted our Most High God. Witnessing this did a number on my heart and soul. I pondered all that had happened. Neezer lived a short time after his sojourn in the wilderness. Nonetheless, he could not impart his new faith to his son, Shazz who reigned after his death.\n\nShazz was defiant, wanting to make a name for himself. He defiled any remembrance of the Most High God. He forced his people to praise the gods of gold, silver, bronze, iron, stone, wood. Anything that would make his kingdom wealthy and powerful was worshipped. During a celebratory banquet, a disembodied hand mysteriously appeared writing a message on the wall of the royal banquet hall. The banquet guests were deeply frightened especially Shazz. He summoned the magicians, astrologers, and sorcerers but no one could tell him what the words meant. A wife of Shazz urged him to have me brought to interpret the message. I was not exactly thrilled to do this, but I knew with God at my side ‘all things were possible. I told him the truth about how his father, Neezer accepted the Most High God, near the end of his days. “You, Shazz, with your cronies and party friends desecrated the Most High God by your worship and praise of wood and metal. The written words, ‘Mene, Tekel, Purpe’ mean God has numbered your reign and will bring it to end. You have been weighed on the scales of justice. Your kingdom will be divided and given to the Purpians and Madmen\n(enemies to the Bylon empire.)\n\nI thought I was a dead man. I guess it really did not matter because Shazz was assassinated by the Purpians the next day. Shazz was replaced by Ardius, a Madman, who like the rulers before thought he was god’s gift to the empire. He was in fact making himself a god. I promoted my exceptional gifts and qualities so Ardius took note of me. As is the case with foreigners in a foreign land, the natives took umbrage of Ardius’ favoritism towards me. They conspired against me by persuading Ardius to issue a decree that everyone must pray to him or be thrown into the pit of the most ravenous beast in the Purpian empire, the zillaraptor. Who is he to tell me when and to whom I should pray after all these years on this forsaken planet!? And, what is a zillaraptor anyway? Well, I would not stand for that. So, in my persistent stubbornness I got down on my knees and prayed to the Most High God.\n\nI was immediately arrested and tossed into the pit. I protested saying, “O Ardius am I not worthy of a trial?” Ardius would only respond by saying, “May your God, whom you serve continuously and faithfully rescue you from the mouths of the zillaraptors.” I prayed through the night. Terror filled me when I saw that a zillaraptor was a voracious huge alien/man eater with dagger-like fangs, an elongated tongue with suction cups. It was reptilian-like with scales and parts like an alien dragon?\n\nArdius that night could not sleep so he went to the pit. He called out to me nervously, “Dan, Dan has your Most High God been able to rescue from the zillaraptors? I answered him, “My God sent an angel to shut the mouths of the zillaraptors because He found me innocent. Your Royal Potentate, I have not done any wrong against you.” Ardius was thrilled and gave orders to lift me out of the pit. I had no wounds, not even a scratch. Ardius gave orders that the whistleblowers take my place into the pit. There was so much wailing and gnashing of teeth.\n\nArdius was in awe of my survival he restored my standing in the kingdom. He continued his reign through the years with loyalty to the Most High God. During that time, however, I was troubled with more dreams of impending doom. I shared these with Chad, Michel and Diego. I told them I saw the coming in the clouds of the Most High. I saw a vision of angel who said the people will continue to delight in their transgressions. They will continue to be an abomination before the Most High God until a tabernacle of the Most High God is established, one that will live forever and ever! I emphatically tried to tell the alien people of their impending doom! I tried to get them to listen, to believe in the One who is greater than the universe. From my mouth I blurted, “Jesus saves.” Listen and know what He has done for you! How much you are loved by Him! Chad, Michel and Diego also bellowed out, “Jesus saves.” Our alien cohorts emphatically began to profess “Jesus saves.” One by one they began to accept Him as their God. I could see them mended by His mercy and grace. And then I was jolted by an amazing discovery of my own! My heart was mending too. Jesus does save! A chorus from the heavenly realm praised God singing: “Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise!” (Rev 5:12 NIV).\n\nThen shazam! Then Poof!\n\nBrusquely, I stood up. I looked around and saw the fields of peppers before me. I scanned the horizon searching for the vestiges of what I had just experienced. Nothing but peppers as far as I could see. Then one by one my coworkers popped up like large sunflowers. They looked as bewildered as I was. It was very apparent to me what my dreams were. I motioned for all us to gather. Each of us realized we shared the same experience; we understood what it all meant. We looked at our tatty zappers and knew the reason for this experience.\n\nThat day forward we humbled ourselves before the Lord. We established a church in my pepper fields to preach the Gospel to those in Chavez County and beyond…\n\nbeyond the reaches of time and space!\n\nAll are welcome, especially aliens stopping in for a visit at the Fellowship of the Universe Church in Christ the Lord.\n\nAcknowledgement: Reedsy.com" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fanfare\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1039\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a retirement or leaving party." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "What first hit me was the cold. What I first hit was the printer. Daft to leave the tray poking out over the bin everyone was discarding their cupcake cases in.\nThere were fans on every desk. As well as overhead fans. The flapping of neon post-it notes forming the disco lights of the party. All the windows were wide open, the sounds of gulls and sirens added to the mix of the whirring of the blades and the hens’ clucking going into overdrive as they welcomed me, the new chick. I would like to say it was all in celebration of my arrival but it was also the retirement of some grizzled team leader I was meeting for the first time that day, then would most likely never see again.\nI bent down to pick up the pen I’d pretended to drop (actually a move to get brief respite from the line of the hellfire halitosis of the woman training me) and saw there were fans under some of the desks too, pointed groinwards. I felt my own one wince at that vision of its future.\nSomeone had tuned a dusty radio to a sixties pop hits station. Sensible penny loafers were having their time to shine, tapping on an already threadbare slate grey carpet. I regretted my own choice of black knee high boots with their two and a half inch heels. I had wanted to add a little height to my 5’ 1” frame. Instead I looked like a slut with a hobble. That’s the last time I rely on the fashion pages of Cosmopolitan magazine.\nEnforced fun. The worst kind. I just wanted to get back to my desk. I needed to get in touch with IT to sort out their mistake when they were setting me up with an email address. It’s ‘J-O-D-I-E’, not ‘J-O-D-Y’. Not like I had to send them a million forms with my name spelled as it should be beforehand or anything. Maybe it’s their idea of fun, when they’re not spying through the webcams.\nSomeone whose name was Sally or Sarah is exclaiming over my nose ring. “Does it hurt? What happens when ya hafta blow yer nose??” You could just hear the double question mark. I was used to it from men on dating apps following up from messages they’d sent milliseconds ago, less so from women I was meeting for the first time in a professional setting. I could tell Sally-or-Sarah was just itching to touch the ring. I’d been warned of the Gollums from accounts by a friend who’d just left the Trust. I managed to slip away after distracting her by pointing out the dollop of coleslaw adorning her cardigan.\nSomeone it took me a month to figure out was called ‘Cee-Cee’, not ‘Sissy’, was fanning herself (“the hot flushes, they’re non-stop – never get old, m’lovely!”) with a patient information leaflet on eating disorders while simultaneously demanding I pile my floppy paper plate high from a beige wobbling pyramid of sausage rolls. On closer inspection of the buffet table I was surprised to find their vegan counterparts. I suppose not having a plant-based option would result in human rights violation emails to HR from the girl I spied with the too short fringe. The shorter the fringe, the shorter the temper, so I’ve found. I’d be annoyed too if I had been given that haircut. I think because we’re similar in ages I’m expected to gravitate towards her but I’d rather be alone with the homemade samosas I’d just spotted.\nI was about to pocket a handful of After Eights so I could have them later at the designated time the brand creators had in mind but then became ensnared as soon as my fingertips brushed the little square envelopes. I had to pretend to listen to a rare fox among the hens superciliously drone on about the apprenticeship in Information Governance he co-ran. I told him I’d like to at least complete my mandatory training first – unfortunately he took that to be a joke, guffawing and spraying cheesy biscuit crumbs. He actually gave me a business card when he got a hold of himself again, as though I couldn’t just look him up on the intranet. I caught a couple of the hens twinkling beady eyes at each other. Sorry to disappoint, Sally-or-Sarah and Ann-or-Anita, this isn’t the start of some office romance. This is the start of me collecting evidence to tell the Green Team how trees were being killed so Andrew could enjoy the feeling of shoving his face in my palm, given he wouldn’t be shoving it anywhere else on me anytime soon.\nAt least three of the phones are ringing, but nobody is answering. Not when there are snacks.\nI muffled a sigh. I was there to work. I was there to change things. From the inside. I had experienced all the failings of the healthcare system as a patient, what with years of misdiagnoses since a young girl. The blackouts that were put down to puberty, hormones, not enough exercise, not enough vitamin C in my diet. The mood swings. The constant pain. Being asked all the time and always by a new consultant, never the one I’d seen last, if I was taking recreational drugs. I was angry. But I was ready. I’d get through this dreary do, fix the fuck up with my name, then I would start to help those in need. Because I knew the wilderness of being knocked off the waiting list for unclear reasons. I knew-\nA proffered miniature plastic cup of warm orange juice snaps me out of my reverie. The strip lights (the cause of so many of Maureen’s migraines, lest we forget) shimmer and dance on the surface of the liquid, drawing me forwards. I dive in. So sweet.\nA nervous new girl places a lilac coloured envelope on the corner of my desk where I’ll read thirty of the same platitudes scrawled inside, or at least try to while the flies and the phones buzz around my decaying carcass, before it goes straight into the recycling bin when I get home:\n“Happy retirement Jody!”\nNever get old." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Redundant Crusade\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2631\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who knows it’s time to retire or change jobs, but is hesitating." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "After what felt exactly like one-thousand-four-hundred-and-eighty-five years, Arthur was finally beginning to suspect he wouldn’t be needed any more, and that they could all retire just like his men wanted. But just then, the old stone door covering the cave entrance slid open, and they saw a figure silhouetted by the glory of the daylight.\nArthur leapt to his feet at once, his chained mail jingling. “Merlin, old chap! It’s about bloody time.” Then all his knights jumped to their feet too, and everyone drew their swords and cheered, “Huzzah!”\nThe figure at the mouth of the cave stepped forward, and flipped on a flashlight. When Arthur’s eyes adjusted to all the new light, he saw that Merlin didn’t look quite the way he remembered.\n“Merlin, old chap! You have turned into a lass! And a comely one at that.” The knights all murmured their approval, not having seen a woman in a millennium and a half. Indeed, they hadn’t done much of anything in a millennium and a half, other than sitting on their stools in the darkness of the cave, waiting for the day Britain would need them again.\n“Well hey there, fellas,” said the woman, with an exaggerated East coast accent. “I’m Gertie.”\n“Gertie?” asked Arthur.\n“That’s right. And I’m a forest ranger here in the Avalon Wilderness Reserve. And, oh, I’m so sorry, but you boys can’t be living in this cave. You can camp with a permit though. Oh, and you should know, we’ve had a few bear sightings nearby.”\n“Psst!” Lancelot pssted. “Arthur, ’tis not Merlin. ’tis not Merlin at all!”\nThe other knights all concurred with a chorus of “Ayes!” and “By my troths!”\n“You are right, I wager,” said Arthur. “’tis no matter. The seal is still broken, and we are called once again to the aid of our beloved Britain.”\nHe turned to the ranger. \"Brave Gertie, most breathtaking maiden of the forest paths! Have no fear, for we shall save the day. This, I swear to you, for I am King Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon, and these fine warriors are my unparalleled knights!\n“And this cave we shall abandon anon, for we’ve no more use of it.”\n“That’s swell,” Gertie said. “Thank you, Mr. Pendragon. Oh, there’s just one more thing, and I’m really sorry to bring it up, but it’s kind of a biggie.”\n“Yes?”\n“Well, those things you got, they’re not swords, are they? They’re not sharpened? You know, you can’t just walk around with sharp swords after all.”\n“You can’t?” asked Arthur. He looked at his men, and they were all just as perplexed.\n“Well, surely,” Lancelot started, “they’re not sharp at all. We don’t even have a whet stone down here.” The others concurred.\n“And besides,” said Gawain, “these, er, aren’t swords at all.”\n“They aren’t?” said Gertie.\n“No, no, these are,” Gawain continued, then pursed his lips, then finished, “knives. Big knives. Decorative cutlery.”\n“Oh, that’s all swell then,” said Gertie.\n“Then it’s settled!” Arthur proclaimed. “Let us hie back to Britain, save everyone, and finally drive the Saxons back into the sea!”\nGertie led King Arthur and his knights out of the cave, but alas, their troubles were only beginning. When she took them to the Newfoundland coast, they promptly started chopping trees down with their decorative cutlery, intending to build a great ship with which to sail back to Britain.\nJohnson Johnson, Mayor of St. John’s, stopped his pickup at the side of the road and told them, “Hey! You can’t do that, eh!” And then Officers Marney and Klampp arrested Arthur and his knights, and took them to St. John’s.\nThis was just as well, as none of the knights had ever built a ship before, that being more Merlin’s thing. Arthur found the city overwhelming, with its concrete spires and sorcerous street lights and fire hydrants. When they saw all the horseless metal carriages, presumably propelled by elfish trickery, Galahad fainted. It was all too much, and Arthur used his one phone call to talk to Gertie.\nThey met in the jail’s cafeteria.\n“Gertie, I need your help,” Arthur said. “We’re in way over our heads here. They want us to pay some kind of fine, only all I have are Roman denarii and they won’t accept those, and they say we don’t have any ID! How could my identity be in doubt?” He unsheathed his sword and raised it high. “I wield bloody Excalibur, don’t I? How are we ever going to drive the Saxons into the sea now?”\n“Oh, Mr. Pendragon,” she said, patting his free hand. “I don’t doubt you, but you boys are in quite the pickle. Look, why don’t you sheath that sword for now.”\nArthur did, looking glum. “Things have changed so much, Gertie. I don’t recognize Avalon at all anymore.”\n“Mm-hmm,” Gertie said. “Well Avalon’s just the wilderness reserve. We call this place Newfoundland.”\n“Newfoundland?”\nShe nodded, then showed him her phone, where they looked at a map of the area. “Newfoundland is part of Canada. See?” She zoomed out, expanding this strange new world. “Which is part of North America. And see, here? The whole globe, in your hand.”\n“The world’s a ball?” said Arthur, his eyes wide. “Blimey. I owe Percival a Coke.”\n“I think I can help you guys get out of jail,” Gertie said.\nArthur’s face lit up. “Oh, you have my eternal gratitude, fair Gertie!” He clasped her hand in his, and she blushed.\nGertie was able to negotiate a community service deal for the knights to pay off their fine. This suited them well, for helping communities was their second most important sworn duty, right after driving Saxons back into the sea.\nThey spent a month walking up and down Newfoundland’s highways, picking up litter and helping caribou cross the road. Gertie chaperoned and more and more she felt herself drawn to Arthur and his stories. And Arthur had no shortage of questions for her, and was amazed at both her breadth of knowledge and her grace.\nBut when the month was up and their debt was paid, she delivered more bad news.\n“People don’t really travel on ships anymore. That’s just for fishing or cargo,” she said.\n“But then how shall we ever sail back to Britain? My people need us.”\n“Well, most commonly, people nowadays would take an airplane.”\n“A what?”\n“An airplane. It’s like a bus with wings, and it flies you from one part of the world to another.”\n“By my troth!” said Percival. “You mean to say, ’tis a dragon!?”\n“No, sorry,” Gertie said, chuckling. “The airlines might have beastly customer service but they’re no dragons. Airplanes are just machines, like cars. But they’re fast! They should get you to London in just over eight hours.”\n“Eight hours!?” said Arthur, and all his knights buzzed. “It took us three bloody years to sail to Avalon. What miraculous sorcery, this! The day is saved! We’ll show those Saxons what for, yet! Tell me, Gertie, where does one capture such an airplane? And do we need a special saddle?”\nGertie sighed. She wanted to help Mr. Pendragon, but the prospect of him leaving was getting increasingly hard to bear. “Well, you don’t need to capture it,” she said. “But you do need a passport.”\nAnd so the brave king and his knights hit their next hurdle, for when they went down to the passport office, it turned out that Excalibur still didn’t count as a valid ID. Worse, the government had no records of the knights at all – no birth certificates, no driver’s licences, no visas, no death certificates – nothing. Not only did they not get passports, they were also ineligible for them.\n“Oh, greatest of woes!” said Arthur. “Whatever shall we do now?”\n“I have an idea,” said Gertie. “Only, it might take a while…”\n“We’ve waited this long, Gertie most fair. However you wisely counsel us, so shall we endeavour.”\n“You can apply for Canadian citizenship,” she said. “That way they would have to give you a passport.”\n“Then apply we shall!”\nAlas, the application process was a nightmare the likes of which the intrepid heroes had never faced before. They would need addresses, for the mountains of correspondence and paperwork. They would need incomes, to show they weren’t just a drain on the economy. They would need at least a seventh grade education, and to pass a written test. This new government was labyrinthine and alien, a far cry from the straightforward efficiency of the feudal system they knew and loved.\nBut they grit their teeth and pushed forward. For starters, they decided they would sell jam. They already knew the highways and would set up shop on the shoulders, and of course everybody loved wild jam. They’d sell by day, and nights they would sit around Gertie’s large round table, filling in forms according to her guidance, and learning the basics of civics and history.\nOne night, when they had a night off, Gertie asked Arthur if he wanted to see a movie, and so they went to see The Lord of the Rings. Arthur, dearly missing the advice of Merlin, became deeply interested in Gandalf.\n“What a magnificent wizard!” he said. “I simply must find him! He shall counsel us most wise.”\n“Oh, Mr. Pendragon,” Gertie lamented. “I’m so sorry I’ve misled you. This story isn’t real. It’s like a play. Gandalf isn’t a real person.”\n“Oh, I see,” said Arthur, growing quiet. But then he looked up at her with a warm gaze, and he took her hand. “No matter. What use are wizards, when I have the privilege of your company?”\nAgain, Gertie felt her cheeks run hot, and they spent the rest of the evening grinning at each other over popcorn.\nTime went on. The jam business brought in a decent penny, but Lancelot saw an opportunity to move faster when he took a job as an assistant manager at a Timmie’s. Shortly after, Kay and Yvain decided to try their luck on the lobster boats. And so it went, the knights gradually parting ways and following their own paths, until only Arthur and Gertie remained selling jam on the highways.\nThey all still met, every Saturday night around Gertie’s big round table, going through whatever fresh forms the government required. And they ended each night reaffirming their dream, of driving the Saxons back into the sea. But they saw less and less of each other.\nNaturally, big events brought them together, like when Kay and Yvain bought their own lobster boat, or when Galahad’s kid made the Little League team. And of course, when Arthur and Gertie tied the knot. It was a big old party they threw, inviting the whole neighbourhood over.\nAnd then, finally, when their forms were all submitted and approved, and their hard work paid off. They became Canadian citizens together. In all, it had taken just over a decade, but the king and his knights were proud, and more to the point, happy the ordeal was behind them.\n“Good show, men,” Arthur said. “Jolly good show. We’ve finally done it. Now all that’s left is to get our passports. Then we can finally fly over to Britain, and drive the Saxons back into the sea!”\nAs always, Arthur raised Excalibur high into the air, but unlike always, his men weren’t as enthusiastic this time, instead murmuring half-heartedly. Arthur looked around at his knights, and he saw that they had all come with their new families, their new friends.\nThis week, Gawain had custody of his kids, so the little tykes cheered him on. Caradoc took a break from filming to go through the citizenship ceremony, and he was there with his supermodel girlfriend. Lancelot, now a VP in a major agribusiness conglomerate, had attended with his team of executives. And so it went, each man stamped with the life they had lived.\nArthur lowered his blade, and smiled sadly. They had waited one-thousand-four-hundred-and-eighty-five years with him, and then a decade longer. “Men, you have served me well. I could not have asked for a better band of brothers in arms.” He took a deep breath. “I hereby release you from your oaths.”\nThe knights nodded solemnly, blinking back tears and smiling. Nothing more was to be said. They bumped chain mailed fists with Arthur, as was knightly tradition since time immemorial, and all went their separate ways, to live their separate lives.\n“And what shall you do, Mr. Pendragon?” Gertie asked.\n“I shall continue my quest as ever, my love. I shall return to Britain, and drive the Saxons into the sea.”\nGertie grinned. “I think a vacation sounds lovely.”\nThe year it took to get a passport was a pittance compared to the citizenship, and Arthur used that time to get back into shape. Before they knew it, their flight was taking off, and a mere eight hours later they landed at Heathrow Airport in London.\nIt turned out that Britain had changed somewhat in fifteen hundred years. For one, compared to London, St. John’s no longer quite seemed the sprawling metropolis it initially had. Next, it had taken Arthur a good while to get used to cars back in Newfoundland, and now here, it turned out everyone drove on the wrong side of the road. Beyond that though, there was an impossible amount of people.\nPeople cheered when they saw him, and they snapped photos and asked for autographs. And then they went on about their day, heading back to the shops, or work, or the next celebrity sighting. And not once, in any time, nor any place, did Arthur see a Saxon.\n“My love,” he said, plopping onto a park bench. “Has it all been for naught? Did I wait too long? Do people… do they truly have no more need of me?”\nGertie rested her head against his shoulder and interlaced her fingers with his. “Some people need you, Mr. Pendragon.” She beamed at him. “I need you.”\nIt was enough to raise his spirits and they shared a kiss.\n“Now, we’ve come all this way,” she said. “What do you say we just enjoy the rest of our vacation?”\n“I’d love that!”\nThey toured the city of London and saw all the sights to see. Arthur gorged himself on exotic street food, and Gertie snapped photos of everything. When they popped in to a Tesco, they ran into the sitting British Monarch, out doing his groceries, and the two kings spent an afternoon talking shop.\nFinally, Arthur and Gertie decided to round off their vacation by spending some time in Salcombe, to enjoy the lovely beach weather. Arthur had come to terms with his career being over. As he walked down the pier, holding hands with Gertie and breathing in the fresh salt air, he realized he was fine with it. Perhaps he never got to drive the Saxons to the sea, but, he was fine with it. He was satisfied. No, more than this, he was happy. Britain was free, after all. And now, so was he.\nThey stood at the end of the pier for a good long while, just watching the distant boats and swooping gulls.\n“I love you,” he said.\n“I love you, too,” she said. Then: “Oh, this is funny! I think you’ll get a kick out of it. I got curious and I did one of those ancestry things, and wouldn’t you know it, turns out I’m part Saxon.”\nNot missing a beat, Arthur stepped back, placed his hands on her shoulders, and shoved her off the pier.\nAnd then he dove in after her, and they shrieked with laughter like rioting children, until the sun set." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Look With Your Heart\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2210\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters who meet and/or fall in love in a museum." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Charles walked into the museum slowly, shuffling with his polished hardwood cane. He looked around and frowned. \nKids? He thought in disgust, looking at a family with three young children. Who on earth brings kids to an art museum!? Those inconsiderate, selfish people. They’ll ruin it for the rest of us!\nCharles, a longtime fan of the arts, (more accurately, a professional fan of the arts), knew that only the most refined, dignified, educated person could enjoy them. Having two PhD’s on the subject, he knew what art was. He knew how to appreciate it. Children could never understand it. If Charles had his way, no child would ever be allowed in an art museum. In fact, several years ago he petitioned to have a large “Adults only, 18+” sign posted on the front of the museum. That was until he learned the hard way what kind of “art” is typically shown behind such signs. People really disgusted him sometimes.\n“Hello sir, would you like to enter the museum? Tickets are eight dollars.” Said an overly friendly woman at the front desk. Charles just glared at her. Where was the usual woman who worked here? Why didn’t anyone tell this new person who he was? Apparently, everyone was trying to inconvenience him today.\n“I’m a distinguished member” Charles grumbled at her, pulling out his museum platinum membership card. “You should really know who I am, I can’t believe they don’t have you memorize the member list. In fact, I used to work in this very same museum decades ago, before you were even born. I knew every single member by name back then. We used to have respect for the most educated and refined members of society. Times have surely changed.”\nThe woman at the desk listened politely. “Well, I’m glad to have one of our members visiting today. Enjoy your visit, Mr. Charles.” She smiled and gestured into the rest of the building.\nThat smart alec woman, thinking she can win me over just by reading the name on my card, Charles thought as he walked into the main foyer. And it’s not Mr., it’s Dr., thank you very much! \nContinuing through the room, he made sure to walk in a large arc around the family with kids. One of them was picking their nose, and another one was playing a game on some electronic doohickey. \n“I can’t believe you’d bring such a useless distraction to a museum.” he muttered under his breath. If someone had heard him, they might have thought he was talking about the iPhone the kid was playing on.\nHe was talking about the child.\nAs Charles continued to work his way through the museum, his judgments of the other patrons were as consistent and harsh as the tap-tap-tapping of his cane on the polished floor. That man is spending far too much time looking at that painting, he needs to give others a chance to see it. He thought after passing someone who was very focused on a particular piece of art.\nThat man isn’t even taking the time to appreciate anything, why did he waste his time coming here? He thought about another gentleman pleasantly walking by. A certain woman was too sloppy, a young couple was too touchy feely, and the several other kids he saw were surely all delinquents.\nWhen Charles finally got around to looking at the actual art, his thoughts were intelligent and academic, something you might find in a textbook. In some cases, he was actually thinking about what he wrote in the couple of textbooks he had published on the topic. He knew what good art was, he knew how to look at it, and he knew how to think about it, unlike all the disgraceful plebeians they let in this place.\nAs Charles reached a back corner of the museum, he saw an elderly woman sitting on a bench, smiling as she looked at the painting across from her.\nShe saw Charles and gave him a wave. “Hello! Come sit with me for a moment, won’t you! I’d love to have someone to enjoy this painting with.” she said warmly. Although not necessarily pleased with the invitation, Charles saw no excuse to not join her, so he walked over and sat down next to her.\n“I’m Dawn” The woman said, reaching out her hand for a handshake.\n“It’s nice to meet you, Dawn.” Charles said, shaking her hand. “My name is Charles.”\n“Oh, it’s so great to meet you!” Dawn replied. Then, looking back towards the painting, she said, “Isn’t that just a beautiful one?”\nCharles didn’t even have to look to know which painting it was, he’d been there enough times to know. But he glanced over at it anyways and saw the familiar Starry Night.\n“It’s not Van Gogh’s best work.” Charles said, quickly analyzing the art. “Although it’s arguably his most famous.”\n“I love it.” Dawn said, smiling at it again. “Look at all the lights on in the windows of all the little houses. I like to imagine I can see all the little families in each one.” She started pointing at the different houses. “In that one there’s a family with lots of little kids getting ready for bed. The dad is helping the two oldest finish up their homework for tomorrow, and the mom is singing a lullaby to the two youngest. They’re trying their best to stay awake, but they’re just too tired to resist the sleepiness of their mother’s song. Oh, I can just see their cute little yawns as they fall asleep!”\nCharles looked at Dawn curiously. What was the woman going on about? There was nothing in the painting to suggest such a thing. He was about to tell her so, but she continued before he could cut in.\n“And in that house is a newlywed couple who just bought their first home. They don’t have much money or furniture, but they have each other, and that’s all they need. They’re dancing together in the kitchen to the song that played on the radio the day they first met.\n“In that house is a grandmother with one of her little granddaughters who came to stay the night. The child was supposed to be in bed an hour ago, but the grandma is too fun for such rules! They’re laughing as they make cookies, and the grandma lets the young girl eat as many as she wants. She lets her snack on the cookie dough too, something her mom would never allow. But tonight, it’s their little secret. What mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”\nCharles had been watching Dawn the whole time she was talking. She was ignorant of the real meaning of that painting, but she didn’t care one bit. She loved it anyway. Although there was something oddly enjoyable about listening to her describe the little scenes, Charles felt he must correct her.\n“Dawn, you have the painting all wrong.” Charles said. “I’ve read many scholarly papers on this piece. In fact, I’ve even written a few myself. Nowhere have I ever seen anything that would suggest such bizarre scenes taking place in the houses.”\nDawn smiled at him. “You know a lot about these paintings, don’t you?”\nCharles nodded. “Yes, I do. If you would like, I’d be happy to tell you the actual meanings and symbols of this piece.”\nDawn chuckled at that. “Charles, art isn’t supposed to be studied. It’s meant to be enjoyed! So don’t tell me what it means. Look at the painting and tell me how it makes you feel!” She then gently nudged Charles’ head to look back towards the painting.\nHe didn’t know why, but he decided to play along with Dawn’s game, insulting as her comments were to his profession. He looked at the painting and thought, What do I feel? Hmm. I feel like this painting gets more attention than it deserves. I feel like the colors are too extreme, and the style is too loose. I feel like if there were actually little people in those houses, they should get to bed soon and turn off the lights, because they’re probably racking up a large electrical bill.\nIt was as if Dawn could read his thoughts. She said, “Charles, turn off your analytical brain. Turn on your inner child. What do you feel?”\nCharles grumbled and then tried again. He stared at the painting for several minutes in silence, but try as he might, he didn’t feel anything. He thought and he thought and he thought, but he didn’t feel.\nHe looked back towards Dawn. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel anything.”\n“Then let me help you.” She replied. Turning his head to look at the painting again, she said “I feel joy when I look at the beautiful stars in the sky. I feel love for God when I look at His chapel, reaching up towards His magnificent creations. I feel tired yet happy when I look at the house with the parents trying to get their kids to bed. I feel scared and excited and adventurous when I look at the house of the young couple. And I feel fun and wild when I look at the grandmother baking with her granddaughter. Although I feel a heavy sense of loss at that fact that her husband has been dead for 15 years, and she’ll be lonely again tomorrow when the granddaughter goes back home.”\nDawn’s eyes teared up when she said the last part, and something clicked in Charles’ head. Dawn was the newly married woman. She was the mother of four. And she is the grandmother who loves her grandchildren, but who’s terribly lonely in that house by herself.\nCharles had always been by himself. He had never taken the time to think about how it felt though, he was always much too busy with work. Now, though, he looked at the painting again. And this time, he started to feel.\nHe felt the deep sadness in the blue of the sky and the hills. He felt pockets of joy and love in the little lights coming from all the little houses. He felt a sense of gratitude for the life he’d been able to live, spending every day doing what he loved. He felt a sense of loss as he realized his academic goals had made him lose sight of the powerful emotions art had first instilled in him as a young boy, emotions that fostered his first love for art. He felt a sense of community with his fellow academics, and a sense of loneliness in his current state. Looking at the stars, he felt a sense of wonder and hope, wonder that Dawn could open up his heart like this again, and hope that the best was still yet to come.\nTears started to stream down his face. Dawn grabbed his hand in hers, a silent understanding passing between them. Quietly, she whispered “There you go Charles. You finally turned off your brain and you turned on your heart.”\nThey sat there for a while longer, both of them feeling powerful emotions together. Eventually, Dawn let go of his hand and stood up. “It was nice to meet you, Charles. I have a granddaughter coming over tonight, and I don’t want to be late.” She paused for a moment, and then gave Charles a sad smile. “Goodbye, Charles. Thanks for enjoying this moment with me” She then turned and walked away.\nCharles sat there in stunned silence for a moment. This woman had opened a door in his heart he had forgotten was there. She had created more life in this one afternoon than he’d had in his last 50 years of living. And now she was walking away, to leave forever! Although only an hour ago Charles would have scolded someone for yelling in a museum, now he couldn’t hold himself back.\n“Dawn, wait!”\nSix months later, Charles and Dawn walked into the museum together. Charles’ walk was still shuffled, and Dawn supported him with his arm in hers. After a friendly conversation with the woman at the desk, and funny faces at some kids in the lobby, Dawn and Charles made their way back to their favorite painting, Starry Night.\n“Those kids are so cute.” Charles said, as they took a seat on the same bench where they met. “They remind me of your grandkids.”\n“Our grandkids now, Hunny.” Dawn said with a smile, lovingly rubbing Charles’ new wedding ring.\nCharles smiled back at that, and they both turned to look at the painting across from them, Dawn resting her head on Charles’ shoulder.\n“Did I ever tell you who’s in that last house?” Dawn said, pointing to a house at the side of the town.\n“I don’t think so.” Charles responded. “Tell me all about them.”\n“Well,” said Dawn, holding Charles’ hand tightly in hers. “That’s where a darling elderly couple lives. The wife is never lonely anymore, and the husband has found joy once again in his life. They love each other very much, and they enjoy the little things in life every day together on their wonderful journey to happily ever after.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Was It Love or Was It...\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1154\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with an unexpected betrayal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "According to Wikipedia, betrayal is defined as “the breaking or violation of a presumptive contract, trust, or confidence that produces moral and psychological conflict within a relationship amongst individuals.” \nIs this a story of betrayal or the story of a mother wanting to save the life of her son? You be the judge. \nAt the age of five, I trailed behind a group of individuals, accompanied by my mom and the evil person she had married. We were entering what would be my new residence. I had been removed from my home because of the torture I was enduring by this evil person. Describing the extent of the damage he wrought upon me and my siblings is a challenge; the scars he left run deep, making it difficult to articulate the sheer malevolence he embodied. \nI have never given that person the satisfaction of calling him a man or even a step dad. You may feel the emotion in my words even in describing this person, but this story is not about him. It’s more about the emotions I’ve carried around for decades. I’ve been treading around these waters for a few years now. I’ve been sticking my toes in, and sometimes I can put my whole foot in. Now I’m about to be waist deep in these waters of betrayal. My hope is that I don’t fall in a pit here and sink. \nMy biological father was absent from my childhood. For most of my life, I’ve held him responsible for the pain and suffering caused by the poor choices my mom made. He ended his race with a bullet.\nI remember entering that giant brick building that I would call home from then on. I met my new mother and all my new brothers. “This is George,” she screamed to the entire house. As I stood at the door with my paper bag of clothes, I watched my mom walk away. As my mom and the social worker drove off, I could see her looking back at me. I could see the anguish in her tiny eyes. \nI wasn’t sure if she would ever come back for me, or if she would make it through her own torture at the hands of this evil person. I could only hope that the evil would die.\nI was led to my bed in a row of several other boys. They just looked at me as if I were damaged goods. In truth, we were all in the same boat. None of us had a place to call home. There was no one to give us a hug, no one to crease our hair, and no one to say the words, “I love you.” We were all isolated in our own little worlds. Even at five, we were all trying to understand why we were betrayed. Or were we? \nIt wasn’t until recently that I realized the deep-seated emotion I had been carrying all along was betrayal. For so long, I harbored feelings of anger, frustration, and resentment towards my mom, feeling there must be something more beneath the surface. Despite knowing about forgiveness and surrendering to God’s will, I still felt a profound sense of confusion about this aspect of my life. \nNow, as I immerse myself in this story, I realize that if I can finish it, I will break free from strongholds that have bound me for decades. This story is unfolding in real time and the emotions that are surfacing are really extraordinary.\nWe have defined what betrayal is, but what about love? Let’s delve into this further.\nLove encompasses a range of intense and positive emotional states, ranging from profound virtues and deep interpersonal affection to the simplest pleasure. For example, the love of a mother differs from the love of a spouse, which differs from the love for food. Most commonly, love refers to a feeling of strong attraction and emotional attachment.\nPeople consider love to be both positive and negative, with its virtue representing human kindness, compassion, and affection—defined as \"the unselfish, loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another” (Wikipedia). \nAfter reading this definition, I find my heart overflowing with love for my mom. Suddenly, the fear, depression, anger, disgust, and resentment I felt for her for just disappear. The betrayal I had carried with me for so many years now seems insignificant. The last sentence in the definition says it all. She demonstrated love in an unselfish and loyal way, and her concern was for my well-being. It’s clear to me now that she was never solely focused on herself. She wanted to save me and give me the best chance at life that I could have, and for that I am forever grateful. \nIs it possible to feel betrayed and deeply loved but not know it? I’m not talking about something that happened last year or a few years ago; this happened decades ago, and it’s one of my first memories. For most of my life, I’ve had a profound lack of trust and confidence in others. I never knew she loved me that much. Identifying with the betrayal was so easy for so many years. But as I write this, I realize it wasn’t betrayal at all—it was an act of love, a desperate attempt to rescue me from the death that was sure to come. \nNow that’s she’s gone, there is no opportunity to express my gratitude. No chance to embrace her, kiss her, or explain to her that her child has overcome this deep-seated emotion of betrayal. I can only lift my eyes to the heavens on this moonlit night and cry out to her, screaming, “I love you.” \nIt reminds me of the song, Scandal of Grace. (Hillsong)\nToo much to make sense of it all\nI know that Your love breaks my fall\nThe scandal of grace\nYou died in my place\nSo my soul will live\nHer motive will always be a scandal of grace. I am now free from this emotion of betrayal and full of the grace of her love.\nThe song reminds us that the true scandal of grace brings true life to our soul that this world wants to destroy, \nAll to be like You\nGive all I have just to know You\nJesus, there's no one beside You\nForever the hope in my heart\nNow, the story goes on. I’m now walking out of this river of water that has surrounded me for so many years, and now I’ve been washed and baptized in the truth that has set me free. It was out of love! Forever, Mom, you brought hope to my heart. I love you, Mom! \nJeremiah 29:11\nNew Living Translation\n11 For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Abby and the Fugitives\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1941\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with an unexpected betrayal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Abagail sought solace in her sitting room and worried over the latest servant foible. Likely, her husband, Nabal, would hear about it, overreact, and explode. She sighed and thought about the many dramas she had averted by intervening in the nick of time. Her husband behaved like a wild bull in a field of wheat, for the most part. He had never suspected any betrayal on her part to date.\n\nShe asked one of her maids to give the servant a signed letter, which provided an out. Permission for him to immediately ‘visit a sick mother’ in his hometown three furlongs away. She allowed two months leave, during which time his mother could recover at her leisure and be heartened by the presence of her son. She also had a gift prepared for him to give to her.\n\nHopefully, her husband, Nabal, would cool down and forget what had happened. With luck, he may not check the validity of the mission. She didn’t believe in lying, but the document would only be used if the servant needed to prove permission to leave.\n\nHow could she have ended up married to such a thoughtless and abusive man? Her parents had been in awe of his wealth and abundant material possessions. They wanted their beautiful and capable daughter to secure a great marriage. Despite the age difference, Nabal had fallen in love with her and had taken her as a wife. But hers is no beauty and the beast story with a happy ending. Young Abigail soon found out that Nabal loved himself and the regard of others much more. He basked in the prestige of possessing such a kind and comely consort. Abagail became another acquisition to adorn his life.\n\nThe door to her private rooms opened, and a maid announced she had a visitor, one of the estate’s servants. Abagail permitted his entry.\n\nHe bowed low until allowed to stand. Sweat trickled from his brow as he puffed laboriously.\n“Relax, please. Whatever has happened?” she said.\n“I have come in haste due to a disaster which will befall us.”\n“A disaster? Pray, what has you so concerned?”\n“David, the one chosen to be the next king of Israel, who is being pursued by King Saul, sent ten visitors, in his name, from the wilderness. They wished our master and all his household good health and long life. Our master screamed abuse at them. David’s men were very good to us while they were in Carmel. We trusted them, and while we cared for the master’s flocks, they acted as a wall around us, night and day, protecting us from danger. What will you do? Destruction will befall us due to our master’s insults and refusal to provide some extra provisions for David and his men. The messengers left in a great rage. We do not want David’s hoard of skillful fighters to return and wage war against us. We will all surely die.”\nAbagail frowned. “We have so much spare to help others, especially those who help us.”\nShe pondered on the right course of action. If she simply went and apologized on Nabal’s behalf, it would seem like a last-minute plea to save lives and may still lead to the death of some. It may not diffuse David’s anger. What if she presented the finest food to appease them and told the truth? David may extend mercy. It meant an act of deception and disloyalty on her part towards her husband. What did they have to gain? Their lives.\n“Make haste,” she said to the servant. “Prepare five sheep for roasting. We will give them fresh meat, roasted grain, cakes of raisins, and cakes of pressed figs . . . there is no time to bake bread.”\n\nAbagail oversaw the food packing onto the donkeys - the mutton, about 29 liters of roasted grain, 100 cakes of raisins, and 200 cakes of pressed figs. Finally, she removed her necklaces and bracelets and draped a plain headdress over her long black hair. She assigned servants to guide the beasts of burden and travel ahead of her while she sat on her own donkey. She tingled with apprehension as they set off into the wilderness, on either an adventure or their doom. The remaining maids and aides knew to keep her treachery a secret from their master. This is how he would view her prudent actions.\n\nAs she neared their campsite, she overheard the men and David down-crying Nabal’s perfidious behavior in their hour of need and threatening what would befall him and his entire household. ‘Enemies,’ he called them.\n\nWhen Abagail caught sight of David and his hundreds of men, all girded with swords, she realized their fears had a basis in reality. Her heart pounded as she slid off her donkey and hurried over to him. She poured herself down before him and bowed her head.\n“My lord, let the blame be on me. Please let me speak and listen to the words of your servant girl, Abagail. Please, ignore senseless and worthless Nabal. He is a fool, just like his name . . . I, your servant girl, did not see your young men whom you sent.” She raised her head and implored, “It is Jehovah your God who is holding you back from incurring blood guilt and from taking revenge. May your enemies and those seeking injury to my lord become like Nabal. Let the gift your servant girl has brought to you be given to the young men following you. Pardon my transgression . . . because my lord is fighting the wars of Jehovah and no evil has been found in you all your days . . . When Jehovah has done for my lord all the good things He has promised, and He appoints you as leader over Israel, you will have no remorse or regret in your heart for shedding innocent blood and for letting your hand take revenge. When good comes upon my lord, remember your servant girl.” She bowed again.\nDavid looked down at the picture of humility before him. “Praise Jehovah, the God of Israel, who sent you this day to meet me! Blessed be your good sense! May you be blessed for restraining me this day from incurring bloodguilt and from taking revenge with my own hands . . . If you had not come quickly to meet me by morning, there would not have remained a single male belonging to Nabal.”\nHe gratefully accepted the food she had brought them. “Go up in peace to your house. See, I have listened to you and will grant your request.”\nAbagail rose and clasped her hands as she asked the servants to unload the provisions from the donkeys. She smiled at David and bowed her head again. “Thank you, my lord.”\nHe shook his head. “No. Thanks to you for your quick thinking and courage. Your wise words have been apples of gold in silver carvings. But for you, I would have committed a grave sin. I will never forget you.”\n\nWhen she arrived home, she found her unwitting husband Nabal feasting like a king in his house. He invited her to join him. Due to his inebriated state, she chose not to kill his cheerful mood with her confession. He would likely fly into a rage.\n\nShe could barely sleep, wondering how to word what she had to say to him the following day.\nWhat if he retaliated? Might he take it out on the servants?\n“Please, God,” she said as she approached him.\nHe had a surly expression on his now sober face. “What do you want, Abby?”\nHer eyes blazed. “Yesterday, you received guests but did not inform me so I could provide the customary hospitality.”\n“Beggars is all they were. Outlaws against King Saul.”\n“Even our God has turned his back on King Saul. Their leader, David, is anointed by the prophet Samuel to be the next ruler. His men have done no harm and have assisted our shepherds.”\n“What do I care about that?”\n“Did you know that David and his hundreds of warriors vowed to avenge themselves for this slight? They intended to slaughter all in your household.” \nNabal’s face became white, and he slumped motionless in his chair.\n“I met him on his way here. His men all carried swords; their mission was to destroy you. The servants and I offered him more provisions than he expected, and I begged him to reconsider. You would never have extended mercy. But David, a finer man than you, listened and turned back from his cruel plan of annihilating you and all you own.”\nNabal looked at Abagail, speechless. His eyes screamed murder for her treachery. He remained motionless, like a man whose heart had stopped. Abagail instructed the servants to lay the master on his bed and tend to him.\n\nFor the first time in years, peace reigned across the entire estate. On the tenth day of Nabal suffering his paralysis, God struck him, and he died.\n\nAbagail felt relief mixed with guilt. Had she been right in confronting Nabal with the truth? His last realization about her is that she had stabbed him in the back. But it is better for him to die alone than die with all of the innocent as well. She shuddered. His timely death prevented a reign of terror due to what she had done.\n\nWhen David heard that Nabal had passed, he opened his mouth and stared. Justice had prevailed . . . “Jehovah has kept his servant from doing anything bad . . . and brought the badness of Nabal back on his own head! . . . Please send word to Abagail as I will take her as my wife.”\n\nDavid’s servants approached Abagail at her Carmel residence and said, “David has sent us, as he wishes to make you his wife.”\n\nAbagail did not invent an excuse for being in mourning. She had already expressed her uncharitable thoughts about Nabal to David. He had not forgotten her and had interpreted her plea to be remembered as a desire to be protected by him. Not only that, but he had already experienced this wise and generous woman’s backing and support. He wanted her to become part of his royal household—albeit a household of outlaws.\n\n‘The right person will know your worth, and they won’t reject you or act like you’re not good enough for them.’\n\nAbagail got up and bowed with her face to the ground. She knew her own worth but would never put herself above others. “Here is your slave as a servant to wash the feet of the servants of my lord.”\nShe quickly rose and prepared her donkey to accompany the messengers to David, her future husband. Five of her female servants accompanied her.\nObviously, it’s not the end. Off Abagail headed on a new series of adventures.\n\nDisclaimer. None of this story conflicts with the Biblical account or the culture these people lived in. Still, it has been written as a story about Abagail, a remarkable fellow human. It fills in extra details about what probably happened. Abagail is usually praised for her wise actions as this adventure unfolds. However, some may argue that she did wrong despite averting tragedy. She is also imagined as having secret ambitions and having romantic thoughts about someone other than her husband. Yet, she may have just admired David as a war hero. We can all learn something from reading about her brief appearance in written history. She helped a prominent ancestor of the then-future Messiah." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: March, Before Dawn\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1873\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which someone returns to their hometown." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I returned home like a fox running to earth, retreating to a place of unexpected safety. It was before dawn and the sky was turning blue at its seams. I took a breath of the night air; it was cool and clean and made me feel intensely awake. When had I last been here, six months or more, last Christmas, before?\nI could feel the debris of the city sloughing off me, streaming from my pores to be neutralised by the salt air. The hospital stink losing its grip and seeping away in the pre-dawn light.\nThe door of the house was unlocked, which wasn’t unusual. I made my way upstairs and laid my bag carefully on the bed. I had brought only one small suitcase, neatly packed and I found the orderliness of it gave me an immense sense of satisfaction. \nFirst I took a shower and then I put the suit I had been wearing into the washing machine, I hesitated and then threw in the carefully folded contents of my suitcase as well, you couldn’t be too careful.\nThis left me with a towel, so enfolded I sat and watched as the clothes rolled round in the drum. The washing machine whirred and hummed, what a wonderful thing it was, I watched it sleepy and hypnotised. My phone flashed blue, but I let it go to voicemail, too late. It rang again and I switched it off.\nThe next morning was sunny, I awoke too early because the curtains in the guest room were thin and let in all the light, which was brilliant and very yellow. I scrunched up my eyes against it but it fought its way through. The house was quiet. No one home. I went back down to the kitchen, one unwashed mug by the sink. Had that been there last night? I didn’t know. \nThere wasn’t a car in the driveway, just my blue ford parked up along the verge. Gone to work then. The blue sky stretched invitingly out over the houses and down towards the sea, not quite in sight but close by. A walk then, over the downs and along the shore. The town was curiously quiet, too early for tourists, but not many dog walkers, anglers, retirees and other hangabouters. When I reached the seafront the tide was far out leaving a long clear stretch of damp sand, reaching passed the arms of the cliffs. I walked along the beach a long way, enjoying the feeling of expanse, the sea stretching out infinite beside me, the widening kind of blue you long to run towards. I felt a pang of loneliness, to be here alone, where we had so often been together. It was then I realised I had left my phone behind, but never mind - probably not much signal out here anyway. \nIt wasn’t late when I returned, and everything seemed the same. I checked the cupboards and the fridge, enough food, no milk. And wine? David would surely like to come home to a light supper? A contribution to the household? A pleasant surprise?\nHad he noticed I was here last night? Unlikely, but he must have seen the car this morning? Seen divined and ignored?\nI made my short list and walked over to the supermarket, busy after the isolation of the morning. Some people wore masks which made them look angry or started, mine kept riding further and further up my face, inching up my nose and onto my eyes. Next time David could do the shopping.\nIt was 7 before I began to wonder where David was, not usually a late worker. Where could he have gone? Was he perhaps avoiding me? I dug out my phone and switched it back on, many missed calls, nothing from David. It took me a long time to pick out a text, the essence of which was, I am here, where are you?\nAt 8 I washed the cup that was still sitting on the counter from this morning. Then I called David, it rang for a long time and my heart skittered, no answer. I tried again half an hour later and left a message on his voicemail, please call me. I wondered if I should call, Anna, Dad? But it wouldn't go through. I tried David one more time.\nI tried to wonder what David had been doing, did he have a new girlfriend? Was he away on some inexplicable work trip? I couldn’t remember what he had said when we had last spoken, when had it been? Two weeks or more ago. He had rang two days ago but I hadn’t answered. Was this silence some kind of petty revenge?\nI went outside and checked what I already knew. His car was gone. Returning upstairs, I knocked tentatively on his bedroom door. ‘David’ I called ‘David are you in there?’ I slid the door open, half expecting to see him there, lying on his bed, absorbed in some game.\nEmpty of course, bed unmade, which meant nothing David wasn’t one for careful bed making. Was anything missing? His laptop? I couldn’t see that, clothes? Well some were here - hard to tell. Phone charger, present and correct. Then he hadn’t meant to be gone long? Would, perhaps, be back soon?\nI stared anxiously around the room, willing the objects to transform themselves into the clues that would let me know my brother’s whereabouts. I picked at dinner and called David again, no response. \nCalling the police felt like an overreaction, didn’t you have to wait some period of time anyway? 48 hours? Was David missing? Or was he simply not here, had he sensed my presence and decided to go elsewhere? Were they all so angry with me?\nI drank the two glasses of wine I had poured which made my head feel heavy, the lack of sleep was catching up with me. Rest, and then in the morning, David. \nI awoke suddenly, as if startled by a loud noise. A slamming door? A car? David? I sat up slowly trying to arrange my ideas, I must go find David. So I must get out of bed, had he slammed the door? I stumbled thick headed down the stairs. Everything looked the same, outside, I could hear a car somewhere on the estate. Was that David? Had he come back late last night?\nI searched the kitchen for some trace of his presence, two dirty plates, two empty wine glasses, I must have eaten David’s food as well. Or he had eaten it. I stood staring at the dishes as if they were some simple sum I couldn’t make add up.\nI had been here, last night and I had eaten, which plate? One? Both? How could I ever know if David was missing when my own memory seemed motheaten through, badly patched and re-pieced together.\nWhat was the time? Almost 9 o’clock now. Surely David would be back tonight, and if not I would call someone the police maybe. Anna, I should call Anna and hear the news. I went for another, longer walk to distract myself, it was colder but still sunny. Gulls wheeled over my head crying to each other, the surf was rougher and my clothes were covered in a fine mist of spray. I wanted to pause to hide inside this moment and emerge only when all was resolved. To appear again at the denouement, or after. \nThe threads of my story seemed hopelessly lost, the future a frightening blank. \nI was late returning home, I wanted to give David every chance to come back. I almost burst into tears when I rounded the corner and saw the still empty driveway. Not back. Not returned.\nI searched every room of the house, in case he should have returned on foot and chosen to hide behind the ironing board. I picked up my phone and called David. It didn’t even ring this time, cutting straight to voicemail. Was David lying in a ditch somewhere, his phone now dead and silent beside him?\nI shut my eyes tightly and then opened them a little to call Anna. She picked up on the first ring. “Have you seen David?” I said quickly while she was still drawing in breath \n“Why?”\n“I was trying to get in touch with him” \n“He said you’re not taking his calls. Look, are you coming back?”\n“If you see him tell him to call me again, I’m not ignoring him. I want to see him. Ok?’\nI hung up the phone quickly. Trying to call me? I checked my phone again, just the one call from David 3 days ago now. I paced the room, should I call Anna again? No, I had given her the message. She would surely pass it on if she heard anything. Ought I to have told her David wasn’t here? Surely no need to worry her further.\nI spent the evening on Facebook, I contacted all of David’s friends. No one who had seen or spoken to him in the last two days, they all passed on their condolences. \nI paced the room again. One more day? Should I call the police now? I looked at my phone again, messages from Anna, messages from an unknown number. Who was that? Should I call them back? Might it be about David? Was it the hospital trying to get in touch with me? Many texts that I couldn't bear to read. Was it over yet?\nIn the morning. One more night.\nI woke again in the blue light before dawn. A dark figure loomed over my bed, a scream caught in my throat. Then streetlight through the window caught the nose, the chin. \n‘David. You’re here, where have you been?’\n‘Where have I been? What do you mean? Where do you think I was?'\n‘You’re not missing’ I said to David, stupid and accusing. \n'No, I'm not, you're the one who disappeared.'\n‘Why wouldn’t you answer my calls?’\nHe gazed at me in stupefaction ‘Mike I lost my phone’ he explained gently ‘I got a new one, which you would know if you ever answered your phone. Or read any of your messages.’\n‘Why didn’t Anna tell me?’\n‘She tried to but you hung up on her. She guessed you were here, so she sent me to bring you back. She's furious with you for taking off in the middle of the night like that.'\n'I knew she would be.'\n'Why did you do it?'\n'I just had to get away. I couldn't bear it anymore.’\nYou think you're the only one this is hard for? You’re such a child sometimes. Look' he paced the short length of the room 'I don't want to fight but you have to come back now. It's almost over, you need to say goodbye.'\n'I can't David' my breath choked in my throat, tears pricking at my eyes 'I can't do it. He looks so blank it's like he's not there.'\n'Dad loves you, how can you leave him now?'\nI sat helpless on the bed, the sun I knew, was once more creeping up over the horizon." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 am Staussey, Dragon\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2718\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which someone returns to their hometown." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Warning: contains a bit of gore.\nFrom the height of my mountain aerie the voices of the men reached my ears from far, far below. They sounded angry and full of righteous malice…but it wasn’t a sound I’d not heard before. As a dragon of the Gemutlich Order, I had been blamed and hunted and followed by these types of voices all my life.\nI peered out over the edge of the cliff that was my front stoop, not worried that they would see me, for this cavern was higher in the sky than even The Zugspitze, the frosted tip of which I could see 75 miles to the north. I saw the men with my keen dragon’s eyes, on the mountain pass, as little hairy squat spots crawling like black lice on the pelt of a white dog. They, having been born with mere human eyes, would not be able to see me. Nor was I worried they’d ever reach my cozy nest… without wings, it would be impossible.\nStill, I was curious as to why these angry men would strive so ardently to undertake what would surely be a failed mission. They were on foot, having no doubt left their horses on the lower steppe before the narrow path grows treacherous for heavy hooved feet. I tuned my long ears, sharp as my eyes, towards the ravine and was saddened against my will to detect great sorrow in their voices, in particular, the young man who appeared to be their leader.\n“…dragon’s gone too far…”\n“…slay it once and for all…”\n“…dragon steaks for the entire village…”\nLaughter.\n‘My my,’ I thought. ‘They are angrier than usual. Scared to be sure. And they ken the futility of their mission but are driven on anyways. Why?’\nWith an hour until dark, and unable to climb ('would they attempt to climb tomorrow?’) further, I watched as the group of nine pitched two tents and assembled a fire.\nAfter dark I flew down to the copse of trees twenty feet from the camp. My deep green scales flecked with earthy brown camouflaged me within the evergreens and shadows. I was careful not to reveal any of my belly, for there the wide scales of my armor were of burnished gold and would catch the firelight like a beacon to my whereabouts.\nI held my breath until the howling wind changed direction, lest the men catch a scent of sulfurous air from my lungs.\nThe leader turned out to be a young man, barely out of his short pants, with long dark hair tied back in a horse’s tail and the faint shadow of a brand-new beard, most likely his first, on his pale clear skin. The high, widow’s peaked forehead gave him away, it was the same as his father’s…this was a son of Emperor Wagner’s. ‘He’s far from his castle home.’ Next to him was a bearded blond man, also in a fine wool cloak lined with thick winter fox, who had to be his chosen man, a squire that becomes a brother through loyalty. \nThe two scruffy, red-bearded men were at least ten years older and spoke with Irish accents, most likely hired professionals handy with weaponry. \nThe other five were locals from the small village of Bergamont, I’d seen them hunting in the woods of the ravine that runs between my mountain and The Zugspitz.\nThe emperor’s son said, “Jan, pass me the map please.” My assumption was correct, only the chosen man would be afforded a ‘please’.\nHis chosen man, Jan, said, “Here. Look. This is where we are at.” He pointed a finger to the map and tilted it towards the campfire.\nOne of the red-beards had passed out with a jug in his hands. His brother yanked it out of a greasy grip and said, “No one’s ‘er climbed farther dan dis. It’s too steep. Da face of dis ere mountain, sheer this entire side.” He gestured wildly at the slope with his free hand; brandy sploshed out the mouth of the jug.\nA villager grumbled testily, “Eh now Mack, watch that.”\nJan said, “Erik. Even if we find a way up on the other side---”\nOne of the locals cut in, “thayn’t no ways up t’other side neither. Been there a plenty collectin rock goose eggs.”\nJan ignored him and went on, “even if we could…the dragon would pitch us off the mountain top like a child playing ‘Whack the Mouse.’”\nI was offended. Gemutlich meant Pleasant and Cheerful. Perhaps they were confusing me with my nasty tempered cousin, Maud of the Order of The Fleischesser, or Flesh Eater. But that would be silly, her scales were black and edged with thorns, we looked nothing alike. She was my closest relative though we rarely spoke. She’d developed a taste for human meat and in doing so, gave our entire species a bad name.\nA villager with grey hair and very few teeth held his hands out for the jug, “Aye. Pass it ere now.”\nJan took the jug from the red head and offered it to Prince Erik first who shook his head with a frown furrowing his pale brow. “But I must rescue Fredrika. If I do…” He trailed off.\nThe villagers looked uneasily at one another. I grabbed another ounce of patience and held my tongue. ‘Why on earth would I kidnap a princess? Or any human for that matter?’ They were an annoying species that I kept my distance from. It was a constant battle to keep my decent reputation intact.\nFour of the villagers got up and staggered to one of the tents. Jan at last broke the awkward silence. “Erik. She’s only your half-sister. Is the risk worth it? I mean, you live comfortably in the castle…”\n“And so do you, my friend. Thanks to me.”\n“I know I know…”\n“I wish to be acknowledged by our entire kingdom…hell, the world, as Prince Erik.” His eyes grew glassy in the firelight, he appeared to be talking to himself. “My own castle. My own lands to rule…no longer a bastard. I want respect.”\nThe red head punched his brother’s arm hard and roused him sort of awake. He said to the dark-haired young man, “Erik, sir, Bergamont is verra ‘appy to have you back in yer home village---”\n“Yes, yes. Good to be back. A fine village it is.” He flipped a hand in a ‘whatever’ gesture that made mockery of his words. He was lying.\nI waited for them all to retire then stealthily crept backwards out of the pines. I flew into the inky starless sky. It was overcast, the atmosphere thick with the water-heavy winter air. My powerful wings took me high above the low clouds, where the air was thin, and the stars dazzled my eyes. The frigid air invigorated me as I sailed through heavenly skies to the east. \nWhen I sensed I’d travelled an hour, I dove back through the cloud cover. Even at this distance above Maud’s lair, my sharp nose detected the slobby scents of rotted meat, spoiled cabbage, and the smelly dander left behind from feasting scale mites. Disgusting.\nI landed at the entrance but did not wish to go inside.\n“Staussey? Eez zat you cousin?” The voice of a vixen in heat.\n“Who else would it be?”\nMaud lumbered to the entrance and extended her long neck out. It and her sharply chiseled black head were the only graceful things about her. She licked my nose by way of greeting, an intimate gesture I found repellent. My nose waded through the miasma of stench wafting out behind her bulk; I detected no sweet-smelling young human female.\nMaud giggled and a faint trail of pale smoke escaped her flared nostrils. “Vell, if I didn’t kidnap her and you certainly didn’t, ve may have a relative lurking about, ney?”\nShe had a point.\nI said, “I’ve got to go. I’ll just make it back by dawn.”\n“You’re velcome to stay here.” She winked a luminous green eye at me.\n“That’s generous, but no.”\n“You mean to help ze humans?”\n“I mean to unsully my reputation.”\nAs I flew over my own mountain, I saw by the pink-grey light of dawn that the men had risen early and departed. Their trail was easy to follow and though I preferred venturing out under the cloak of night, I felt compelled to follow. ‘Where on earth are they going?’\nI rounded a bend and there they were, on horseback, now heading east, not south towards the castle. I ducked behind the lean-to they’d stabled the horses in, it was barely large enough to hide behind, I felt as exposed as an interloper hiding behind curtains with his feet sticking out. I chanced a peek.\nI ducked back a second later. Erik the Bastard had been looking right at me! ‘Maybe my imagination. Maybe I’ve grown paranoid.’\nThey continued trudging east. I trailed behind them, though letting them get way far ahead, it was easy to follow their hoofprints. After a couple of hours, my nerves had calmed and I crept closer, I desired to hear them and perhaps figure out where they were going. Aware that my footfalls made ‘carumping’ noises, I walked in the flattened snow of their wake.\n“…flew this way this morning…” Erik.\n“…We’ll get your dragon…” Jan.\n“…I’ll slay thee cunt meeself…” An Irish brother.\n“…I’ll take your balls Ryan! The dragon is mine…” Erik.\n‘Another dragon! Maud was correct.’\nErik the Wannabe Prince continued, “It was big as a blimey house! And green and gold! Fearsome… and breathing fire!” His voice grew in volume and clear at this last, for he’d turned to face my direction while talking to his men. His voice faded again as he turned and faced away from me. “…Aye she’s alive…heard her screams…”\nI was intrigued.\nAt last, after two more hours, Erik halted the men. “There! Look…”\nI peeked through a stunted bushy evergreen and saw Erik pointing to a dark shadow in the white face of the foothills. \n‘This mysterious dragon must have serious mental deficiencies, to roost so low,’ I thought. ‘Perhaps it is sick or injured.’ Then I felt sorry for it, even though, apparently it had the same tendencies as Maud as far as humans went.\nSome of the men were slapping Erik on his back.\n“…great job son…”\n“…we’ve got it now…”\n“…I can smell her perfume…” That was Erik the Bastard himself, which was odd because although I did indeed detect the faint scent of lemons, lavender…and terror, I’d never known a human being that was able to from this distance.\nThe men dismounted and ran to the cavern entrance, their swords in hand. As I peeked through the shrubs, I saw five of them still staring into the darkness. After a minute they went in. I followed, just as curious as a cat.\nAs I peeked around the corner, I saw five men and a woman staring back at me.\nThe dark-haired woman was lovely by human standards, about her stepbrother’s age, and disheveled and bruised. She had a swatch of cloth, perhaps a man’s handkerchief, in her mouth…\nA dragon couldn’t tie a gag. Alarm bells shrilled in my head, and I started to back away.\n“There it is! Now!”\nA net dropped over me, with stone weights along its edge, from the curve of rock above the cave. The four men not inside the cave cinched the ropes and I stumbled, my feet flayling in the air. Iron cuffs slapped and bruised my ankles and wrists as I coughed and at last blew a flame hot as hell from my jaws. \nThe ropes burned, reduced to falling cinders like black snow. The men leapt away from the heat. Half the ropes were gone, I raised my neck to burn the rest away…and found I’d been chained to the ground, while blind in my panic. They had cinched the chain with a winch, to a metal stake in the ground, immobilizing my head. My left cheek pressed flat against the packed snow. I could not move. \nWhen I blew flame, it was ineffectual and merely puddled the ice and snow in a trench before my head. I inhaled icy water through my nostrils. I sputtered and coughed and choked.\nThe excited men leapt around me with swords raised but they did not attack. Erik would have their balls. The Bastard.\nErik approached with his sword raised towards my chest. He was preparing to strike between my heartplates and could detect which ones they were by the heavy beating of my heart.\nHe sneered with triumph into the upturned side of my face.\nJan had the princess in his arms, she was still gagged, her eyes round and wild. Apparently, he’d been in on it. ‘Of course he was. He’ll rise in stature as well.’ Fredricka was yelling muffled ‘mmmffs’ into her gag frantically and struggling against her bindings. That she was still bound said it all. It had been a set up all right.\nI prepared for the blade. I was touched that the Princess was fighting for my life, ineffectually, sure, but she was drawing blood from her bindings, the red dripped from her wrists into the dirty snow. I realized, as she must have, that Erik would not let her live to tell the truth. He would gallantly bring her limp body back as well as the head of the dragon (mine) and become a Prince in his father’s eyes.\nAs we watched, Erik and Jan turned on the five men left…and slaughtered them easily, running them through with their swords, shock and confusion in their glazing over eyes. The princess, weeping, slumped to the ground.\nInside the cave, the Irish brothers were dead. They were like two garishly painted denizens of hell: foaming yellowy curds coated their red beards, their faces purple with black splotches. The poisoned jug lay on its side in the dirt between them.\nJan man-handled the princess in front of him, bring her back up on her feet.\nErik studied my heartbeat and raised his sword.\nSuddenly, Jan and Princess Fredricka stumbled forward.\nJan went to his knees, dazed.\nBefore he could stand, a blast of flame surrounded his head. He hadn’t the time to even scream. His hair sizzled a second then was gone. As his face charred, his eyes burst, then bubbled like porridge in a pot. He flopped forward into the dirt, his head a charred lump with gristley knobs sizzling where his ears had been.\nErik stepped towards him. He’d been closer to him than any blood relative; he howled in pain and anger…and wonder…as Maud lumbered into the now snow-bare, muddy arena. She pounced onto Jan’s body like a kitten after a yarn ball, then chomped The Bastard’s head right off.\nThe raised sword arm fell limply to his side, he defiantly stood five full seconds, then his headless body collapsed like the pile of rubbish it was.\nMaud turned and delicately clipped the princess’s binds with her front teeth. Princess Fredricka yanked off the gag and said, “he did it!” She kicked Erik’s cooling body. “He took me, the bastard!” Then she ran to help Maud release me. She tripped over a dead villager, staggered, but kept her feet. She’d developed some moxy and turned to spit upon the corpse. Then she found the keys to the shackles in Jan’s waistcoat and unchained me.\n Maud had snapped the neck chain with her powerful claws. When I stood, she licked my nose.\nI looked her in the eyes. ‘Thank you.’\nShe winked at me then turned to devour the Wannabe Prince. I found her alluring. The snapping of the bones was a pleasant melody, oddly romantic.\nPrincess Fredricka’s adrenaline was wearing off, she realized she was turning blue. She stripped Jan’s fine fur-lined cloak off him and wrapped it around herself. It would also serve as evidence to the wild tale she was about to relate to her father.\nI persuaded her to climb my back. She hugged my neck and though I still found humans repugnant and annoying, I was happy to restore my good name and see her home safely…" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Quiet Night\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1263\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which someone says “You'll never be content.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Quiet nights like this were pretty rare in this part of town. No sirens, no parties, no loud neighbors. For once Mike’s apartment was as tranquil as a Buddhist temple. He couldn’t wait to fall asleep, The bed, under all its blankets looked warm, and comfy in contrast to the icy chill of his bedroom. Perfect.\nBut the peaceful night was interrupted with a bang. Complete terror overtook Mike. He had locked his bedroom door, and stood so quiet that the only sound he made was the uncontrollable thump of his heart beating. Somehow through the ruckus he tried to decipher what was happening in his small apartment.\nFrom what he could hear the front door had opened, and frantic footsteps traveled toward what seemed to be his bathroom. What followed next was pained retching, dry heaving, and a toilet flushing. If this was someone coming to steal from him, they were having a rough go at it. Besides, this “stranger” knew exactly where Mike’s bathroom was. It had to be someone he knew.\nSlowly Mike creaked open the bedroom door, and called out.\n“Hello?”\nThere was no reply, only the sounds of echoed retching, and heavy breathing. Unsure of what to expect. Still unsure of who was in his home Mike prepared himself for whatever would come next.\nCautiously, Mike creaked open the door to peer into the hallway. The bathroom light was on, and someone was definitely in there. At first Mike wondered if a stranger just really needed to use the bathroom, but unless he had forgotten to lock the front door it would have to be one of the three people who had a key. Mike had thought of the first person to come to mind who would be bold enough to invade his bathroom the way that they had.\n“Dill Pickle?” And as if saying the pet name willed him into existence, there he was. Mike’s Boyfriend Dylan. On his knees hovering around a toilet as if it had secret knowledge to give him.\n“Hey.” Dylan could only muster up those words, and in a soft tone as his energy was spent on spilling his guts.\n“What's going on?” Mike had knelt down near Dylan, and rubbed his back for comfort, but it didn’t seem to do much for the sick man. He must’ve just gotten off work. He was still clad in his paramedic uniform.\n“I think I’ll need a stronger dose.” Dylan spoke as if Mike knew what he was talking about, but Mike didn’t know that vomiting was a normal occurrence in his lover’s life.\n“Dose of what? Do you need me to run to Rite-aid?” Mike continued rubbing Dylan's back.\n“No, I have to talk to my doctor again. My stomach ulcers seem like they’re getting worse. I used to have them when I was young, but they weren’t like this.” Mike finally had a chance to speak after being forced to pray to the porcelain gods for the past few minutes.\n“You don’t think work stress is causing it?” Mike was finally able to look into Dylan’s eyes and only see shame as if he had failed himself.\n“I’ll be fine. I just have a few more shifts this week, and I’ll get my day off.”\nDylan tried to assure Mike that he was okay, but Mike wasn’t buying it. The man’s eyes were heavy, and the fatigue that Dylan was feeling was palpable in the air.\n“Dill, you can’t keep on going like this, there’s no reason to.” Mike tried his best to console Dylan, but the man nudged him away and went back to puking into the toilet. Once Dylan was finished he took a breath, and spoke as if he just ran a sprint.\n“I won’t get better if I don’t improve. And I don’t want to mess up like that again.” Mike had felt that the worst of his episode was over so he allowed himself to sit on the floor with his back on the wall.\n“Mistakes happen Dill, and that was literally your first day.” Mike went to grab him a towel. The night after Dylan's first day was still fresh in his mind. It was the first time since being together that he had seen the rock in his life shed tears. But against the crashing waves of the sea all rocks can crack, and erode against its strength.\n“Mistakes happen?” Dylan shook his head “That guy died because of my mistakes. And on top of that I almost killed Mia.” Mike had remembered talking to Dylan’s coworker Mia on more than one occasion about how self critical Dylan could be while at work, and Mike had done all he could to try and ease his mind when mistakes like that happen. But when someone’s life is on the line, it's hard to dismiss the value of mistakes. Every second mattered when it was someone's life was in your hands, and mistakes shortened that time.\n“And when’s the last time you took a risk like that when you’re driving?” Dylan was quiet for a moment before looking back at Mike, and shaking his head. “That’s right, you don’t do that shit anymore. And in a funny way because that guy died, he ended up saving just as many people as you have.”\nDylan just shook his head. “But how long will it be before my Ulcers makes me fuck up? If they find out how bad it gets, they’ll think I’m too weak to work, and they mi-“ and like a surge of inspiration Dylan went from sitting to back on his knees, over the toilet, dry heaving, and in pain.\n“You need water Dill!” Mike darted quickly into the kitchen and came back with a cup of water. Mike set it beside Dylan while he finished leaning on the toilet bowl, and took a sip afterward.\n“I’ll be better after this week I swear.” Dylan tried to reassure him, but Mike only shook his head.\n“You’ll never be content this way… There’s nothing you can do about it now except learn from it.” Dylan’s vomiting had finally subsided enough to where he could think about what Mike was saying to him. He took a sip of the water Mike had brought, and spoke.\n“People need me. And I just can’t let them down.”\n“And I need you too, but for different reasons. I just want you to be okay, and get home safe and healthy. You aren’t weak or less of a man because you need the day off sometimes. Your body is telling you to take it easy, and you’re ignoring it.” The two were silent for a while, partially to wait out and see if Dylan’s stomach had anything else left to say, and partially for Dylan to contemplate his lover’s words. Finally Dylan spoke.\n“Sorry for barging in and ruining your night Mikey…” Dylan’s eyes held dark circles over them. But Mike just scoffed at his apology.\n“One of the best people in my life came over, had a deep chat with me, and’ll cuddle me tonight. I’m actually kinda happy you got sick.”\nThe two men chuckled and a wave of ease fell over the both of them. Dylan was still a bit weak, but luckily Mike had some medicine hidden away that would settle his stomach down for the night, and after a while the night found its peace once more, and Dylan with Mike’s help was ushered to bed with a bucket in his free hand just in case." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Stop the Storm\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1242\n\nPrompt:\n\nCraft a story where a character finds themselves swept away by the wind, either physically or metaphorically." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The girl squinted at the dust devil coming toward her from the west. It was December 22nd and Bing Crosby was playing in the kitchen on Echo. Typical Phoenix Christmas. You dream about snow, and you get nothing but dirt.\nBut she would much rather get a face full of dirt than stay inside and think about what had happened exactly four years ago. No, better to keep away, away from that carpet in the living room she'd stared at for what seemed like eternity, away from anything that reminded her; because if she thought about that then she'd think about everything that ever went wrong in her life. And she'd really rather not.\nBut she would. Stupid! She knew she would. So weak. Pathetic. The thing she hated most about herself was her inability to stop herself from sinking into this depression. You know better than that, for heaven's sake! Oops. Poor choice of words. Thanks a lot for reminding me.\nShe certainly hoped the ones she grieved for were in heaven, but the thought also provided a closet full of dark, painful memories and ideas she had tried to lock up.\nAnd those thoughts also reminded her of her fears. Fears that Dad would die from AFib, that Papa would from heartbreak. Or falling. Again. Or her other Grandpa, who had already had a heart attack. And that one time her youngest sister came this close to being run over by the car... She wasn't sure if it was normal for a fourteen-year-old to worry this much, but she couldn't help it. Weak.\nA monarch butterfly glided gently over toward where she stood, fists clenched, glaring at the storm. The girl noticed it, and her hazel eyes moistened.\n************************************************************\n5 years ago\nDuring Christmas of 2019, the girls and their cousins were at Papa's house, having a jolly good time. One of their cousins, (age 24) had heard of some disease called covid. Everyone was joking and nobody even had the slightest thought that they might be hearing a lot more about it.\n4 years ago\nThat same cousin was hospitalized for a brain tumor. It had caused a seizure while he was driving, and after the car accident they realized the tumor's growth had increased after he had had covid 19. There was a 1% chance that he would live. The now ten-year-old girl stared numbly a flower carpet while Mom explained what had happened.\nAn hour later he was a vegetable.\nA few weeks later she was climbing a tree to be by herself and make sense of it all, and thought she saw a monarch butterfly. She never told anyone why she jumped out of that tree fast enough to tear one of her crocs, but it nearly scared her out of her wits sneaking up on her like that.\n*************************************************************\n6 years ago\nThe girl is eight now. When her father comes to pick up her and her sister, he brings them to Cookies N Creme. They get their ice cream. It is a Tuesday.\nDad breaks the news, \"Girls, do you remember when we visited Grandpa and Grandma last week?\"\nOf course they remembered. Whenever they went to see Mom's parents, they would hug Papa and kiss Grandma's cheek. Then they would do the same to say goodbye. Grandma had M.S. and was bedridden. She did everything by moving one hand and her head. Nothing else worked. She always got the girls matching outfits. Papa grew up on a ranch and would tell them stories about cattle, or random ones from history.\n\"Remember how we thought Joy was carsick?\"\nAnother affirmative.\n\"Your grandmother caught the flu and...well, she passed away.\"\nAt the funeral, she could have sworn she saw a butterfly with orange wings that had white-spotted black edges.\n*************************************************************\n10 years ago\nA funeral. Everything is dark toned, and a four-year-old child is finding her way through a maze of grownups to where a small coffin rests for the viewing. In the coffin lays an infant. A baby girl with dark hair. Her tiny body is reddish-blue and ice cold.\nThe child walks up to the coffin, not understanding. 'What happened to her little sister that was in Mommy's tummy? Why was Hannah so cold and red? Could she see her eyes? What color were the baby's eyes?'\nSoon the body was lowered into the grave and a short speech was said. A lady played on the piano.\nBut the child wouldn't remember this. What she remembered was that after Hannah was buried, an orange and black butterfly flitted around the grave and then up out of sight.\nWhen they got home, her mother cried for a long time. A very long time.\n*************************************************************\nPresent\nI watched as the butterfly came closer to me, then closer, until it almost rested on the back of my hand. I hadn't cried in front of people for seven years, but I cried now. In front of a butterfly.\n\"Do you know Hannah?\" I asked the butterfly gently. Great! Now I'm talking to insects.\nThe butterfly tilted its small head, playing with its feelers. For a moment I forgot my troubles. Then it decided it spent enough time there and fluttered off. Saddened by the loss of company, I looked up and saw the storm was seconds away.\nTurning for the door, I found it locked. Gritting my teeth, I stood my ground.\nThe wind tore at me, biting and snapping, throwing stinging sand and whirling in confusion. I stood there, almost numb and thinking that now I felt nearly the same outside as inside.\nThe tears threatened again, ripped away by the wind. Thunder rolled. In a sudden surge of grief, I fell to my knees, and cried out, \"God, how many pieces will my heart be torn in?! And why have you abandoned me?!!\"\nA flash of lightning lit the sky. The wind stopped. The butterfly came out of nowhere and landed on my wrist. And suddenly, I wasn't there.\nInstead of dust everywhere I looked, I was blinded by the whiteness of my surroundings.\nThe butterfly appeared in front of me, but this time, she was my size. Then she became a lovely young woman, with dark, wavy hair and beautiful eyes. I don't know what color they were. She looked like a blend of me and my sisters, and suddenly I knew this was the infant I had buried ten years ago. Perfect and healthy and alive. Maybe.\nIt's okay, it's me. I'm in better place now. We're waiting for when you join us. Please don't be sad.\nI blinked and the young woman was gone. A small butterfly fluttered away.\nI was about to follow it, when a voice stopped me in my tracks. The Voice was as deep as thunder, and as gentle as birds chirping in the trees. I knew I had never heard it before, but the Voice was somehow familiar.\nMy precious child, I was always prepared to stop the storm had you asked. The 'heartbreak' was and is necessary for your growth, but I would have and will help you through it if you would let me. I have never abandoned you. I have walked (and crawled) with you every step of the way, ready to catch you if you fell, offering to carry you. But you refused. My child, why won't you let me stop the storm?" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Are You All Over the Meadow?\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1418\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone breaking an awkward silence at a family dinner." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Teddy was out of sorts. This afternoon’s visit with his cousins was not living up to expectations. Ruby, at six, was a year older and bossy. He no longer liked her silly game. Ruby had made it up and insisted they play it all afternoon. It seemed to Teddy to consist of nothing more than running about and never getting anywhere. He stood at the top of the lawn, which sloped in a smooth sweep of spongy turf to the road below, making angry dents in the soil with his toe. Ruby was calling out the signature line again.\n‘Are you all over the meadow?’\n‘Yes.’ He responded with little enthusiasm.\n‘Can I come with you?’\n‘YES!’ Teddy roared his frustration.\n That was the signal to run, and Teddy and Ruby raced away on diagonals across the sloping lawn, passing each other in the middle and looping around to the top where Ethel sat, her hands clamped over her eyes. Ethel’s three-year-old legs had had enough, and she had decided to become invisible. It wasn’t working, though, because Teddy marched straight up to her and pulled her hands away. ‘You were s’posed to run with us.’\n‘I not,’ declared Ethel.\n‘Yes. That’s the rules.’\n‘I NOT.’ Ethel’s voice rose in defiance. Teddy scowled. His head bent suddenly over her hand, still held in his. Poor Ethel squealed in horror, her face crimson; he had bitten her. She held the injured wrist up to show Ruby, who plopped down on the grass beside her and peered earnestly into her face, full of big sister concern. ‘Whatever has happened Effie?’\n‘Deddy bid me’ Ethel huffed through her tears. ‘Look Ruby, look. Teef marks.’ Ruby looked. She glared at her cousin who stood with his arms folded firmly across his chest, pouting and unrepentant.\n‘Teddy, did you bite Ethel? Did you?’\n‘So what if I did,’ said Teddy, ‘she was cheating, so there.’\n‘She’s only three, Teddy. She doesn’t understand the rules. You’re very naughty to bite.’\n‘Don’t care. You’re not my mummy anyway. You’re a big ninny.’\nIncensed, Ruby did something that she was to regret, oh so much, afterwards. ‘See how you like it.’ She grabbed Teddy’s hand and raised it to her mouth. Before he could react she had closed her teeth, leaving bite marks on skin for the second time that day. Teddy roared in anger.\n‘I’m going to tell Mummy on you. You vewy naughty, Wuby. You will be in big twouble now.’ His face burned and angry tears glazed his eyelashes to points. Teddy always lost his r’s when he got upset. He stumped off in righteous fury to find his mother.\n‘Why did Teddy bite you, Ethel?’ said Henry, Teddy’s older brother. Henry was nearly ten and considered himself far too mature to join in the younger children’s game. He had spent the last hour sitting on the grass with a book in his hands. A thoughtful boy, he had quietly observed Teddy’s rising anger.\nEthel was starting to enjoy the attention. ‘I din’ do anyfing, Henry.’ She cradled the sore hand against her tummy, unselfconsciously using her ‘baby voice’ to good effect. ‘He jus’ did it, jus’ like dat.’ She emphasised the point with a chopping motion of her good arm.\nRuby rose and offered a hand. ‘Come on Effie, Daddy will be home soon. Let’s go down to the gate and wait there. I bet I see him first.’\n‘No, I will.’ Tears forgotten, she bustled across the lawn with Ruby. Henry followed the girls, and it was Henry who saw his Uncle Walter first, striding down Arney Crescent with his jacket over his shoulder. Walter’s law practice was handily situated in the nearby village of Remuera, and he loved walking home on a fine summer evening like this, down the hill past the many fine houses with the sea in his face. It gave him time to put aside the problems of the day and prepare to indulge in that most rewarding of pastimes, playing with his children. Now he swung Ethel onto his shoulders and took Ruby’s hand, listening gravely as she explained in detail the rules and objectives of her new game.\n\nAs soon as she learnt to walk, Ruby would potter about the garden with Walter on the weekends, as he patiently explained what he was doing and why. 'See this little leaf here, you have to break it off very carefully, so the plant channels its energy into growing tomatoes instead of growing more stems and leaves. Yes you can try. Gently, Ruby, gently! Oh, see you've broken the whole stem now. Never mind, next time you'll get it right.' They would spend whole afternoons walking down to the wharf and fishing with a handline for sprats, walking back as the light faded and the sky blushed green and gold.\n\n But now, only half an hour later, Ruby hung her head and stared at the patterned red carpet in the big front room, twisting her hands in front of her. She bit her lip and tried to keep back the tears. Walter’s ice-blue eyes, which normally radiated laughter, were troubled. ‘Your aunt is very upset. Teddy says you bit him, Ruby, is this true?’\n Ruby didn’t look up. Daddy was so cross! She couldn’t remember ever seeing that look on his face, and she was devastated. ‘Yes, Daddy,’ she whispered.\n ‘I am extremely disappointed in you, Ruby. I should have thought you would be more responsible. You will need to be punished for this.’ Walter was a gentle man. He had never yet punished one of his children, but his sister’s boy had a valid grievance, and she expected to see justice done. They had been brought up in an era when children were seen and not heard, when ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ was considered sound parenting advice. Walter desperately wanted to be a good father and bring up responsible, considerate, and law-abiding children. His own parenting style was more about mentoring than reward and punishment, and he knew his sister believed he was over-indulgent. His decision was strongly biased by that knowledge. ‘I shall have to spank you, and then you must go to your room. You will have no dinner tonight.’\nRuby lay in her bed upstairs and cried for a long time. She had never been spanked before and she felt the shame deeply. She had wanted to expose Teddy’s behaviour to excuse her own but somehow the words she needed wouldn’t come. She craved her Daddy’s approval and she feared there was nothing she could say that would absolve her. So she endured the spanking and cried into her pillow.\nRuby’s mother had planned a special meal but dinner at the big round table was unusually quiet. Teddy, fully aware of his guilt, was disconcerted by the severity of the sentence passed on Ruby. Henry was contemplating injustice and whether he ought to speak up, while Walter’s mind was haunted by Ruby’s woebegone face. In the absence of her sister and in the strained atmosphere, Ethel was uncharacteristically subdued. Henry finally took advantage of yet another long silence.\n‘Uncle Walter?’\n‘Yes Henry?’\n‘Actually,’ he said. Henry had recently discovered this word and used it whenever possible. ‘Teddy bit Ethel first. And that’s why Ruby bit him.’’\n‘Is that so? Thank you for telling me that, Henry. Did you bite Ethel, Teddy?’\nTeddy, red faced, concentrated desperately on his plate. ‘Yes.’\nWalter regarded Teddy for a moment, his face expressionless. ‘In that case, maybe the wrong child has been punished. I must visit the prisoner.’\nRuby lifted a tear-stained face when Walter knocked.\n‘May I come in?’ He looked around the door.\n‘Yes, Daddy.’ Her voice was hoarse from crying.\n‘I’m told that Teddy bit Ethel,’ he said, sitting amiably on the bed. ‘Is that\nwhat happened?’\n‘Yes Daddy. He was so mean about it and I was so cross with him…’ Her lip wobbled.\n‘Oh sweetheart,’ he gathered her into his arms. ‘That was wrong, you know that don’t you? Two wrongs don’t make a right.’ She nodded her head against his shirt front. ‘But there is such a thing as a mitigating circumstance, and I shouldn’t have punished you so harshly without asking more questions. I’m very, very sorry. Ok?’ More vigorous nodding. ‘I am going to make a promise to you, Ruby. I promise I will never spank you again.’\nAnd do you know what? He never did." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Poison Tree\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2145\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character’s life completely changes over the course of a meal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trees are wondrous things, from their strong trunks to their delicate leaves. They feed from the sun and feel its warm rays far longer than we humans do, pausing under their broad branches, perhaps to shelter from the rain; perhaps to listen to the rustling of the leaves, another language, just as expressive as our own. Sometimes we try to capture what the tree means to us in words; such things as from little acorns, great oaks grow, perhaps your dad has told you that; or let your roots grow deep so your leaves can dance in the sun is a favourite of your mum’s. Enchanting words, plucked from those enchanting trees.\nBut this story is about a different sort of tree; one whose fruit you should not pick and certainly not eat, however tempting it looks. This tree grows within the pages of fairy tale; it grew from a seed which should never have been sown, let alone been permitted to prosper: the seed of envy.\nThis story begins long ago and far away and this is how it starts: there was a beautiful girl, an envious queen and a rosy apple, poisoned to the core. And who had poisoned it? Well the jealous old queen of course. Tricking the girl with the luscious looking fruit, one bite was all it took for death to deal its blow. The lovely maiden was sealed in a glass casket where all could wonder at her eternal beauty; for although days and weeks then months and years passed, the young woman remained seemingly asleep while others stooped, greyed and passed away.\nThe queen thought she had had her cake, and eaten it too; still, she couldn’t stop herself from walking past the glass casket. Weekly, then daily, then twice a day: she would stop by and slowly a terrible realisation dawned on her: death had stolen none of the young maiden’s beauty; the only one robbed was her, of any sense of satisfaction.\nEnvy was like a worm burrowing silently, deep into a fruit. The worm of envy had eaten right to the core of the queen; its canker lived and flourished in her very heart. Yes, she had tricked the lovely young woman into taking the apple, had rejoiced when she bit, fell and was entombed. Her plan had worked but the beautiful girl had, nevertheless, cheated her of victory’s sweet taste; for although she breathed no more, the queen had not vanquished her beauty. No, it lived on, undefeated, in her smooth unlined skin and shining hair. \nIn her palace, the queen glanced into her beloved gilded mirror. In the past she had spied on the lovely young woman, sickened by her blossoming beauty which had surpassed her own. Now it was beloved no longer because its reflection reminded her of the maiden’s ultimate victory: she had cheated age and was a vision of youth eternal; while she, the worker-of-wonders, was powerless to halt the march of time across her face.\nDeep within her the worm twisted, tying all her initial joy into knots. When she could bear it no longer, she plotted a second time. Creeping into the maiden’s house, she crawled on hands and knees across the carefully swept floor, until she found the apple, still perfectly preserved in its poisoned loveliness despite its one missing bite. Hiding it in the folds of her cloak, she slipped home to the palace garden.\nClearing brambles and nettles, hefting the spade herself, she dug a hole and buried the fruit- not to rid herself of the poisoned fruit, or the memory of her terrible actions- no, as she planted the fruit deep in the earth, she muttered a spell:\nMay all who sup, of the fruit from this tree, lose what rules them, indefinitely. \nShovelling the soil, she imagined the young woman losing not just her life, but beauty’s power finally weakening before losing its hold.\nEvery day, morning and night, rain or shine, the queen would hurry out to her garden. Standing over the soil, she would weep tears of envy, rage, but also hope: that her monstrous plan might bear fruit and succeed. And, slowly, more than the rain, more than the sun, the water from her eyes woke the apple’s seeds, for, like the queen, they had been waiting for the chance to work some fresh evil.\nWhen the first shoot broke the soil, she wept tears of elation. The shoot strengthened into a sapling, grew thicker, hardier, branches casting shade; and one monumental spring day the apple tree, with its ebony bark, bore blossoms as white as snow. The queen had long since dried her tears, now she smiled a thin smile to see the blossoms tremble and tumble from the boughs; in their place, apples as red as blood. Her plan was bearing fruit; time would bring the harvest.\nA prince from a neighbouring land rode by and was captivated by the maiden, so lovely even in death. Summoning his royal powers, he asked for the casket to be opened, which of course it duly was. With a jolt they raised they lid and the piece of apple, never swallowed, dislodged and the sleeper woke from her death-like slumber.\nThe queen rejoiced. She herself could hardly believe it, but she rubbed her hands and threw her head back, howling with delight. Here was her chance to do the job properly; this time beauty, along with life, would surrender to her magic powers.\nEven news of a royal wedding in the neighbouring land could not dampen her bliss, and when a footman dressed in green velvet knocked at her door, delivering her invitation to the couple’s wedding, she smiled with awful pleasure.\nWe cordially request the pleasure of your company at our wedding feast.\nHurriedly she penned a reply:\nI would be honoured to attend and will be happy to provide dessert.\nShe closed the door, picked up a basket, and went into her garden. The queen knew that revenge is a dish best served cold, even if her envy had been simmering ever since the girl had thwarted her first plan. As she plucked apple after apple from the tree, placing them carefully in her basket, she considered which dish would best deliver the revenge she had in mind; but from apple pie to crisp, no recipe seemed just right.\nShe rested the heavy basket on her kitchen table and picked up the paring knife: splitting the fruits, gouging out cores, wresting the pips from their snug beds, cutting slice after slice, white flesh rimmed with a deep blood red.\nAs she worked, she looked in her mirror, propped against her pots of spice: dried onion, powdered tears; and chilli: flakes to raise a fever. Mirror, mirror on the wall who’s the cleverest one of all? She crooned to herself. Her cold eyes stared back at her and inspiration struck: a tarte tatin it would be, that most lovely of apple puddings would be her foe’s downfall: her just desserts.\nCarefully she placed the slices, arranging them in spirals before making the sauce: melting the sugar, cubing the butter, stirring until it oozed from the wooden spoon when she lifted it like threads of sticky honey. Finally, she brushed the apples, crowning the dish with its pastry hat, before popping it into the oven. Forty-five minutes to wait: after the long years of watching her rival triumph, in death as much as life, it was no time at all.\nWhen it was bronzed and the kitchen was filled with the glorious scent of home baking, the queen turned the tarte onto its crystal platter, noting with satisfaction that the apples had darkened to amber: the poison to trap her fly. The sugars had seeped out a little and she had to resist the temptation to lick her fingers as she carried the sticky confection to the door.\nThe wedding feast was due to be celebrated the next day, but the Queen was not prepared to leave her plan a moment longer, summoning her coachman to bring her carriage immediately. Four beautiful black horses were harnessed, the carriage drew up to her door and the queen stepped lightly inside, resting her wedding gift- the lustrous dessert- on the crimson seat beside her. The coachman flicked his whip and the steeds sprang to a gallop. The queen settled herself back against the sumptuous cushions; the wheels of her plot were turning and she couldn’t have been happier.\nFrom the carriage window she saw the palace come into sight. She had been expecting turrets and towers, imagining the lady would demand a home as lovely as herself. The reality was a surprise: her foe’s residence was more a house than a palace; it didn’t dominate the land, if anything it looked small- almost ordinary. The carriage drew to a halt, the door was opened and the queen almost forgot to pick up her terrible tarte in her shock and confusion. Steadying herself at the steps, she carefully alighted and made her way to the front door, cradling the dish carefully in the snug of her arm.\nBefore she had a chance to knock, the door was opened and the lovely young maiden- her foe- stood in the entrance, wearing an apron and a smile. The queen took two steps back in surprise but the bride seemed unphased, moving forward and taking the tarte from the visitor before it was even offered.\n“So kind,” smiled the wife-to-be, “the footman gave me your reply, and how lucky that I just love apples.”\n“A pleasure, my dear,” managed the queen, unsettled by the bride’s appearance: crumpled clothes, smudges on her cheeks from cooking, and was that a grey hair glistening in her ebony locks?\nThe woman noticed her puzzled stare but only laughed.\n“Oh, you must excuse my appearance: I’m helping with the wedding feast, and since I woke from that long sleep, time seems to have been catching up with me a bit- busy working woman and all that!”\nShe took the queen’s elbow and guided her into the kitchen which was a busy chaos of platters and pots, tureens and tumblers. The bride cleared a space for the dessert and pulled two champagne flutes towards her.\n“We must have a drink, a toast before tomorrow: we are neighbours now after all!”\nThe queen demurred: “Oh no, my dear, I’ve reached an age where I can’t touch a drop.”\nThe bride uncorked a green bottle and a scent, strangely familiar, filled the air.\n“Well this can be drunk entirely guilt free: water, fruit and nothing else. I promise.” She said coyly. “Just a little taste now, on the eve of my special day.”\nShe pressed a glass into the queen’s protesting hands and took one herself. And somehow the queen couldn’t stop herself from raising it to her lips; like an invisible hand was lifting the glass too, and the queen was compelled to drink to the toast:\n“May all who sup, of the fruit from this tree, lose what rules them, indefinitely.”\n\nThe queen had to swallow the sweet drink, managing to gasp fitfully through the bubbles: “but-how?”\n“How did I know about your plan? Well I took the trouble of getting a mirror of my own; you could say that I learned from experience to keep both eyes peeled for trouble.”\nAnd she crossed to a mirror, gilded and oddly familiar, which reflected a kitchen the queen knew all too well, for it was her own.\n“When I saw you making your dessert and casting your spell, I thought it might be time to pay a visit to your tree and work a little magic of my own. I hope you don’t mind; there were so many apples, I didn’t think you’d miss a few.”\nThe queen couldn’t answer as the drink was working its magic. Deep inside, the worm of envy, which had burrowed so deep- a parasite within her so long- was writhing in agony. In its death throes it lashed and squirmed until, finally, it ruled over her no longer and was gone; finally, she was free. Standing before her now was a foe no longer, simply a woman- a neighbour- with wise words to impart:\n“But perhaps, on reflection, it might be best if we both got rid of our mirrors, staring into them too much can be a damaging past-time, at any age!”\nThe queen looked at the bride with her crumpled clothes, smudged cheeks and one grey hair, recognising her for what she was: a fellow woman and a sister to embrace.\nShe crossed to the rubbish bin and tipped her tarte inside. Then she smiled, refilling both their glasses, and raised hers to the lovely bride.\n“A toast to friendship: the most beautiful thing of all.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Last Moments on a Mountain\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2984\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": "Last Moments on a Mountain\n“The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.” - Bob Dylan\n\nRemarkably, Herb felt better once the decision was made. He could immediately feel the stress and anxiety escaping through every pour. He wished he had figured it all out sooner.\nThe act would be like one-stop shopping, with everything on your mind resolved in a single outing, one dramatic gesture to satisfy all needs. It became clear to him when he recalled his college course in Logic: “A” will be facing a multitude of insurmountable problems tomorrow. Does “A” continue his nerve-wracking, futile attempts to ward off all these problems, or does “A” concentrate his efforts on the single variable he can control, the problem upon which all other problems depend, that is, Tomorrow?\nAnswer: If “A” eliminates Tomorrow, all other problems dissipate into thin air. In Herb’s disintegrating world, it was simple math; do one thing, and many bad things go away.\nHerb knew what to do, but never having done it before, he wasn’t sure how to do it. He went online and studied his options. His Mother had taught him to list the Pros and Cons of the alternatives when in doubt.\nMethod- Shoot self\nPros:\n- Quick.\n- Limitless choices of location.\nCons:\n- Don't have a gun.\n- Am afraid of guns.\n- Have never shot a gun; could miss and only injure myself resulting in a life even more miserable than it is now.\nMethod- Run Garden hose from exhaust into car\nPros:\n- Painless.\n- Not messy.\nCons:\n- Don’t have a car. ( Car was repossessed for failure to make payments.)\nMethod- Poison\nPros:\n- Cheap.\n- Not messy.\nCons:\n- Possess limited knowledge of the efficacy of poisons.\n- Have delicate stomach.\nMethod-Hanging\nPros:\n- Already have suitable length of rope.\nCons:\n- Could chicken out.\n- Have always had an aversion to tight collar shirts.\nMethod- Jump in front of a train\nPros:\n- Would make the evening news.\n- Would be entertaining to see the panicked look on the conductor’s face as he’s about to hit me.\nCons:\n- Train schedules are unreliable.\n- Could be problematic for my brother George who believes in open caskets.\nMethod- Jump off of a mountain cliff\nPros:\n- Last moments on earth would be exciting.\n- No cost.\nCons:\n- Fear of heights.\n- Climbing up mountain would be tiring.\n\nHerb was pleased with the results of his research. He had several good options, each of which would bring him the relief he sought. He settled on jumping off a mountain cliff. It had a romantic flair to it, and after all, he lived in the Western Slopes of Colorado.\nHis selection required no preparation or props. He simply had to hike up the mountain, find a suitable precipice, and jump. Mindful of the temperature change at altitude, Herb put on a nice warm jacket, gloves, and his Denver Bronco stocking cap. He slipped his feet into his best tennis shoes so he could get a good jump.\nThe climb was bittersweet. Herb chose a location he was familiar with, a mountain ridge just outside Rifle. He had hiked in the area many times with his late father, and he made frequent stops to rest and reflect on better days. The launch pad was perfect- a cliff with a 300-foot drop that would be impossible to survive. His landing area was also perfect- a paved road adjacent to a popular hiking trail. Herb was confident his lifeless body would quickly be discovered, and he found comfort in knowing he wouldn’t become nourishment for coyotes, buzzards, and large insects under a hot sun.\nThe added years made the climb more difficult, and with frequent rest stops, Herb worried he might not get his jump in before sundown. He didn’t want to miss the breathtaking view as he soared through the air, and he certainly didn’t want to land on some unseen pedestrian below. At one point Herb wished he had packed a lunch.\n Herb arrived at his chosen point of takeoff. A brisk cold wind brushed against his face as he surveyed the surrounding mountain peaks and the scene below. The stunning beauty and soulful serenity of the setting affirmed that his selection of location was ideal for his final opus.\nHerb felt relaxed. He considered what his life might have been had he spent all his years up there- no deadlines to meet, no courses to pass, no bills to pay, and no one to break his heart. He knew he would have been happy there.\nHe inched his tennies to the edge. There was no second guessing, no fear. Herb was committed. His lips mouthed the countdown- ten, nine, eight, seven, six, …\nMaybe it was the shrill cry of a golden eagle soaring overhead, or maybe the sound of a nearby evergreen branch rustling in the wind, but Herb’s eyes darted to the left. He saw it immediately, a sheet of paper twisting in the wind, up and down, side to side, gracefully floating in the air, and headed his way.\nThe mind is a complex thing. As focused as Herb was on the mission, he was curious. How could a sheet of paper be flipping around in the wind in the isolated terrain of a Colorado mountaintop? He put the countdown on hold as the paper came to rest just inches from his feet. Herb could see the shaky handwriting. He picked up the paper, sat down on a nearby rock, and read.\n\nDear Whoever finds this:\n I need help recovering a treasure that I buried in the mountains many years ago. Meet me in front of the Rifle Library at 9:00 AM on June 21, 2016, and you can have half of it if you help me.\n -Sal\nP.S. Bring a shovel.\n\nThis struck Herb as peculiar for a multitude of reasons- the mountaintop location of the wandering missive, the unusual content of the message, and the timing- June 21 was tomorrow. It was bizarre. Four seconds left in his life, and he gets a most intriguing and tempting message.\nThe battles in Herb’s mind were being waged on different fronts. Does he resume his countdown to takeoff at five or does he start over at ten? He was unaware of the proper protocols for the situation. But more than that, what does he do about the peculiar message? Considering the circumstances, how could he possibly care?\nBut he did. It would at least be interesting to meet the author of the strange message. And…just in case, half a buried treasure might solve all his problems. What could a man only seconds from his death have to lose?\n ----------\nLong white hair, a plaid shirt, worn overalls, a frayed leather cowboy hat, and most of all, a shovel in one hand, suggested to Herb that the man seated on the bench next to the statue of Mark Twain was the author of the mysterious letter.\n“Sal?”\nThe old man looked like a sleeping Jed Clampett.\nHerb gave it a little more volume.\n“Sal?”\n“Yes, can I help you, Sonny?”\n“Are you Sal?”\n“Yep. What can I do for you?”\nHerb unfurled the message he received at the top of the mountain and handed it to the old man.\n“ I found this note up in the mountains. Did you write this?”\nSal grasped the note and held it close to his face.\n“Let’s see… hmm… buried treasure… Rifle Library... bring a shovel. Yes, I wrote it.”\n“And, what does it mean?”\n“I think the note pretty well says it all. Do you need me to spell it out for you, Sonny?”\n“If you wouldn’t mind.”\n“There’s a fortune to be found up there. I need help. I’m an old man, Sonny.”\n“It’s Herb. My name is Herb.”\n“You come with me, Herb. Help me. It will be worth your while. ”\n“Buried treasure? That’s pretty hard to believe, Sal.”\n“Then why did you bring a shovel? My truck is down the street. Let’s go, Herb.”\n---------\nMaybe the guy was Jed Clampett as Herb felt like he was riding in the truck from the old Beverly Hillbillies TV show. Even with a top speed of twenty-five, with cars zooming past them on the left and the right, every mile was a frightening adventure as the road pavement parameters seemed to be only a suggestion for Sal.\n“This here is the mountain… I think.”\nHerb’s confidence quotient dropped precipitously.\n“We’ll leave the truck here in the fire lane and then hike up to the top of that highest peak you see in the distance.”\n“The top?”\nThe task seemed daunting to Herb, so much so that he was thinking he might be better off as road kill about now.\n“The top. You can never be too careful with buried treasure.”\n“I guess not.”\n“Here, help me with this gear.”\nSal began tugging at bundles of canvas on the back of the truck.\n“What’s all that?”\n“Our camping gear, and of course, a tent. The tent was Uncle Louie’s before the mountain lion got him. It’s got a lot of sentimental value as Louie made it back to the tent before he died. You can still see the blood stains on the floor.”\nIt was a tossup as to which was more upsetting for Herb, the thought of man-eating mountain lions roaming the area or lying down in the final traces of life left by poor Uncle Louie.\n“It’s pretty rough terrain, and I’m not as spry as I used to be. It’ll be a good day and a half.”\nHerb hadn’t imagined an overnight adventure with the old man but figured he might as well follow through with it as he had nothing better to do.\nThe climb was challenging. They followed the hint of pathways through the foothills for the first few hours, and then they had to make their own trail around trees, rocks, and underbrush. Herb thought the incline got steeper with every step. Perhaps this whole adventure was pointless. An ancient Greek god came to mind.\n“Sysiphus”, Herb muttered to himself.\n“Not quite, Herb.”\n“What’s that, Sal?”\n“Sysiphus had a never-ending task seemingly without purpose. You, my friend, are in pursuit of immeasurable treasure.”\n“Oh yeah, I almost forgot.”\nHerb could only wonder how an old man who looked like a homeless person who had fallen on hard times would know about Sysiphus.\nThe temperature dropped right along with the setting sun as they reached a spot suitable for their encampment. Sal was a seasoned veteran at all things relating to the great outdoors, and with minimal input from Herb, he pitched the tent and started a small campfire. Herb’s body welcomed the rest while his mind soaked in the pure fresh air and the splendor of the canopy of stars above. Sal could read the room.\n“It took quite an artist.”\n“What do you mean?”\nSal was two steps ahead.\n“Herb, how did you happen to find my note?”\n“I was out on a hike, and the darn thing just floated right on over to me.”\n“I see.”\nThe way he said it made Herb feel uncomfortable. There was something in the tone that made him wonder if the old man knew exactly what he was up to at that mountain ridge.\n“You said something about an artist. What was that about?”\n“Everything you’re enjoying right now.”\n“You mean the peace and quiet? I guess.”\n“The peace and quiet, the sweet fragrance of the evergreens, a cool breeze, the sound of trickling water in the distance, the wondrous display of the stars, knowing the sun will rise tomorrow, the earth itself, everything, Herb.”\n“Oh, you mean the God thing, like it took a great artist or architect to put the universe together. Well, sorry if this disappoints you, Sal, but I’m not a big God guy.”\n“I see.”\nAgain, it was the way he said it. “I see” meant Sal didn’t see, and that although he was confident in his own beliefs, there was no sense in arguing with a non-believer. “I see”, said with such calming confidence, also sent the message that perhaps Herb didn’t know all there was to know about the subject.\n Herb drifted deep into his own world of thought, his mind reflecting on Sal’s words while he kept his eyes on the stars that packed the horizon from east to west and from north to south. Listening carefully, Herb could hear the sounds of water tumbling over stones, and for the first time, he smelled the evergreens that engulfed their campsite.\n“Time for us to get a little shut-eye.”\nMindful of mountain lions, creepy things that crawl and bite, and rattlesnakes, there was no way Herb would sleep under that beautiful bouquet of stars. He could only hope they did a good cleanup job after Uncle Louie’s demise.\nWith the morning dew, everything on the mountain sparkled under the morning sun.\n“Morning, Herb. Would you like some beef jerky? My Mother made it.”\nHis Mother made it?! Oh, my God. Either his Mother set some kind of record for longevity, or beef jerky lasts forever.\n“I think I’ll pass.”\n“Uh, Sal, just when do you think we’ll get to the treasure? No hurry, I was just curious.”\n“Patience, my boy. Good things come to those who wait.”\n“Is this starting to look familiar to…”\nHerb was cut off by a disturbing cry coming from some nearby bushes.\n“What was that, Sal?”\n“ I don’t know. Sounded like an animal in distress.”\nHerb, afraid of all things furry, especially those of unknown identity, approached the bushes cautiously as the whimpering sounds continued. He pulled a branch aside.\n“Sal! It’s some kind of animal. It looks like a ball of fur.”\nSal recognized the critter.\n“It’s a marmot, a young one.”\n“What the hell is a marmot?”\n“I guess you could say it’s like a big gopher, part of the rodent family.”\nSal took a closer look.\n“It looks like it’s been injured… probably a coyote or an eagle. Grab me one of those rocks from over there.”\n“A rock? What for?”\n“I’m going to put the poor thing out of its misery.”\n“Jesus Christ, Sal, you can’t just mush the thing with a rock. That’s pretty gruesome. Let me check it out first.”\n“You might want to put some gloves on, Herb. I’ve got some in the box on the back of the truck.”\nHerb thought better of his efforts at the first snarl.\n“Uh… Sal, you’re probably better at this sort of thing than I am. Maybe you could check him out.”\n“Sorry, Herb, I’m more of a rock kind of guy.”\nHerb bent over the wounded marmot, which was either dying or sensed something people sometimes can’t. He remained peaceful as Herb extricated him from under the bush.\n“Holy crap, Sal, he’s looking at me. We should get him to a vet.”\n“What?! We’re almost to the top. We can’t go back down now.”\n“What do we do?”\n“The poor thing is suffering, Herb. If you don’t want me to mush it with a rock, just toss him off the cliff.”\nSal peered over the edge of the cliff.\n“Yeah, that would do it. It’s a couple hundred feet and all rocks below. It’ll be quick for him, and you won't have to see it. But hurry up, we’ve got to keep moving.”\nHerb felt movement in his arms.\n“I think he’s coming around a bit.”\n“Come on, Herb. Give him the old heave-ho.”\nHow many things can go through a person’s mind all at once? For Herb, at that moment, it was everything. Herb stared at the squirming little ball of fur in his hands.\n“I can’t do it, Sal. I can’t.”\nA perceptive observer might have detected the hint of a smile on Sal’s face.\n“Let’s make a nice bed for him and pick him up on the way down… after we get the treasure.\"\n\"Uh, Herb, there’s something I need to tell you.”\n“What’s that?”\n“You’re going to be mad at me.”\n“What? Why?”\n“There is no treasure buried up there. I sort of made that up.”\n“What?!! Why the hell would you make something like that up?”\n“It’s kind of what I do, Herb.”\n“Dammit, Sal! Are you freaking kidding me?! Who are you? I did all this for nothing?! I should have known all this treasure business was BS.”\n“Ok, the buried part I made up, but I did lead you to treasure.”\n“Treasure my butt. What the hell are you talking about?”\n“You discovered the value of life, Herb. And that’s priceless. ”\nThe irony was inescapable. Herb looked back down at the marmot. The damn thing was looking right back at him.\n---------\n“I think your marmot will be comfortable in the little bundle I fixed up for him. He’ll be ok until we get him to a vet.”\n“Thanks, Sal.”\nBefore they headed back down the mountain, Sal walked to the edge of the cliff, pulled a handful of papers out of a leather satchel, and tossed them into the air.\n“What are you doing, Sal?”\n“Just sending out more invites, Herb. There’s always someone out there who needs one.”\n“Sal?”\n“What?”\n“Is it always a marmot?”\nSal smiled.\n“Trade secret.”\nSal and Herb, marmot in his arms, headed back down the mountain as a flurry of sheets of paper fluttered across the valley.\n----------\nThe three gentlemen sitting on the bench in front of the Rifle Library that summer painted an unusual picture- Mark Twain frozen in bronze and holding a book; a white-haired old man holding a shovel; and a laid-back looking fellow who seemed happy just to be there- he was holding a marmot." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Insanely Fine Cuisine\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 3001\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character’s life completely changes over the course of a meal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Warning: a bit of gore and violence\n\nDuncan Dupree, head chef of La Vie Le Calamar, drummed his fat fingers on his crossed upper arms and surveyed the chefs in training as they prepared Le Grande Repas Quatro, the feast for that evening. His snooty nose in the air, his little piggy eyes lasered onto Pierre as the young man added a dollop of truffle oil to his risotto.\n\nDupree waddled over to the gently bubbling pot and inhaled the steam, dramatically closing his eyes and wafting the steam towards him with one hand, the other hand at the end of a limp wrist. \nI thought, ‘That Pierre must have ice in his veins, he’s so frickin cool.’ The cool young man ignored the fat chef and even had the audacity to smile.\n\nHis smile was beautific too, like Mona Lisa watching the ‘Soup Nazi’ episode of Seinfeld. How I admired him. He was tall, my height, with dark cropped GQ hair and blue eyes so dark, they made sapphires jealous. He was thin, with broad shoulders, and favored the slim-fitting men’s fashions of Italy- snug, muscle-hugging, yet soft and sleek and sometimes shiny. I, on the other hand, come from old Scottish farming stock, red of hair, freckled of face, and somewhat thick boned. I was not jealous of Pierre, and don’t get me wrong, I was not in love with him either, but instead, I used him as inspiration to get back to the gym.\n\nDupree on the other hand, either was extremely jealous of him… or madly infatuated. Or perhaps he’d been bullied as a child, and now took out his revenge upon us students.\n\nThis was a very expensive culinary academy. They taught only four students at a time. The owner of the academy was the multi-billionaire foodie, Malcome Crackett the Third, who also owned the magazine ‘Trip and Tip’ that I wrote articles for. The writing was my first professional gig; I aspired to write novels, but did enjoy the travel and tasting and reviewing, my name was getting out there. At last, next month, I was scheduled for my first European series of reviews. I was at La Vie Le Calamar on…I suppose you could say, a scholarship, Crackett liked my work so far and had injected my name into the roster for this semester.\n\nWe were into the final week (five days, actually) and I, along with three other students, Dupree, and a guest- sometimes a movie star, sometimes a political star, sometimes Crackett himself- feasted on each of the five nights on meals we created in the immense modern steel kitchen of the academy. Each morning of the final five days, Dupree handed out the assignments; each of the five days, us five- students and head chef- were tasked with one of the five categories: Entrée, starch side, vegetable side, soup, or salad. Salad did desert as well. Each of us made one of these in accordance with whomever was tasked with the entrée. When the meal was eaten, the cameras stopped rolling.\nDupree was the quintessential jilted one from a Gerry Springer, the crier of a black mother whose murderous, drug dealing gangster son was killed by cops. He was drama personified.\n\nThe preparing was all filmed for the hit foodie tv show on HBO of the same name as the academy, Dupree’s bullying was essential for the show’s success, he was the man you loved to hate. He threw things. He ranted and raved. He bullied…and the audience ate it up (pun intended.)\n\nAs I watched from the corner of my eye, Pierre nodded slightly. He was bracing himself. The other two students in the kitchen, Vera, the only woman in our class, and Charlie, the burly, bearded Canadian, tried not to quiver, but did anyways, fearful of Duncan’s rants and raves. \n\nNot to disappoint the audience, Dupree, after inhaling the steam I caught whiffs of from across the steel prep table in the center, dramatically flailed his fat white hands in the air and bellowed, “Wrong! All wrong! Where is the essence?! Where is the earthy scent dat de connoisseurs want?! Gah! Start over!” He grabbed a wooden spoon in the rest on my side of the table and threw it at Pierre. Then he dumped the risotto, pot and all, into the trash bin.\n\nMy mouth had watered as the risotto steam met my nose. It had been perfect.\n\nPierre smiled that smile, and silently bowed towards the fat man who turned his back on him with a “Harumph” and acted as though Pierre were kowtowing, but I knew different. I saw the young man’s eyes. They flashed red, like a warning. He grinned and his canines grew as I watched, saliva strung thinly down his chin. He lunged at the fat man and sunk his teeth into the fat roll of his neck. Wet red blood spewed like a geyser! I gasped, ducked, and covered my face before the shower flooded over me.\n\nDupree said, “Michael Magilicutty! C’est quoi ce bordel! You got de bee in ya noggin boy? Mind that soufflé or it will fall.”\n\nI looked up. No blood, no fangs. I realized that I did have a bee in my noggin. I stifled an insane titter. \n\nDupree then set his sights on Vera, a petite Vietnamese woman with deer-in-headlights eyes behind thick glasses. She was assigned lamb for the entre that night and had chosen a braised recipe with Morroccan spices. Vera cringed under the bully-chef’s piggy gaze, and I lost respect for her. \nDupree inspected the rack and tasted the marinade. He slammed his hand onto the table ‘WHAM!’ and Poor Vera jumped, as did I and the Canadian that looked like a lumberjack. Only Pierre kept his calm as he prepared a new pot of boiling chicken stock. “This is fine,” Dupree said with a hint of ‘meh,’ “Needs some zing… some pow.” He slammed the table again.\n\nI dared a peek into my oven. I swear that ass was trying to collapse my artichoke souffle. I felt those nasty little eyes on my back and chided myself for letting him get to me. I busied myself with my lemon aioli sauce.\nBehind me Charlie, the Canuck, sighed audibly as Dupree passed him by.\n\n\nThat night, Jennifer Judson was our guest star, there to promote her new talk show. Naturally, Dupree bent over backwards to kiss her black ass; Vera and Charlie were star struck, Pierre was visibly amused by her advances towards him off camera, and I was glad to see the egocentric twat flustered though Dupree would make Pierre pay.\n\nShe sat at one end of the table, Dupree, at the other. Vera sat across from me next to Pierre. Dupree acted the proud momma hen, Charlie was his funny self, Judson talked about herself and her show. The meal was delicious, though the risotto was too earthy, and damn that Dupree if he didn’t belittle Pierre’s culinary talents. \n\n“I warned you the truffle oil was potent.” Dupree waggled a finger at Pierre.\nPierre said, “Ah. Aren’t certain breeds of ovine the truffle experts?” He didn’t look up from his forkful.\n\nJudson laughed like a braying mule.\nThe rest of us looked stunned as Dupree’s entire head turned into a tomato. He recovered quickly and said, “Oui. Why yes, in the Basque territory of France, leetle piglets of the rare Gascon family are trained to sniff the delicacies out. As a leetle boy I often accompanied mon pere with our prize piggies…”\n\nPierre, who actually did come from France, put down his fork and said, “But Chef Dupree, is it not fact you grew up in the Bronx?”\n\nDupree stood, sprightly for such a large man, plucked the carving knife from the table and hurled it at Pierre like a spangled professional at the circus. Pierre caught the knife by the blade, leapt upon the table like a cat, crouched, then sprung at Dupree. Blood from his hand rained down, turning the white tablecloth into a gory rorschach test as he charged. \nBoth women screamed, Vera fainted, Charlie turned, and discreetly vomited under the table.\nDupree quivered with fright and fury, his fists balled as if he was going to punch the feral young man. Pierre plunged the knife into the top of the man’s head to its hilt. Dupree feebly punched left and right like a windup toy monkey winding down. Blood teared from his eyes, spurted from his nose, and gushed from his open mouth as he gargled a scream. \n\n“Micheal.”\n\nI spun to the left to see who had spoken, but to my left, Judson stared at me curiously. I looked back to Dupree and realized I had stood up. He was not bloody. He had that smarmy look on his face. Pierre was just digging into his creamy Rhubarb Vanilla mousse. I sat and Dupree made a circular motion by his left ear. “Buzzing bees in dere.”\n\nI sat down and faked a laugh. I thought to myself, ‘Maybe she was right. Maybe I need those meds after all. Jeezus! Two episodes in one day…’ I zoned back to the dinner party, but my mind was on the issue that had sent my wife packing a month ago.\n‘They make me feel awful though. Dumb. Foggy. I'm a writer God-damit! I need to be sharp and articulate. I’m going nutso without them though. Totally schizo. Worse than schizo…what if I hurt someone in my fugue state? Or worse?’\n\n“…ook?”\n\nCharlie had been talking to me. I looked up. He had green lumpy vomit, like pea soup, down his front. When I blinked it was gone.\n“I’m sorry. What were you asking?”\n“Wonderin how your book is coming. Its nearly done, eh?”\n“Heh heh. Well, it’s been on hold the last couple of weeks.” I gestured at the table, now devoid of the meal but displaying near empty desert dishes.\n\n\n\n\n\nThe next day in the kitchen, on the air, Pierre, tasked with venison for the entrée, announced it would be Bourguignon.\nDupree smiled smugly. No one made Bourguignon as good as he…and venison? Unheard of. \n\nI was tasked with the soup and felt a light bisque of some sort would be an ideal starter for the rich, sauce-laden entre. Tomato-carrot with a drizzle of parsley pesto.\n\nI heard Janice’s naggy voice in my head as I chopped my carrots with a deadly looking blade. ‘You didn’t take your meds, you fool. You’re schizophrenic Michael. I’ve been telling you for years…’\n‘Yeah bitch, you mean nagging…’\n‘Call me that all you want but I still love you. The sane you.’ The voice was chill, calm, …patronizing. ‘I know you think the pills kill your creativity…but you’ve never given them a chance. The doctor says you have to give them four months at least just to kick in.’\n\nI wondered for a minute if she was right. ‘I’m fine Janice. I’ll get through tonight and maybe go see another doctor tomorrow.’ The lie felt even worse in my head that it had out loud. I was lying to myself now. ‘Or maybe after I finish the book.’ That sounded better maybe.\n\n Dupree was on the warpath. We all could feel it in the air. It was his last chance to humiliate Pierre once and for all. He wanted a meltdown. He wanted a resignation. I suspect he wanted, above all, a blowjob. \n\nThough his exterior was calm, the air buzzed with his nefarious intentions. Then I realized that it was my head that was buzzing. Those damned bees. ‘Not now. No no no. Just a few more hours.’ I looked around. No one was watching me. I poured a half cup of cooking sherry into my water bottle, looked around again, and drank it down. The buzzing subsided.\n\nDupree was complimenting Vera on her choice of bitter endives for her salad, the bleu cheese crumbles and small dabs of bright red sundried tomato chutney was perfect. I looked over and saw that the chutney was oozing over the table and plopping to the floor like bloody gore. \nI blinked. It was gone. Vera was mixing the batter for her crepes suzette. She’d won back some of my respect, the Grand Marnier would double as an aperitif and her extra egg whites guaranteed a lighter crepe. She would make a fine chef one day.\n\nI wasn’t so sure about Charlie. I just couldn’t get the lumberjack image out of my head. I looked over at him and saw he was chopping his broccoli with a wooden handled axe. ‘Whump! Whump! Whump!’ As Charlie scooped up the bite-sized florets, I saw a scattering of severed fingers on the table, their bloody stumps glistening red…Dupree came over, surely to take the axe away and laugh at the funny joke. The fat man blocked my view as he patted Charlie on one of his beefy, flannelled shoulders.\n\n“Very gute Charlie. Very creative to infuse a hint of Asia into a French meal. Bite sized, I like that, we cut the meat, we don’t need to cut the veggies too, no?” Charlie was whisking together a miso-based marinade, his black mushrooms sitting by in a julienned pile.\n\nI drank some coffee quickly as Dupree turned my way, swirling the fumey beverage in my mouth. ‘Coffee beans disguise the smell of marijuana for TSA doggies, it should kill my wine breath…’\n“Ah, Michael. Very good choice for zee soup. Light, cleansing ze palate. Ah, and ze parlsey too, an obvious palate cleanser, not so subtle.” I wished he would STOP with the fake accent. It made my head start to buzz again.\n\n“Should I have used basil?”\n“Tut tut dear boy, non. A chef goes with what he feels is right, his instinct. I would have chosen parsley as well.”\n\nDupree was being …nice. Scary. I feared for Pierre…Who was humming as he sprinkled a pinch of fresh herbs into the aromatic dish Julia Child had made famous. I was concerned. Dupree had given Pierre venison instead of beef because if not cooked just exactly right, it would be tough and, or, too gamey, stringy.\nBut the handsome Pierre was humming as if he were Peter Pan and had a pixie at his shoulder to magically make everything he made the most spectacular.\n\nAnd it was.\nDinner that night was the best of our five. The entre was spectacular. I had only eaten venison in sausage form and knew it to be gamey. But, like a good scotch, one embraces the character of the drink, whether oaky or smokey, in venison, a subtle hint of gamey is key. Pierre perfected the dish. It melted in the mouth but wasn’t mushy. The texture resembled rare filet mignon. Seasoned perfectly, and wonderfully black peppery, his entre was unique and sure to be a hit at whatever restaurant he opened in the future.\n\nI was proud of him. I swelled with joy. He nonchalantly accepted the praise of our guest, Mr.Crackett himself, with his glass of cabernet raised. He was radiant. His pale skin glowed, his sapphire eyes sparkled as he looked directly at me and licked his lower lip.\n\nMy head was buzzing again. ‘He hadn’t really done that.’ And I congratulated myself for knowing better. ‘Who needs those stinkin pills.’\n\nWe all looked to Dupree. His opinion mattered little. The viewers voted, the guest’s comments aided the viewers decisions. How would the fat man deal with this young nemesis moving on to greatness?\n\nDupree, smiling and smarmy, cloyingly polite, apologized to the table and the cameras, as he got up and said, “I’m afraid zere iz something wrong with ze meat. I fear I am going to, uh, be ill.”\nHe dramatically left the room, limp-wristed hand on his up-raised brow, the other on his chest.\n\n‘Damn that fat bastard!’ I thought. Getting sick on major tv was the absolute worst, the paramount disgrace no aspiring chef could survive. ‘Had I imagined all this?’\n\nEveryone was talking at the table, but their voices were buzzing in and out. I held my head together with my hands, unsure of what was real, and what was my illness.\nWhen I looked up at the table, everyone sitting around it was grinning. Apparently, I’d imagined the whole thing before…including the eating, the entre in the center was still sitting under a silver dome.\nI looked around and sighed with relief, no buzzing. Everyone looked normal. No blood spurting from knife wounds, no bloody gore dripping to the floor.\nThe sides were passed around, I took the bowl of miso dressed broccoli from Charlie on my right and turned to pass it to the fat asshole on my left. His seat was empty. I placed the bowl on the table and looked surreptitiously at each person sitting at the table. They were chatting and talking with their hands and smiling. ‘Okay. Everything’s fine. Everything’s normal.’\n\nI caught Pierre’s eye from across the table. He winked at me and grinned. His canines were two inches long. When the tongue that flicked out licked up his entire forehead and around to his chin, I shut my eyes and chanted, Not real not real not real…’\nHe lifted the silver dome and, ‘of course’, there was Duncan Dupree’s fat piggy head, roasted, perfectly charred on all the right edges, a sweet Honeycrisp apple in a mouth that was stretched far too wide. The edges of it were split like the Joker’s, and marrow-like goo drooled down the fat, roasted chin.\n\nReal or imaginary, I cared not at this point. I ran screaming from the room, not caring what they thought or what the cameras caught. I ran home. It was six miles. I did not trust myself to drive. At my condo, I swallowed three of the pills and crawled underneath my bed with my cell phone. I googled psychiatrists. I texted my ex." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Brave Lad & The Chef\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1034\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with one character trying to convince another that they make the best grilled cheese in the world." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Eat every single dish that you find across the lands,\nand you will surely find that these chef’s two hands.\n\nMake better than any elf, dwarf, or human chef of expertise\nThe yummiest and most delicious sandwich of gooey grilled cheese!”\n\n‘Twas the boasting of the great and prideful orcish chef.\nAcross these wild lands, they all say he is the best.\n\nBut the brave little lad had no spare time to lend an ear,\nfor a quest he was pursuing and off-track, he would not veer.\n\nFor the land that he came from, his hometown was at stake.\nHe mustn’t dawdle one moment. He couldn’t afford one mistake.\n\nBut this chef blocked his passage and would not let him on his way\n‘til the brave little lad challenged him to a cook-off on this day.\n\nThe brave little lad was at an impasse with this chef,\nso agreeing to his demands was the only choice he had left.\n\n“The choice is yours! So I give you, my challenger, so bold!\nWhat dish should we prepare? Be it new or old?”\n\nThe brave little lad was not a talented cook, he knew.\nSo what could he prepare that could help him see this through?\n\n“If you should win this challenge, I shall bestow to you\nsafe passage on your quest and a grilled cheese sandwich too!\n\nBut if you fail now to best me in this competition,\nI shall dine on a dish made up of your meaty composition!”\n\n‘Twas a frightening proposition the young lad face ahead,\nso he thought hard on a dish that may yet keep him not dead.\n\nWhile the young lad was no chef, there were some dishes that he knew,\nHis mother taught him cooking, such as how to brew a simple stew.\n\nHe thought for a while of all the dishes he could make,\nbut none seemed right to protect him from his proposed dark fate.\n\nBut since leaving on this journey, he had stayed in some friendly villages.\nDifferent people taught him new things. Perhaps he could use one of these dishes?\n\nA decent plethora of knowledge he had been obtaining along the way.\nBut could that help him at this moment? It was rather tough to say.\n\nThe lad checked his pack, and through his ingredients, he perused.\nHe hoped something in there he would think of how to use.\n\n“I’m sorry to rush you, young lad, for I know it’s a tough decision,\nbut if you could pick a dish, we could move on to the kitchen!”\n\nAs the carnivorous orcish chef rushed the young lad to pick a course.\nFrom within his bag, he drew two fish he had collected from a port.\n\n“They call it the Galerka fish,” the young lad held them out.\n“These shall be our dish!” The fish were portly and stout.\n\n“Galerka, I don’t know, but of fish, I can stew.\nI can gut it and fillet it, cook it up good I shall do!”\n\nThe Galerka fish has several small spikes in a row along its sides,\nthey could withdraw and protrude through these holes that look like eyes.\n\nAs the orcish chef gutted it, he saw the spikes met with the meat,\nbut he snapped ‘em free with ease. He didn’t miss a beat.\n\nThe young lad removed them with much more care and ease.\nHe slid his blade in and detached the spikes. He made it look like a breeze.\n\nO’er the flames of the grill, they cooked their bizarre fish,\nThe aroma was unusual; it was a salty, smelly dish.\n\nThe orcish chef’s flames climbed high up in the air,\nif they burned him, he did not notice; neither did he care.\n\nBut the brave lad’s flames were much, much lower,\nbut do you think that this cooked the fish any slower?\n\nAs the smoke climbed up the chimney, it drew the attention of the wildlife.\nTheir fish were cooked so tender they would cut without a knife.\n\nSo they plated their fish dishes, and they cared little for presentation.\nThis is all about taste and texture; no need for physical persuasion.\n\nFirst, they ate the lad’s fish, and it was salty as the sea,\n“Ha!” said the Orc chef, “looks like the winner shall be me!”\n\nThe orc ate down his own fish, and the lad just stood aside.\n“Mine has a lovely buttery flavor!” the orc said with evident pride.\n\nBut you see what the lad knew that the orcish chef did not,\nGalerka fish venom was deadly. That’s why few of these fish were caught.\n\nWell, that is to say, the females are. Their venom poisons their meat.\nThe male meat is safe. One must know which fish is safe to eat.\n\nThe lad had cooked the male. So his fish meat was safe.\nBut the orc did not know that his dish held his fate.\n\nThe poison ran down the orc’s throat, but He did not feel it yet.\n‘Til it hit him in the stomach, he doubled over in distress.\n\nHe threw up all his bile, for the poison made him ill.\nThen he finally gave in to it, and his body fell still.\n\nThe lad looked at the orc who he bested on this day.\nHe was sad he had to die, but there was no other way.\n\nThe lad looked across the kitchen for something of the chef’s.\nSitting alone on the counter was something he had left.\n\nHe had boasted to the lad that his sandwich was the best.\nThe lad had to know, was it better than the rest?\n\nSo he took a bite and tasted all its gooey cheesiness.\nIf he had to describe it, he would say that this was bliss.\n\nHe looked once more upon the orc, who had wanted the lad to eat.\nBut hated him not. He felt bad that he gave him poisoned meat.\n\n“I am sorry that you are dead now, and I don’t think you were evil.\nBut you must understand it is unkind to eat people.\n\nI must tell you, sir, your self-praise was no tease.\nYou did, in fact, make the most delicious grilled cheese.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Holy Wind\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2549\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against a character's skin." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The letter from my oncologist said, “Her cancer is not curable and there is a significant possibility she could die from her cancer or related complications within the next 6 months.” That’s what I was reflecting on when the nurse approached me in the waiting room asking me to follow her. You see, I’d sought a second opinion and the new oncologist approved the chemotherapy orders for today’s infusion. I've got a new oncologist, a new cancer center, and a new nurse. I was scared. The nurse led me through the tiled white floors, under the bright white fluorescent lighting, in a room the size of a huge office space. I passed by rows and rows of IV poles and chairs that seated sick people, bald people, these people like me trying not to die from a disease they can’t control. I recalled taking my youngest son to his cardiology appointments at Children’s Hospital. I would see small children with cancer and my first thought was empathy. I was led to pray for them. Yet, when I saw these sick adults today corralled like cattle, my reaction was to run! I thought, I don’t want to die, but I don’t want this to be my life. Anxiety filled me from head to toe, and my sympathetic nervous system had the fight or flight response raring in full gear. My vital signs were taken and my blood pressure was 169/110. I was angry and irritable but that changed once I looked out the window at a tree. The tree was swaying in the wind. It reminded me of the many gentle breezes of kisses I’ve been given upon my cheeks from the greatest love I’ve ever known.\nAs children of elementary school age, my brother and I were on winter break. I recall us watching out of our dining room window, to what the local newspaper would report to be “The Great Dust Storm of 1977.” The article said, “It began on Monday evening and ended Thursday afternoon. It approached terrifyingly, it was like a tornado without the spinning vortex, and it came like a Tsunami from over Bear Mountain, a tidal wave of dirt over 5000 feet. It paralyzed Bakersfield, California for a week and left 5 people dead. It was estimated that the wind gusts reached 192 mph, enough to strip 24 million tons of soil and fill 1.6 million standard dump trucks. The wind was greater than a category 5 hurricane or the average 158 mph tornado.” My mom later explained because of the damage we had to get another roof put on which insurance paid for. \nAs the three of us my mother, brother, and I were standing at the dining room window facing the front lawn, visibility was precarious. I could sometimes make out the tall palm tree at our neighbors house across the street. The tree bending and the leaves completely swept to a horizontal position. There were moments in the middle of the day that the dust storm created a brown darkness as if it were night. This, compounded with the fact that we had lost our electricity, gave us an ominous feeling. While we watched the sand storm my mom began to talk to us about the Lord. The conversation was meant to calm us so we wouldn’t be scared. This was my first real experience of how strong wind can be. My mom talked about how God created the wind and it's He who controls it. I wasn’t scared, I was in awe.\nAt 15 my parents had long since divorced and my mom’s boyfriend had bought a house for my mom, brother and I to live in. The 3 bedroom home was on a large piece of property, with about 100 feet of front lawn that my bedroom window looked out upon. I was homeschooling at the time and I found myself finished with my work early so I would read. I had read a small, thin book entitled “Like a Mighty Wind” by Mel Tari. It entailed the island of Timor, Indonesia and its similar Pentecost day, referenced in the New Testament Bible, when the Holy Spirit descends from heaven upon the people. My brother and I were both captivated by the stories of faith and how to strengthen or acquire it. The following book written by Mel Tari “Gentle Breeze of Jesus'' expressed instructions on receiving the Holy Spirit’s gift of tongues. I prayed to God that if it be His will may I please have this gift. “If only to bring me closer to you,” I asked. This wasn’t my first request to ask for the gift of tongues, on the contrary, I’d asked a couple of times before. Early childhood when my brother was 5 and I was 4, my mom sat with us on the living room couch and told us when we said our prayers tonight we could ask Jesus into our hearts. At 4am the next morning I was awakened by my brother crying in the arms of my mom, he said, “He came mom, he came.” He had gone to bed and said his prayers asking Jesus to come into his heart and was awakened with the gift of tongues. I stood in the doorway jealous of the affections and comfort my mom was giving my brother. I ran and quickly jumped into bed and asked the Lord to come into my heart. When my mom entered my room I told her “I asked, but nothing happened.” She said, because I asked then I’ve received. But why didn’t I feel anything, why couldn’t I speak that way? \nA few years later my mom had arranged for my brother and I to be picked up by the Sunday school bus. I was willing to go because I was promised hot chocolate and cookies. When we arrived we made our way past the big church. There through the windows I could see people with outstretched hands to the ceiling, speaking different languages. I wanted that! I prayed for it and again, I didn’t get it.\nAt age 11, my uncle was the worship leader at the church. He used to come to the house to play his acoustic guitar and sing a couple of worship songs, with my brother and I on our front lawn. One day, he told me I was going to a church retreat with him. When we arrived, I saw that they too had a big church and inside were people speaking in tongues with outstretched hands. I excused myself to the restroom. I was envious of these church people. All the attention was drawn to them for how they were speaking. So, with the entire wrong motive, I prayed for the gift of tongues again and yet again, I didn’t get it. \nNow, here I was 15 years old, sitting on my bed looking out the window to the front lawn. There stood a single young tree with the pink ribbon still attached from the garden nursery. I watched as the sapling began to sway. Yet, everything around it, the flowers and weeds remained still. Only the young tree's branches swayed and its leaves began to beckon me. In my heart I knew the presence of the Lord was there. I ran into the backyard and walked into the shallow end of the pool. I lifted my arms up to the sky and began thanking Him and praising Him. As I spoke the words out loud I could hear myself speaking in tongues. My mind was saying “Thank you Lord, praise you Lord,” but my mouth was saying something different. Aware I’d been given an answered prayer, it immediately strengthened my faith. He’s real I thought, and exclaimed, “Your real Lord!” I began to cry and I continued to thank and praise Him with my mind while speaking in tongues to the wind. No one was witness to it. My intentions were to know Him more. It was a prayer language between Him and I. It was a cleansing, like a washing of my soul and it enveloped my heart. When some time had passed I walked out of the pool, dried myself off and went into the house in an attempt to call someone. I wanted to tell anyone who would listen just what happened to me, but no one answered. It was as if the Lord was to say, “This is meant for you and me Michelle.” “Ok, Lord,” I said, and I made my way out to the pool walking onto the end of the diving board. This time the gentle breeze blew upon me. I began receiving these kisses upon my cheeks from God. “Just you and me Lord, thank you, I love you, and I know you love me.” I was experiencing my first love which would be the greatest love of my lifetime.\nAnother encounter I had with the wind was a demonstration of God’s power, I was 18. I would spend my mornings reading my bible, sitting on the sand at Huntington Beach. While facing the ocean as the waves rolled in, I would feel the peace of God while reflecting on the scripture I’d just randomly picked to read. You know, when you open up your bible and let the pages fall where they may. Suddenly, the wind picked up and I had to place my hands down upon the sand to remain seated upright, my hair blowing hard with the wind. I’d watched the calm of the ocean become stronger and the height of the waves become higher. The ocean became agitated miles out and there were no boats in sight. It was overcast with the morning fog still in place and the sky and the ocean grew dark. I recalled the scripture I’d just read Psalm 24:1-2 The earth is the Lords, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it; 2 for He founded it on the seas and established it on the waters. Wow, how prophetic today’s reading was and I thought that’s how personal my Lord is. “Yes, Lord you are the creator of the heavens and the earth and everything in it, how mighty you are!” I began to sing to the wind “My God is an awesome God, He reigns from Heaven above, with wisdom, power, and love my God is an awesome God!” \nStaring out the cancer center window to the tree swaying in the wind, I said, “You’re here with me now aren’t you. I’m not alone; I don’t need to be scared. These people aren’t here to harm me but to help me. I’m going to be ok. Death cannot touch me. You conquered death, and so now because I believe in you, I follow you, you’re the love of my life, I too will not die, and I will live on!” I settled into the chair with the warm blanket provided for me by the nurse. I took a sip of hot tea. I heard the IV pole alarms periodically go off, notifying the assigned nurse to attend to a patient's empty I.V. bag. Looking around the room, I began to notice the faces of the others receiving treatment. I closed my eyes to pray. “Heavenly Father please help them come to know you in a personal and loving way, and that they too may know the greatest love which will last forever, amen!” Amen means let this be so, and I truly wanted for every person on that cancer clinic floor, nurses included, to know Him and to be given that peace. My IV pole alarm begins to beep notifying my nurse I’ve completed the saline flush from the chemo. My vitals were taken again and my blood pressure now read 124/80, that’s miraculous!\nThere are a lot of miraculous things that come with being given a cancer diagnosis and a terminal illness letter. The cancer diagnosis motivated me to do research on the prescriptions I was taking for high blood pressure, Type 2 Diabetes, anxiety meds etc. and I found that 18 of the 22 prescriptions were cancer causing. I’d never bothered to read the small print on the papers the pharmacist provides you with your prescription. I now sought natural supplements and therapies that treat the cause of my health problems. Aside from cancer, I've become the healthiest I've ever been in years!\nThe terminal letter giving me 6 months spurred other miracles that came. The best miracle is that I’ve lived past the 6 months! With the new chemotherapy I’m taking in writing this, the cancer has declined to almost remission. The terminal letter helped me to commit to living one day at a time. It’s a lesson I was taught a while ago but never really enacted until the diagnosis. Before, I was always living in shame or guilt of my past, chronic stress in my present and fear of the future. Today, I awaken thanking my Lord for the breath of life, then I kneel and surrender by reciting the A.A. third step prayer “God, I offer myself to Thee — to build with me and to do with me as Thou wilt. Relieve me of the bondage of self, that I may better do Thy will. Take away my difficulties, that victory over them may bear witness to those I would help with Thy Power, Thy Love, and Thy Way of life. May I do Thy will always!” I then say the Lord’s prayer with my sons. During the day I will say the serenity prayer, “God grant me the serenity To accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; And wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things right If I surrender to His Will; So that I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him Forever and ever in the next. Amen.” \nToday, I live a spiritual way of life as much as a fallible human being can. There are times I get scared. There are times I forget to pray or I forget that I’m alive today for a purpose. Mostly, there are times I forget that I am loved. Thankfully, it’s in the reminders that I’m given from the Holy Spirit that takes me back to that spiritual living. Like when I see from the window the Holy wind in the trees. Like today's experience, when stepping out of the cancer center, I feel the gentle breeze of Jesus’ kisses upon my cheeks. I’m also especially spiritually minded and not afraid, when I remember the song my uncle used to play and sing on our front lawn many years ago. The song of my greatest love-\nHoly wind, my closest friend, fill me with your light\nAnd Lamb of God my one true love\nPrepare me to be your bride\nFather have mercy\nShelter me with your wings\nUntil you receive me in Glory\nWhen you come again" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The drowning woman\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2660\n\nPrompt:\n\nCraft a story where a character finds themselves swept away by the wind, either physically or metaphorically." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was September 1989. I was drowning in my huge new school uniform. I know a lot of parents buy a few sizes up to save money but is a sack appropriate for a first day at school? I exaggerate slightly. I was wearing my XL Navy Blazer with the school crest ‘Veritas’ embroidered on top of my non-existent right breast. My Navy V-neck jumper hung past my waist and my ridiculously long navy skirt was a tripping hazard. I remember standing for assembly in the main hall next to a girl called Denise. She had latched on to me right away, but she seemed nice enough. We looked at each other as if to say, 'What were our parents thinking sending us here?'\n ‘Good morning, ladies’ began Mr. Murphy, the ruddy-faced headmaster. When I filed into the hall, I heard a brief snippet of conversation between two of the older girls.\n\n‘Have you been in his study? There is a cabinet FULL of whiskey.’\n\n‘No, I haven’t been in his study Jemima. You have because you keep talking over the teacher in class.’\n\n'Bitch.'\n\n'Cow.'\n\nMr. Murphy continued. ‘I do hope everyone has had a good weekend. I’m going to start by telling you all a story about a fellow who finds himself in a desperate situation and in need of help. The story is called ‘The drowning man’.\n\nI think I heard the Jemima girl say ‘sounds like a laugh’ to which a few of her classmates giggled.\n A look from Mr. Murphy silenced the sniggering and he began.\n ‘A fellow was stuck on his rooftop in a flood. He was praying to God for help.\nSoon a man in a rowboat came by and the fellow shouted to the man on the roof, “Jump in, I can save you.”\nThe stranded fellow shouted back, “No, it’s OK, I’m praying to God, and he is going to save me.”\nSo, the rowboat went on.\nThen a motorboat came by. “The fellow in the motorboat shouted, “Jump in, I can save you.”\nTo this the stranded man said, “No thanks, I’m praying to God, and he is going to save me. I have faith.”\nSo, the motorboat went on.\nThen a helicopter came by, and the pilot shouted down, “Grab this rope and I will lift you to safety.”\nTo this the stranded man again replied, “No thanks, I’m praying to God, and he is going to save me. I have faith.”\nSo, the helicopter reluctantly flew away.\nSoon the water rose above the rooftop and the man drowned. He went to Heaven. He finally got his chance to discuss this whole situation with God, at which point he exclaimed, “I had faith in you, but you didn’t save me, you let me drown. I don’t understand why!”\nTo this God replied, “I sent you a rowboat and a motorboat and a helicopter, what more did you expect?”\n A few of the teachers smiled and Mr. Murphy continued.\n\n‘a truly valuable story girls about accepting help. I’m sure we can all learn to accept help from time to time. My wife, Mrs. Murphy is always telling me to let go and accept help. It’s sometimes the hardest thing to do. I would like to welcome everyone who has joined us this school year and please don’t be afraid to ask for help from your friends, fellow classmates, and teachers. We are all here to support one another.’\n After assembly, we filed into our classroom and focused on our studies. But that was all I had to think about back then: Acing my exams and staying in the top five in my year in each subject so my parents could brag to their friends about it and feel that all the money they had spent on my private school education had been worth it.\n ******\n Every day during our lunch break my husband John and I walk down the road to the beach that runs along the rugged North Cornish coast. How I love this stretch of coast. Full of wonderful memories of running up and down the beach with our young son, throwing or kicking a ball back and forth. A stretch of coast that has so much hope associated with it. ‘One day when we have a dog, we can run up and down with our doggy and train him/her to fetch the ball.’ or ‘ooh mummy can we come back in the summer months and swim in the rock pools.’ ‘Of course, darling, that sounds wonderful.’\n But it is now winter and on exceptionally windy days, we feel the force of nature pushing us back, telling us ‘You don’t want to come too close today’ but we always push past it and find a sheltered cove to explore and enjoy being battered by the wind.\n\nHowever, in recent weeks, I haven’t felt so strong. What would happen if I just let go. Would I end up being blown about and spat back on to the beach like the bits of debris I find after a rough storm?\n Sunday night mood: Calm (rippled), Wind: Light air\n It is Sunday night and as I must get up early to travel the long journey from North Cornwall to London the next morning I say to my husband ‘I’ll sleep in the spare room, so I don’t disturb you my darling’.\n\nMy alarm is due to go off at 5am.\n\nI have an engrained anxiety about Sunday nights which I know a lot of people have. I forever feel that ‘back to school’ ache where I feel overwhelmed at what the week has in store for me. What others have in store for me. I read my book, Joan Collins latest autobiography for a bit of humour and sensible reason but find myself unable to switch off. I turn off my bedside lamp and then think I can hear my son coughing. Oh no, I hope he’s not coming down with the latest bug from school. I then fall asleep but then roll over and check my phone and I’ve only been in bed for an hour. I go back to sleep and then what feels like only an hour later, I hear movement in Ben’s room. He runs into our room and when he doesn’t find me there, comes bolting into the spare room. ‘Are you ok Benji?’\n ‘Yes, mummy but my throat hurts.’ \n ‘Ok you go back to bed. I’ll get you some milk, water and calpol’ and then I head downstairs, notice by the kitchen clock it’s 3am, look out at the garden thinking have I even slept? And then head up to Ben.\n\n‘You go back to sleep now darling. Mummy needs to get up soon, so I need to sleep.’\n\n‘Ok mummy will you get me a toy in London?’\n\n‘Yes, darling I’ll get you anything if you go to sleep now.’\n\nI then head back to the spare room and attempt to sleep, conscious that the remaining hours are passing at the speed of sound and my 5am alarm is about to go off any moment.\n\n‘Brrrriiiinnnngggg’\n\nOh, there we go. I have this down to a fine art. I throw on my underwear, my navy jumpsuit and pashmina, check I’ve packed my toothbrush and have phone, debit card and train tickets. I make a quick cup of tea and grab a fruit scone and as quietly as I can lock up the house when I leave and walk the 10 minutes to the bus stop feeling slightly concerned that I didn’t call a cab or take that offer of a lift from my husband and dad when it’s pitch dark and I’m a woman on my own. I feel slight relief when I arrive at the bus stop and see several people waiting, mostly young people who look like students heading to college in the next town. Once the bus arrives, I get out my book and read a bit in between dozing. Once at the train station, I check there are no delays and then settle down for a Starbucks cappuccino and a bacon roll. Before I jump on the train to London, I grab another cappuccino as the coffee on the train in the trolley service is usually rank.\n\nOnce on the train I can settle in and do a few things. Read/ write. It is my time but I do spend a lot of the time wishing I was at home so I could take Benj to school and I hope his cold is ok. \n\nI arrive at London Paddington station on time and have done this journey often enough that I know to get my head down, head to the Hammersmith and city line and jump on the tube for 20 minutes to King’s Cross. There is something exciting about being surrounded by so many people and I usually forget where I am and start chatting to total strangers on the tube. My husband who grew up in London always says, ‘don’t make eye contact with anyone on the tube and definitely don’t speak to anyone’. He worries. I guess that’s normal. He’s always telling me that ‘me and Benj are everything’. \n\nWhen I arrive at my premier inn hotel next to my office, I pay for an early check in. Once in my room, I ring John:\n\n‘Hey darling how are you?’\n\n‘Hello. How was your journey?’\n\n‘It was fine. I’m going to have a quick shower and then head to the office. I’ll call later.’\n\n‘Ok speak later.’\n\nI then have a quick wash, apply more foundation than I normally would, eye liner and a subtle lipstick, oh and brush my hair. There is something about heading into the office that makes me feel young and nice to have an occasion to look smart. At the same time, I feel as if I’m about to put on a show, so I practice my work voice as I walk up the three flights of stairs to my colleagues.\n ‘Helen, hey!’\n\n‘Hey there Richard, how are you?’ Best to start with the Head of the department.\nRichard is a lovely guy. He is Australian and looks like he’s enjoyed a fight in his rugby club many years ago. He has that slightly battered look but still has a twinkle in his eye. He enjoys telling me how his children are doing now they’ve flown the nest.\n\n‘The thing is Helen I feel as if my wife and I are having a second life. Our kids have flown and we’re now able to go out for dinner and see plays. It’s great.’\n\n‘That’s wonderful’\n\n‘And how are you? How’s the family?’\n\n‘Oh yes you know all fine. Husband and son always have a breakdown when I’m not there but all fine.’\n\n‘Oh good. Now I was going to speak to you about work if ok?’\n\n‘Oh yes of course.’\n\n‘I’m conscious you do a lot.’\n\n‘Yes, it keeps me out of mischief.’\n\n‘Ha. Well, I wanted to say thank you so much for doing the department newsletter and helping with training sessions on top of your regular work. I would like to reorganize our intranet and I’m keen to bring everyone together. If I set up a chat with the other department heads, would you be keen to get involved with that?’\n\n‘Yes definitely’\n\n‘Great. Well, it’s great to see you. I’ll let you get on.’\n\nAs I returned to my desk, I could hear my husband’s voice ‘they do know you’re part- time don’t they? Just refuse to do all this extra stuff. They’re not compensating you for it and you want to do other things with your time like writing.’\n\nI sat down at my desk trying not to feel disgruntled. I phoned my manager in New York who is an absolute peach and looks like she walked off the set of 90210. ‘We can tweak it Helen so you’re not doing more while Richard needs you. I don’t want you working more than your contractual hours.’\n\n‘Thanks Samantha.’\n\nAnd with that I wade through the treacle-like pile on my to do list.\n Wednesday afternoon mood: Slight to moderate, Moderate breeze\n I’m back in the car driving the 18 miles to Ben’s school. When we moved over the borders from Devon to Cornwall a couple of years ago, he was so settled at school that we didn’t want to move him and as I am only ‘part- time’ I pick up most of the runs. I call my mum on the drive over.\n\n‘Hello, its only me’\n\n‘Oh, hello darling. How are you?’\n\n‘Oh yes fine thanks’ trying to hide the creeping veil of tiredness that wants to take over.\n\n‘How’s our gorgeous boy.’\n\n‘John’s fine thanks.’\n\n‘Ha, the other gorgeous boy.’\n\n'Oh, you mean Ben. Ha! He’s fine. I’m just driving over to watch him thrash Kingsley school. I wasn’t sure if I’d make it but decided to run away from work.’\n\n‘Is there anything we can do to help? Do you need to work? You know your sister would always help with the school runs.’\n\n‘No, I’m fine thanks. I don’t need to work but I enjoy it and yes, it’s a bit manic now, but I just need to pace myself.’\n\n‘Well, I won’t keep you. Hope hockey goes well and Benji bunny enjoys.’\n\n‘Thanks, I’m sure he will. He loves anything with a ball.’\n\nI was so pleased to have escaped from work and watching Ben do well on the sidelines was so invigorating. This is the stuff he’ll remember.\n\n‘I didn’t think you’d make it’ said one of the mums. You know, Rob said to me the other day, we’ll happily take Ben to school. He gets on so well with our Ella and he’s such a poppet.’\n\n‘Oh, that’s so kind thank you. I don’t mind. Gets me out of the house.’ Although Helen thought to herself that a lie in occasionally would be amazing or a bit more time back.\n Wednesday night mood: Violent Storm/Hurricane\n After putting Benj to bed, I thought I better log on to my emails to check nothing had come up. Big mistake. Meeting requests to discuss new project. Check in on where current department newsletter was. Clients applying red exclamations left/right and centre to emails. The word 'disappointing' in a couple of emails. Urgh. So, I text my friend Zoe. I had met Zoe at prenatal classes when I had Benj and we had formed a strong bond. She saw a bullshitter a mile off. She had also had every single job under the sun which fascinated me: make-up artist/candle maker/ singer/PA/ marketing professional and despite running her entire household/managing her husband's tailoring business, she had also secured herself a book deal for a Children’s Picture book. I sent her a WhatsApp:\n\n‘Hey gorgeous, how are you?’\n\n‘Hey lovely, how are you? All fine here, just trying to shirk my day job so I can write my next book.’\n\n‘Amazing, you are an inspiration.’\n\n‘Aww thanks, you are too. What's up?’\n\n‘I feel completely snowed under.’\n\n‘oh, I’m sorry. Do you know what though?’\n\n‘What?’\n\n‘Now is the time. Carpe diem.’\n\n‘What do you mean?’\n\n‘You and I have been talking about this for yonks. Carve out more YOU TIME. Prioritise YOU. Start tapping again.’\n\n‘you’re right. I feel completely lost as to where to start.’\n\n‘a friend of mine recommended said she started using daily writing prompts to get her in the mood for her poems. She sets her alarm 15 mins early to have a go. Do it!’\n\n‘Ok I will. Speak soon. Thank you, lots of love.’\n\n‘Lots of love. Just remember the laundry will always be there but it doesn’t have to be your soul purpose.’\n\n‘you’re so right. Thanks again.’\n With that I typed in writing prompts…what is this? Reedsy writing prompts…" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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'll Never Desert You\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1326\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose job is to bring water to people." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My eyes fluttered open at the first light of day. Grayish hues scattered across the dawn-lit sky, the ambient rays of the rising sun peaking over the distant horizon, and beaming down trace amounts of warmth to a cold desert. I sat up and watched it for a bit, my eyes blinking lazily while I tried to find the energy to get myself up. I wished I could stay, lay on the soft grass, and enjoy the full extent of the morning, but unfortunately, duty called. I looked around the hidden oasis.\nEverything seemed so still and beautiful at this hour. I yawned, did a couple of stretches to get the blood moving, and then stood.\nI started making my way over to the center of the oasis where the waters pooled, its' surface as smooth as glass. Along the way, I passed the boulder where Mr. Lizard waited for the sun to warm his reptilian blood. \n“Hello, Mr. Lizard,” I said. “How are you this fine morning?”\nMr. Lizard slowly craned his head up at me and blinked each eye.\n“Good, I suppose,” he grumbled.\n“Oh, come now. Today looks like it's gonna be a good one.”\nMr. Lizard closed his eyes, flattened himself out, and mumbled something I could not understand. \n“What?” I asked.\n“Talk to me later, Gary.”\n“Oh.”\nMr. Lizard could be such a grouch in the morning.\nThere was a flapping of wings overhead and then a falcon perched itself atop one of the trees bordering the waters of the oasis. \n“Ahh, Gary!” she called, “good morning to you.”\n“Good morning, Ms. Falcon,” I said with a smile. “What news do you bring?”\n“So far, it looks like you might have three today.”\n“Three you say?”\n“Yup, they are walking the South Dune trail and have been for some time now. They’ll need a resupply of water before nightfall. Better get moving.”\n“Thanks for the update.”\nMs. Falcon screeched, flapped her wings, and departed to the north. I made my way over to the pool and leaned over its reflective edge, my long neck craning down to its pristine surface. Staring back at me was my reflection: A smiling, happy camel. I loved my job of bringing water to people in need. It was a trade I learned from my former master.\nA great man he was, possessing nothing but the desire to help others in need. He lived out here, in this oasis, living a hermit’s life and he was my most cherished friend. During the day, we would walk the dunes together, looking for weary travelers, and every night, when we would return, we would gaze up at the night sky while he gently pet me behind the ear until I fell asleep. Unfortunately, a few years back, he accidentally stepped on a scorpion's nest and the vile things stung him. He died but I vowed to continue what he started, delivering water to people in need until I drew my last breath. \nJust as I had done many times before, I began transferring mouthfuls of water into a 3ft wooden barrel with a leather strap attached to it. It was a tedious chore, and just as I was finishing, Mrs. Squirrel and her family came from their burrow and sat next to me. Once done, the family hoisted the nearby wooden lid and used its latches to secure it to the barrel. I slid my head through the strap, and Mrs. Squirrel adjusted the neck pad. Then, I hoisted the barrel up and allowed it to slide down to the base of my neck. Once the family fitted the strap, I started on my journey. \n“Have a good day at work, Gary!” Mrs. Squirrel called. \n“Thanks!” I shouted back and then set out across the sandy dunes in search of the three travelers. \nAfter about 12 miles, I came across the first who struggled his way up a large dune. As I approached, he looked at me, his black eyes peering through the long, gray scarf wrapped around his head and covering his face from the sun. The pack he carried looked dangerously flat. We walked toward each other and, once together, I stood still while he filled his water skins from the barrel. When he was finished, he reached up and pet the top of my head. I smiled.\n“Thank you,” the man said and then patted my hump and continued on his way. \nA few hours later, I found the second traveler and replenished his water supply. After scratching me beneath my chin and petting my neck, he too continued on his way. \nTwo down, one to go. \nI hunted the dunes for the third traveler but, as the sun’s heat intensified, I started to fear the worst. I had about another hour left before I had to turn around and head back to the oasis as the desert wasn’t safe at night. That’s when the predators came out and they loved to ambush unsuspecting prey. Just as I was about to give up, I saw a small shape in the distance, laying on the shaded side of a large dune.\nOh my gosh! Am I too late!” \nI ran as fast as I could, water sloshing around in the barrel with each trot, some of it dripping out through the tap. When I finally saw what it was, I gasped. It was an adolescent man. A nervousness took hold of me. Young men made up for most of those who died in the desert—always wanting to push the boundaries of their limitations but lacking the experience to do so. \nI ran to him. He did not move. I placed one of my feet on his chest and slowly rocked him back and forth. He still did not move. I kicked him. He did not make a sound. Eventually, I did the one thing my late master told me never to do and spat. The thick globule of saliva hurtled through the hot air with deadly accuracy, splattering on his face.\nFinally, the man stirred, spittering and sputtering to keep the spit from entering his mouth. After he wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, he looked up at me as if I were sent from the heavens, and used my leg as a brace to pick himself up. \nHe filled his two canteens with water, drank half of one, and then filled it again. Finally, he pet my neck and said, “Thank you, Mr. Camel. I would have been lost without you.”\nI smiled and he continued on his way. I trailed behind him for a bit to ensure he was okay and then headed back to the oasis, arriving just as the sun touched the western horizon. \n“Gary!” Mr. Lizard called once I was in sight. “How’d you do today?”\n“Three for three today.”\n“Nice job.”\nI walked over to the pool and set the barrel down at the shore. After taking many gulps of water for myself and grazing on some grass, I laid down between two bushy shrubs. Mr. Lizard skittered over, climbed up my side, and started licking the back of my neck where the leather strap rubbed my skin raw. Once the numbing compounds of his saliva started to work their magic, I gave a lazy yawn and stared off toward the west and waited for the colors of the sunset to paint themselves across the sky. Just like the morning, all was still and quiet and it was times like these when I missed my master, terribly. I looked over to the side of the oasis. A bleached white skeleton lay atop a fertile patch of grass, bones picked clean, courtesy of Mr. Buzzard. A single tear streamed down my fuzzy cheek. \nEven in death, I will continue to serve you.\nThen, I lay my head down and was fast asleep, eager to start the next day." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Blessings Tree\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1354\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with it raining… anything but rain (e.g. flowers, cutlery, seashells, running shoes)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Blessings Tree\nI pick up a golden leaf. On it is written in flowing script 'Peace'. On the next one is 'Hope'. Three more: 'Joy', 'Love', 'Patience'. More leaves rain down on me from my backyard blessings tree. 'Kindness', 'Self-Control', 'Gentleness'. So many to choose from. I want them all. Please, help me decide. 'Wisdom', 'Knowledge', 'Health', 'Prosperity', 'Abundance', 'Talent'. How is one to figure it all out? Is there a limit? I shouldn't be greedy. 'Generosity', 'Unselfishness', 'Common Sense', 'Grace', 'Mercy', 'Foresight', 'Discernment', 'Clarity', 'Compassion'. Are they never ending? How many will there be? Can I save some for later in case I need them more at another time?\nVery few instructions came with it when I acquired this rarity. I certainly do not want to abuse the privilege of ownership. It was so long ago, now. I barely remember. No leaves were even on it for quite a while. The tree cycled through many seasons before faint scribbles were noticed on the undersides of the leaves whenever fall began. I still thank goodness I had a gardener willing to rake up the abundant foliage as it cascaded down during the season. He was the one who first noticed the script was readable. How was that even possible?\n'Intelligence', 'Family', 'Spouse', 'Children', 'Career'. Those were a few of the first ones the befuddled worker brought to me for my inspection. I know those were things I often wished I had. And for the most part those wishes came true. I came from a loving family, I had enough intelligence to do well in school. I got married young and was blessed with four wonderful children and eventually got to start a career I loved. I always thanked my lucky stars and the Good Lord for granting what I wanted.\nOoooh! Forget about the lucky stars. There is likely no such thing. But the Good Lord? Could He have a hand in this good fortune? Maybe I need to go back to His Good Book and study again some of the long ago Bible stories I learned as a child. As a grown adult sometimes I brush aside all those important messages because I get so swept away trying to negotiate the necessities of living and caring for my loved ones. So exactly when I need Him most, I ignore His helping hand. Yet there He waits for me still with His steadfast promises.\n“You are a forgiving God, gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love.” Nehemiah 9:17.\n“I have loved you with an everlasting love.” Jeremiah31:3.\n“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” 1 John 1:9.\nSo I remember to ask forgiveness for neglecting my faithfulness to Him. Imagine for a moment if the only things we were blessed with daily were the things we remembered to thank Him for daily. A good night's sleep, waking up refreshed, sunshine or seasonable weather, shelter, a comfortable environment, rain to grow crops, water for washing, clothing, nourishing breakfast, lunch and dinner for most of us, loved ones, good health, a stable mind, education, capable professionals helping with all our needs, a means to make a living, means to get to a means to make a living and on and on... So thank You, Lord, for your divine providence.\nAnd he fulfills even more promises: 'Light', 'Life', 'Redemption'\n“A generous person will prosper; whoever refreshes others will be refreshed.” Proverbs 11:25\n“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” Psalm 4:8\nAnd we put our trust in Him: 'Freedom', 'Liberty', 'Peace of Mind'\n“I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” Psalm 91:2\n“Teach me knowledge and good judgment, for I trust Your commands.” Psalm 119:66\nAs a result, we strive to do His will: 'Charity', 'Goodness', 'Good Will Towards Men'\n“Do to others as you would have them do to you.” Luke 6:31\n“A servant of the Lord must not quarrel but must be kind to everyone, a good teacher, and patient.” 2 Timothy 2:24\n“Whoever despises his neighbor is a sinner, but blessed is he who is generous to the poor.” Proverbs 14:21\nAll words to live by and from which to prosper.\nConsider my unusual tree in my backyard that each fall rains down its golden leaves with gems of messages engraved on their undersides. How is it happening?\nI remember a children's song we would sing in Sunday School when we read the parable about the foolish man who built his house upon the sand and the wise man who built his house upon the rock. The sand would represent the world or our own flawed hopes, dreams or expectations we can take care of everything by ourselves. The rock would be relying on the Lord, Jesus Christ to be our salvation from sin, death and the devil. When the rains, or trouble came, the floods rose up and the house on the sand fell flat. Whereas, when trouble came the house built on the rock stood firm.\n\n“The foolish man built his house upon the sand.\nThe foolish man built his house upon the sand.\nThe foolish man built his house upon the sand and the rains came tumbling down.\nThe rains came down as the floods came up.\nThe rains came down as the floods came up.\nThe rains came down as the floods came up and the house on the sand fell flat.\n\nThe wise man built his house upon the Rock.\nThe wise man built his house upon the Rock.\nThe wise man built his house upon the Rock and the rains came tumbling down.\nThe rains came down as the floods came up.\nThe rains came down as the floods came up.\nThe rains came down as the floods came up and the house on the rock stood firm.\n\nSo build your life on the Lord, Jesus Christ.\nBuild you life on the Lord, Jesus Christ.\nBuild your life on the Lord, Jesus Christ and the blessings will tumble down.\nThe blessings come down as your prayers go up.\nThe blessings come down as your prayers go up.\nThe blessings come down as your prayers go up so build your life on the Lord.”\n\nAh,ha! Maybe this explains the mystery of the tree. Troubles and crisis confront us daily. Sometimes big ones, sometimes small. Together they can create a flood that threatens to wash us away. If we turn to the Lord, our Rock in the storm, to help us navigate and withstand the onslaught we can survive. We only need to ask using prayer to talk to Him.\nSo as our prayers go up, the blessings rain down. Luckily, this doesn't only happen in the season of autumn. In the case of my tree that is symbolic. A reminder that those blessings are granted to me continuously. A reminder that I need to pray continuously. I need to thank Him continuously for all the good things He grants every day.\nThe world is a sinful environment full of corruption and danger and poor management that affects everyone living in it even those trying to follow God's commandments and live righteous lives according to the way He would want us to exist. We need to repent of our numerous sins because we fall short. But Christ has taken our sin upon Himself and died the death we deserved, defeated the evil one so that we may live with Him in heaven one day.\nBlessings like 'Grace' and 'Mercy' come down to God's people but the unrighteous people also benefit from the gifts He gives. Beneficial rain falls on all people. Likewise 'Salvation' is for all people. It is a free gift. One needs only to repent of their sins and ask for 'Forgiveness'.\nSo when my blessing tree rains down blessings I gather them up and save them for a rainy day. And I say a prayer of 'Thanksgiving'." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Cheese and Honey\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1249\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character accepting a bribe." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Bruce Bear! Bruce Bear!” The tiny voice echoed through the black bear’s den.\nBruce Bear rolled over and checked his calendar alarm. He had been pushing the snooze button on his alarm for the past few days. His hibernation was technically over but he was not ready to face the new season. He sat up and stretched, raising his arms above his head and then scratching the back of his neck.\n“Molly mouse? What are you doing here?” Bruce yawned looking at the tiny mouse standing in front of him.\n“Fantastic! You are awake! I have been trying to wake you all winter.” Molly mouse squeaked.\n“What is the big deal? Why are you so desperately trying to wake me up?” Bruce rubbed his temples with his paws. His claws have grown out from lack of use over the winter and he nearly poked himself in the eye.\n“The Smiths!”\n“The what?”\n“The Smiths. I need you to help me get rid of the Smiths.”\n“Who are the Smiths? I have been asleep for months, remember?” Bruce was not interested in any of Molly Mouse’s games and wanted her to get to the point.\n“Oh yes! The Smith family is a human family moved into the abandoned house just over there” Molly pointed behind her. Bruce had no clue what direction that was. But Bruce was not interested in location, just in what Molly wanted with this human family.\n“And why do we want to get rid of this human family? What did they do to you?” \nMolly’s eyes got big and then she said, “The cheese.”\n“The cheese?” This did not amuse Bruce. \n“Yes, the cheese! I have never seen so much cheese in my life. There is Havarti, Swiss, Cheddar, Blue, Creamed, Mozzarella, Parmesian and Provolone.” Molly counted the cheeses on her tiny paws, “They have truffle cheese. It smells so good. If you want a piece of cheese, they’ve got it.” \n“We are getting rid of the Smiths for cheese?” Bruce asked, staring at Molly. Then he laid back down and turned his back to her.\n“But there is more! I want the cheese, but do you know what else they have?” Molly asked.\n“What?” Bruce asked over his shoulder at Molly.\n“Honey.”\n“Honey?” Bruce was now intrigued. \n“Yes, honey.” Bruce sat back up and looked at Molly. “They have bee hives and collect lots of honey.”\n“So, why do you need my help? What do you need from me?” Bruce gave Molly a puzzled look.\n“I want you to scare them! I tried doing it myself but all they did was set mouse traps and now I’m too afraid to go near the house. I need you to work your scary bear magic and scare them” \n“Scare them? How will that help with the honey? And the cheese for you?” Bruce added.\n“See, if we scare them bad enough, they will leave for good, and then we can eat all the honey and all the cheese we want whenever we want.”\n“But I see a hole in your plan. What happens when we eat all the honey? And the cheese for you?” \nMolly mouse thought for a second. Bruce Bear did have a good point. As it was right now, Molly could sneak in, grab a small piece of cheese, and then leave. Just to return later. But then she remembered the mouse traps. It was too risky. But Bruce would not buy that. She needed to come up with another explanation. \n“The bees will still be there,” was her response. “They will continue to make honey for you. And if the Smiths are gone, there are no humans to tell you ‘no’.”\n“And your cheese?” \n“Haven’t you heard of aged cheddar? It will be fine for years. Besides, have you seen me? I’m tiny. I can’t possibly eat all the cheese they have by myself. It will take me years to finish it.”\nBruce Bear pondered this for a moment. “I’ll do it!”\nMolly led Bruce out of his den and through the woods until they reached a clearing. Molly stopped and Bruce Bear almost stepped on her not realizing she halted. \n“There!” Molly Mouse said, pointing to a cabin about a hundred yards from where the two animals were standing.\n“Now what?” Bruce Bear asked.\n“Go scare them?” \n“How?” \n“I don’t know. Just go be your scary bear self.”\n“But I don’t want to scare them. They seem like nice people.”\n“Nice people? Do you even know them?”\nBruce Bear sat back, “Well, no. But I feel like I do. I see their bikes. Two big ones and two little ones. And the smallest is pink. And I see their vegetable garden, ripe with tomatoes and look! It looks like they have strawberries coming in. And I see the national flag. And I see the stained glass in the window with a picture of an oak tree. And look! A dog house. These people seem like good people.”\n“Honey!” Molly Mouse reminded Bruce Bear.\n“Right!” And at that Bruce Bear took a step forward and then another. And before he knew it, he was directly in front of the biggest window of the house. Not too close, but close enough. He peered in and saw the family gathered around a big table, playing a game of some sort. \nBruce Bear stood on his hind legs and gave the biggest roar he could muster. His voice was still a little horse from all the sleeping and so he tried again and this one came out much louder.\nThe family looked up from the table. All four of them had big eyes and wide mouths. And Bruce Bear felt content with his attempt and dropped back down to all four legs. But the family didn’t move. They just stared.\nBruce Bear took another step forward and tried again. The family still didn’t move. Bruce Bear took one more step. He was so close now that he could reach out and touch the glass and so he did. He took one of his sharp claws and tapped on the glass. The whole Smith family screamed.\nAs Bruce Bear continued to peer through the window, he could see the larger humans of the family both stood up and disappear. Then he heard a noise to his left. The two Smith humans stood, each with a rifle in their hands.\nThis was enough for Bruce Bear. He liked honey but not enough to give his life for it. He will just need to find it in the wild. He galloped back to Molly, picked her up, and threw her on his back. He continued to gallop through the woods and didn’t stop until they reached his den.\n“Where is my cheese?” Molly Mouse asked with the corners of her tiny mouth turned down.\n“You will need to do without,” Bruce Bear explained. He told her about how he scared the Smith family and made the whole family screaming. But his scare tactics were no match for their rifles. “You will just need to live without cheese.” \n“That’s it!” Molly Mouse screamed at Bruce Bear “I bet Carey Cougar will do it.” And at that Molly left the den. \nBruce sat back and contemplated the honey he lost. His stomach grumbled and he thought about the last time he ate. But in the end, when he heard gunshots, he was happy with his decision to let the honey be." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Story About Someone Trying To Become A Better Person\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1841\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who is trying to become a better person." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Here is a story about someone trying to become a better person. \nHere is a carnival and a summertime of any year and lights and people and joyful screaming. Look at the sturgeon moon stamped onto the black sky. Now, if you would, walk out of the crowd and into a darker part of the carnival. You can come back later. \nAfter a silent walk along slick, dark grass- yes, I know, a carnival in the dark? You're too bound by habit. Have a little imagination. Anyway. After your walk here is a single booth. \nHere is a man in a dark suit, standing in his single booth. And here are the lamb heads stuck to the walls, eyes crusted with blood, definitely alive once and definitely not now. Now we have the pieces. \nWatch. Here is a young woman, young by her own standards, anyway, with dark hair and a blue silk scarf. Watch her steps, focused and measured. Here is the wet grass of the carnival field and the man's raised head and small, ugly smile as she approaches the booth with practiced shyness. \n\"It's twenty-five tokens to try.\" he says quietly. \nHere comes her nod. \nTwenty-five tokens to try. Tale as old as time.\nHere is the purse and the plastic coins and the hands briefly touching, no not like that, she is married and he is not that kind of man, and here is the dagger, silver and angry. \nSee how the woman looks at the knife, like it could kill her itself without her intervention. Remember that this is a story about someone trying to become a better person, if you can. \nNow, if you will, watch the man as he turns into the darkness of the booth. He's walking out in his polished black shoes to the backyard. It’s quieter back here, away from the noise of the carnival. There’s a reason he chose to put his stand a little ways away. This needs silence. He comes to a stop in front of the tall wooden fence. \nSee, and I am sorry about this, but see the agitated lambs behind the backer rails. He's picking one of them up at random. He's a businessman, not a monster. He doesn't care which one dies. \nThe lamb, of course, is bleating and kicking and screaming, and the woman is waiting patiently outside, the way young women with dark hair and blue scarves are wont to do, and the man is walking steadfastly back to the booth as the lamb screams, for, what, its mother? The fence? \nSee her fingers run over the hilt of the dagger. Watch as she bites her lip; she has a question. \n\"Is it very painful?\" \nA pause. Remember what this story is about. Always remember. Watch as the man puffs his chest as he answers. \n\"No! As long as you do it well.\" \n(He means to encourage her to hit the heart. Many other patrons hit the stomach, and you know how that goes.) \n\"I will.\" \nPay attention now. She is tensing her arm and clenching her jaw. He is doing the same. Who is more frightened? \nWell? \nAnyway. An adult sheep is tied up a hundred yards away, straining at her rope. Look at her panic, not a slaughterhouse panic but a motherly one. A panic of runningto rather than runningaway. \nHe closes his eyes, and she steadies something snakelike writhing inside herself. He lets go of the lamb and whistles in an entirely nonmusical way. \nHere! Here, watch! The lamb is running across the fairground and her mother is bleating in joy, and the lamb's dark animal eyes are shining and catching the light of the stars! This is deeply joyous, but you want to see the woman and the knife and the man, I know. \nWell, fine. Here she is throwing the dagger, something in her face dying as she lets go of the hilt with a practiced flick of the wrist. Here is the dagger spinning out! And here is the lamb stumbling on its long lamb legs, almost to its big sheep mother who will keep it warm forever! \nShe misses! The knife hits the ground, piercing the soil. The woman’s hair looks a little less dark as she retrieves it and throws it again at the hesitant lamb. \nDaggers are faster than carnival-dwelling lambs, so watch, if you can, as the blade slices through the air for a second time. The lamb keeps its little lamb face on its mothers soft sheep body. The dark-haired woman averts her eyes and swallows down something dark before it can reach her lips or the cool night air. \nBut wait: she begins to shout in confusion and anger, but the lamb’s white wool remains unstained with blood, so what can be the reason? \nWell, you were watching the lamb and the knife and the woman, and you have forgotten to watch the man, haven’t you? \nHere he is running as the woman shouts angrily. Here is the man running, running, running across the slick grass trying to catch the knife as it draws closer to the inside the caverns of the lamb’s chest. \nHere is the look of terror on his face, of regret and speed and trying-to-make-up-for-it-all. Here is the knife and the man and the man and the knife and the woman and the lamb and the knife and the night and the ferris wheel and the booth and the mother sheep straining at her rope! Here is the man and the woman colliding as he uses his manbody to stop her from taking up the dagger for a third time, and here she is in understandable shock, after all, he said twenty five tokens to try, and she’s paid her twenty five tokens, so what’s this? \nHere is hand grazing dagger hilt and woman falling silent. \nMen, as a rule, can’t run faster than daggers any more than lambs can, and this particular man can’t run faster than dark haired women with blue scarves. So, here is the dagger thrown for the third time as the lamb stands by its mother. \nNobody can quite believe what’s happened. Then. \nHere is a screaming, screaming lamb and an agitated silent mother stomping at the wet carnival grass. Here is a lamb that isn’t screaming anymore, but, oh, a man that is. \nWatch him as he falls to his knees in his expensive carnival suit, wailing to nothing, kneeling outside his out-of-the-way booth. The woman’s lips form a thin line as she stands up. He is screaming and screaming and crying and the lamb is twitching and the knife is completely silent in a rather self-satisfied way. \n“What the hell was that?” \nHe won’t stop yelling and kissing the lamb’s face and grabbing its hooves and holding his hand over its bleeding stomach. He won’t stop shouting thick apologies to the silent sheep standing over him. \nJust watch for a second. Don’t forget who opened the booth. \nHe stops screaming and grabs at the mother sheep’s wool. Silence. The woman with dark hair and a blue scarf can’t decide whether to stay or go. She’s young enough to stay. \nHave you noticed the man’s eyes? He doesn’t have spectacles, by the way. They’re big and brown and dark, and so are the mother sheep’s. He takes the dagger from the lamb’s stomach, which makes its body shiver. \nHere are two pairs of eyes. Here is one set of hooves and one set of manhands. Here is a thud of impact. Here is a perfectly placed wound. Here is puncturing vein and sheep’s eyes dying and a second scream, third scream, fourth scream because now the woman is screaming. She should have been old enough to leave. \nThe man recovers quicker this time, watch. Now both a mother and her daughter are dead, not just one, and things seem more in balance. Wretched mirrors and all that.\nHe stands up and brushes the carnival dew off his carnival suit. \n“You can take them both if you’d like.”\nThe woman is shocked. Watch her face in the moonlight; she’s older than she’ll tell you. Blame society, if you’d like. But, then, she’s not that old, so blame her histrionic personality, if that suits you better. \n“But I didn’t want you to do that!” she says, almost a wail. \n“She did.” \n“The sheep told you-” \n“I was trying to be better.” \nYou’ve remembered the point of all of this, haven’t you? \nThe dark-haired woman purses her lips. \n“You probably shouldn’t run this stand, then.” \nHe wasn’t expecting this. He drops his voice. \n“I know. I-” \n“Actually, I will take both. The lamb and the sheep. Please.” \nHe falls silent, looks at her as a betrayer. \n“I’m under no obligation to be better myself.” she says, impatient. \n“It’ll be ten extra-” \nSeriously? \n“No.” \nThank God. \nHe nods. \n“I can bag them myself.” says the woman. \nShe’s not really asking but she’s not really telling. I don’t know. You decide, but remember it’s not terribly important. \nHe nods and they walk over to the booth together, both trying very hard not to look back at the two white bodies lying in the grass that is rapidly becoming crusted, not dripping, with blood. \n“Do you mind if I leave you to it?” he says eventually, sticking a fork through the porridgey silence. \n“Not at all.” \nA few more paces from both of them. \n“There are plastic bags in the cupboard under the cash register. Don’t, um, take any money.” \nThis man is remarkably tactless. \n“Don’t be ridiculous.” \nHa. \n“Well, they’re my wages.” \n“Don’t leave me alone with your cash register, then.” \nHere is a woman with a point. \nHere is a man averting his eyes as she walks behind the booth. \n“I’m leaving now.” he says, darkly serious. He looks at her with deep distrust. The woman remembers her mother and she also remembers the opened but uneaten bag of granola she has at home, which is going to go stale if she doesn’t do something with it, maybe trail mix or cookies or just breakfast. \n“Okay. I’ll get the bags, then I’ll leave too.” \nShe knows he wants to hear that she understands. It helps with trusting sometimes. You understand. \nHere is a man turning away. Here is a man passing the bodies of a mother and a daughter and trying not to slip on the wet grass. Here is a man walking towards the lights of a carnival, and getting on a ferris wheel, and watching a woman as she does exactly as promised. She’s quick and neat bagging the sheep. Her blue scarf blows in the wind. Her skin is golden in the infant sunrise. He feels nothing. \nHere is a man who is thinking about sailing to France, and the sheep in the fields of Old England, and not working in a carnival for the rest of his life. \nHere is a story about someone trying to become a better person." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Just Playing\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2992\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “It’s not fair.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Just Playing\nSimon peddled his bike through the woods, bumping crazily over the deeply rutted dirt path. He sped up as the path elevated to a gently sloping grade. His legs pumped in a blur like insane locomotive wheels. He laughed maniacally.\nHis ape-hangered blue steed galloped over the earth fleet-footedly. The stallion was named Whiteboots of Lightening, Boots for short, named for his white-walled tires. In his mind’s eye Boots was of course not blue, how silly would that be? Childish to believe in a blue horse…his stallion was sleek shiny black, like the one in that famous story…only his had white feet and a lightening shaped white blaze on his forehead. \nHis little sister Mavis (who would always be Sissy, or Sissy-Pants to him, cuz she hated it) used to have yellow streamers on the handlebars of her little green tricycle. She rode past Simon one day and he noticed how they waved and fluttered…like a horse’s tail. He had easily outrun her, grabbed her handlebars to stop her, and yanked the streamers out from the rubber handles. She had cried, “It’s not fair!” He had laughed and run to their garage where Boots was waiting for his new tail.\nThe path ahead narrowed and flame colored maple leaves crowded the tunnel. It was like sailing through a ring of fire, or a portal to hell. As he soared through, he shouted, “Go Boots, c’mon boy!” Simon’s heart was pumping fast, fluttering like a bird’s…\nA second later, there was no earth under Simon’s wheels (Boots’ hooves)- he was airborne!\n“Whoo hooooo!”\nA ‘Perfect 10’ jump, as exciting as a roller coaster; every time he sped up the dirt path as it rose, his goal was to catch more air and sail farther. \nSimon’s back wheel landed first. The front tire above his head. A poof of pale dust clouded behind him and whisped into the breeze.\n“Ah yeah!” He fisted the air. His bike continued down the slope to the river on autopilot.\nDown at the river, Simon dumped his bike and re-lived the mega-jump. Epic! He decided to ask Stan if he wanted to play the next day even though he thought the scrawny kid was a total dork; a dork who just got a Go-Pro for his birthday. Simon often picked on him in school. He did so out of jealousy because Stan was so darn smart. \nThey’d built a fort together about a month ago, with lumber they’d pilfered from one of the many construction sites at the edge of town. Instead of dragging only long flat boards into the woods with Simon’s Radio Flyer, Stan had grabbed smaller scraps of two by fours as well. Simon had scoffed but when they were finished, the new fort was a hundred times cooler than any Simon had ever built before, looking more like a pirate ship than a whino’s shack. Stan brought a jolly roger flag and his Go-Pro, Simon brought Bruce, Sissy’s favorite teddy bear, as a sacrifice to Neptune when they christened their new ship. \nSissy had discovered the kidnapping shortly after the crime was committed, as Bruce was never far from her gravity, and ran into the woods after them. They weren’t hard to find, she followed the sounds of their laughter and discovered the ship. At the end of a four-foot plank was Bruce. The teddy was slumped over the edge of the plank, limp because half his stuffing was torn out, it lay in clumps like a small snowdrift under the board. Sissy had screamed when she found Bruce’s head under the fluffy white stuffing. She had dropped it in horror as if it was covered in blood. Then she had run to the bear’s body, but Simon had stopped her with his pirate’s sword (plastic light saber) “Not so fast wench. The first mate is a goner. Attacked by a fierce hungry tiger he was! Yar…a huge tiger…”\n“B-b-but this a ship.” She’d pointed a pudgy finger at the flag. “P-p-pirate ship.”\n“Yar! We were taking the tiger to a zoo. Yar. He escaped his cage and blammo! Rip rip rip! Too late to be saved, we really tried, honest we did.”\n“It’s not fair! He never did anything to you, you big meany!”\nStan had had the decency to look ashamed. He was an only child and not accustomed to hearing little girls cry. He’d plucked the limp raggedy body off the plank and tossed it at Sissy. It flopped against her heaving chest then fell to the ground. As she picked it up, Simon said, “Aw take yer dumb bear, we were done with it anyways.” He had picked up the head and hurled it at her, nailing her square in the forehead. \nShe’d snitched that night to their mom. He’d made her pay. It had been the last time she’d snitched.\nNow, at the river, he daydreamed about adding a ramp to his jump, and that made him think of building another fort, a spaceship maybe. Days spent building a fort were as great as the ones catching tadpoles, better in fact, since he had yet to have a taddy survive long enough to become an awesome frog. They always croaked- pun intended, “ha ha!” he laughed out loud. He thought himself a kind boy, one who never failed to say a little eulogy with every flush of the toilet handle. \nWith a ramp he could catch even more air! He rubbed his dirty hands together like Mr. Evil Snidely after tying the damsel to the railroad track. \nMr. Evil Snidely was a character in his cast that he played when his pals were not able to come over. The scenario was one in which he tormented Sissy-Pants; the victim, one of her dollies. Oh no Sissy, the trains-a-comin! Don’t you come near the tracks; can’t you hear it? WHOOT WHOOOOOT! Sissy was kept in her place by the threat of decapitation of the poor helpless damsel, you step a foot closer, and I’ll yank it right off! You know I can. Mua ha ha ha ha. Then he'd gallop across the neatly mown lawn (He wasn’t allowed to play noisy games in the house- no trains, cowboys, galloping anything) and duck around the corner of the house. I’m watching you… Then he’d come galloping back in his faux beaver-felt cowboy hat or his moth-eaten racoon cap, complete with bushy tail ringed in black stripes. \nIn the mini-Stetson-esque one he was Rock Courage, Sheriff of Schmittville, blazing in to save the day with his shiny silver revolver held high to ward off any Injuns lookin to make a meal of the struggling distressed damsel on the tracks. \nIf he galloped back in the raccoon cap, he was Doc Courage, Rock’s equally handsome brother. Doc was an explorer who passed through town on occasion or when called upon to rescue some poor babe in danger of losing a limb to leprosy or some other such rare and horrible disfiguring affliction, he was, after all, the most highly acclaimed doctor in all the land, Schmittville and beyond. And if the patient was beyond curing, he’d put it down with a blast from his trusty Red Ryder, loaded with monster exploding bullets, equally good for ridding the land of those pesky injuns. In either scenario, the weeping old Miz Sissypants, would inevitably be knocked to the ground in the fallout. \nJust last week they’d played, and he had said, “Don’t you dare go crying to Mom.”\nHer face had screwed up, red cheeks puffed like apples, the steam building in her panting chest, ready to let go an ear-shattering wail…only the screams of a little girl stomping in frustration could reach such high-pitched heights…ears bled, and dogs ran for the hills. At last, the air in her balloon cheeks had escaped in a thin wheeze. She had stamped her little Mary Janes and cried, “It’s not fair! You’re bigger than me!”\n“That’s right. I am.” He had pushed her and when she landed on her bottom he added, “Get used to it. I’ll always be bigger than you.”\nHe sat by the river; it was cool and clear amidst the reeds and cattails. He was stoked to beat his air record. The day was perfect. He put his hands behind his head and was about to lay back and look at the clouds and think about his ramp.\nA movement on the other side of the river caught his eye.\nHe sat up straight and realized a kid was sitting across the river, leaning against the sloping grassy bank, just as he had been, a red bicycle lay on its side beside him. How had Simon not noticed? It was as if he’d popped out of thin air. As if feeling Simon’s curious eyes on him, the figure in the brown hoodie sat up too and after a couple of seconds, waved.\nSimon waved back. The other kid beckoned Simon over to his side. \nSimon said, “But this river’s totally ragin’, I’ll get soaked!”\n“That’s dumb. It’s just a little creek, not a raging river! Here. Let’s put some rocks down, two each side should be fine!”\nEach boy dropped two large rocks on their side of the river. Then Simon leapt onto each one and onto the far bank, laughing. “That was fun! You should try it. Pretend it’s really a river and---”\n“Naw.”\n“Oh. Okay. You’re right. That’s silly. I’m Simon.” He lifted his fist for a bump.\n“Sandy.” They bumped fists and Sandy added a little finger burst with sound effects, “Whoosh.”\n“Heh heh. Cool.” Simon copied the act, complete with a “Whoosh.” He noted that he was a couple of inches taller than the other boy and that suited him just fine. He was uncomfortable around kids that were bigger than him.\n“Hey you wanna come over?” asked Sandy. My mom’s making snacks. I’ve been binge watching Lost in Space.”\n“I love Lost in Space! Sure.”\nSandy picked up his bike. Simon had never seen anything like it. The frame was thick in the middle, the seat was a saddle centered between the front and back forks, each of which resembled thin red arms with claws grasping the wheel hubs. There was a face like a horse’s mounted between the handlebars, and the handlebars were shaped like horns. The face had bright yellow eyes with cat-like pupils.\nSimon said, “Rad bike dude! Did yer pops make it for you?”\n“Something like that.”\nSandy pulled ahead as the path narrowed and descended downwards.\nSimon said, “Hey, this is a great hill! It looks just like the one on my side. I’m going to build a ramp so I can jump my hor---uh, bike even higher! You’ll have to check it out. Say…you ever jump this hill?”\n “Sure. Plenty of times…”\n “How high’d you get? I think I’ve gotten ten feet at least.”\n They’d reached the bottom and Simon pointed to a spot on a nearby pine that he figured was about ten feet from the ground. \n Sandy said, “I’ve sailed over that tree.”\n Simon gawped, his mouth hung open. Then Sandy laughed, his hand over his mouth, and Simon realized he was joking. He said, “That would be so cool.”\nJust like on Simon’s side of the creek, the road was about a half mile through the woods. The suburban neighborhood looked much the same as well…only it was deserted. No people on the sidewalks, no moms with strollers, no dads mowing the lawns…and man, those lawns could use a mow. No cats or dogs… no birds. The place was lifeless and silent as a grave.\n“It’s that one over there.” Simon jumped as Sandy broke the silence. He had the urge to run back into the woods.\n“They’re all at church,” Sandy said, noting his new friend’s uneasiness.\n“It’s Saturday…”\n“Yeah, folks ‘round here attend the Proxima services Saturdays.” He pointed west down the street. “The church is down that way a few blocks.”\n“Like Scientology or something?”\n“Mm. Something like that.” Sandy shrugged. They strode up the walkway and just before the steps, Sandy laid his bike down in the tall grass. As he did so, the late afternoon sun caught the fine iridescent flakes in the red paint and flashed so brightly in the yellow eyes that for just a split second, one appeared to wink at him. \n“Huh.”\n“What?”\n“Nothing.”\n“C’mon in.”\nAs Simon walked past Sandy, he realized the boy was actually the same height as he was. He figured they’d been standing on uneven ground.\n Inside the kitchen, the aroma of fresh baked cinnamon rolls filled the air. There was a dozen of them, dripping with thick creamy icing, on a cooling rack on the granite countertop. Sandy plated a couple and said, “The living room has a bigger tv in it.”\nSimon realized Sandy must have a tv of his own. Wow.\nIn the living room, they sat on floor cushions with their backs against a leather sofa. The tv before them was gi-normous, and flat, when Sandy hit the remote the picture bloomed into life and hidden surround sound speakers blasted their ears.\nSimon exclaimed, “Wow man. This is like being in a movie theater!”\nSandy pushed the cinnamon roll plate over as he bit into one himself. “Mmmm. Mom puts a little surprise treat in the centers.”\nSimon bit so deeply into his icing gooshed from the sides of his mouth and oozed down his chin. He’d bitten to the center. It was a sort of jelly, chewy like gummy bears, with a slightly salty taste. He wasn’t sure he liked it.\n“Good huh?’\n“Uh…yeah.”\nSimon pulled apart the rest of his cinnamon roll for a better look at the jelly. It was a gooey circular shape squished flat where his teeth made impressions in it. He pulled it out and slipped it into his hoodie pocket quickly before his friend could see. “Mmmm. Good.”\nThey watched an episode of Lost in Space. Sandy laughed hysterically at the super scary parts, covering his mouth with his hands, a nervous habit. At one point a truly terrifying space creature was getting the best of Robot, Sandy was laughing, Simon was terrified. By the end of it, Simon was beginning to think there was a screw loose in Sandy’s head. \nAfter the episode, Sandy said, “Wanna see my room?”\n“Sure.”\nThe walls of Sandy’s room were plastered with outer space posters: The Milky Way, the constellations, the earth from afar, and more than a dozen of a planet he thought must be Venus or Pluto. He found it odd because it was so plain looking, not like Saturn, or the giant, Jupiter. The posters were top quality and looked like genuine photographs.\nSimon said, “What’s this one? It’s kinda boring.”\n“That’s Proxima. It’s not boring at all, its atmosphere is very much like earth’s.”\n“I’ve nev---”\nJust then a high-pitched squeal volted out from behind them. Simon whirled and searched for its source.\nSandy said, “That’s Sid. He’s just hungry.”\nThey went to a glass tank on the desk by the window. Sid was a gerbil. \nWith six beady black eyes...\nAnd a mouth full of needle-like teeth. It gnashed them together and drooled. Every eye was focused on Simon. It stood up on its hind legs and walked like a human to the glass. Simon saw four more legs dangling from its pudgy body. It shrieked and clawed at the glass as if trying to dig its way out. Simon backed away until he felt something hard and pointy pressing into his back.\nHe turned around. Sandy was holding the coolest toy ray-gun Simon had ever seen. Impossibly, Sandy was now two inches taller than Simon. He grinned wide, ear to ear, his teeth were slick grey like varnished pewter, and …pointy. Simon backed away, confused. Sandy pointed the ray-gun at the floor and fired it. A blinding green-white beam shot from its tip, and a smoking black hole the size of a silver dollar appeared an inch from Simons left toe.\nHe only took his eyes off Sandy for a second, when he looked at him again, the thing that was not a boy at all was now four inches taller than him. Sandy laughed.\nIt was the laugh of a little girl. Simon’s blood went icy as the thing started chanting, “It’s not fair…it’s not fair…it’s not fair…”\nSimon turned and ran like he’d never run before.\nOutside, it was just after sunset, cold, and darkening fast. He lifted the thing’s bike from the grass and pedaled faster than he ever had before, the bike was lightning fast!\nThrough the woods he raced. In minutes he was at the slope. The bike didn’t slow as it ascended. It went even faster. It sailed off the top…and upwards…high. The saddle between his thighs was warm. It expanded and contracted. \nBreathing. Alive. \nFrom under the saddle wings unfurled. They were membranous like a bat’s, almost see-through, and runnelled with thick veins. From before him, a barking sound erupted. \nLaughter. \nHe was flying over the pine forest. The whooshing of the wings was like wind from a giant bellows. His eyes watered fiercely.\n“Please. Please let me down.”\n“Ark ark ark ark!”\nThey flew low over the suburban neighborhood- his neighborhood. Over his yard, the living, flying thing flipped over and sent him sprawling downward. The land met him fast and hard. He whumped onto the grass on his back, the wind knocked out of him.\nFrom miles away, he heard his sister calling his name.\nThen she was there looking down at him. “Whatchoo doin down there silly-pants? Mom’s been callin you for supper. You’re in troooo-bell…heeeeey, what dat?”\n“For you Mavis, it’s a gummy.”\n“Ooooh, tank you Simy.” He reverently placed the squished eyeball in her pale little 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: Don't You Remember\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1165\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character or a narrator saying, “Don’t you remember?”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Don’t you remember? Can you even see when you are sleepwalking?”\n“I am trying to remember officer, but it is difficult. My eyes can see when I sleepwalk, but I am not really very aware of what is around me. My mind generates images that my eyes don’t actually see. I once fell down the stairs in my sleep, picked myself up, and headed back to bed. When I awoke I was quite surprised by the blood on my pillow. My mother wasn’t though. She had heard me fall, got up and apparently she guided me back to bed, and washed the first flow of blood from my head. That is what she told me anyway, and I had no reason to not believe her. . I must have been able to see. Otherwise I would not have been able to get back up the stairs without falling again.””\n\n“What do you recall then from your walk in the woods last night? Anything come to mind?”\n“I do recall dreaming about running in a race in the track in my old high school. I often dream about that as I was on the track team.”\n“Anything other than just that sir?”\n“Well, as I told the other officer on the phone this morning, when I heard the news about the little girl that went missing, I do have a picture in my mind of seeing a little girl with very long hair that was a bright red. She looked kind of like a slightly younger version of Anne of Green Gables. I told the other officer that I was not completely sure that was what I saw. My wife and I had recently been on vacation on Prince Edward Island, and visited the home of the author of the book, Lucy Maude Mongomery.”\n“Now did you see anyone else standing close to her?”\n\n“Well, officer, this might sound strange, but I think that I saw something that looked a lot like a bear.”\n“There are no bears in these woods, sir. You are a visitor here I understand, staying at one of the hotels on main street.”\n“I’m sure that’s true officer. But now that I am putting more thought into that sleep-walking vision. I believe that what I might have been looking at was a fairly big man with a thick brown coat on.”\n“Now we are getting somewhere. I will call the little girl’s mother, to see if she knows such a man.”\nThe Police Officer Calls\n“Ma’am, this is officer Jenkins. I have been talking with the man who thinks that he saw your daughter last night, and called us when he heard the report on the radio,. Now this is going to sound like a very strange question, but I want to know whether you know a big man with a brown coat.”\n\nThere is a brief silence as the woman contemplates the question.\n“Well, I used to know a big man, my ex-husband. I don’t know about the brown coat though. I never saw him wear one, but we have been separated for two years now.”\n“Do you know where he lives now, ma’am?”\n“I am afraid that I do not know that. We haven’t communicated with each other in months. And he was never one to do much in the way of providing information.”\n“Well, give us his name, and any other information that might prove useful in finding him.”\n“His name is Christ Jenkins, but I don’t even know his current cell phone number.”\n“Okay ma’am, we’ll see what we can find out about him. If you can think of anything else, just give us a call.”\n\nBack to the Sleep-Walker.\nOnce his conversation with the police officer was finished, the sleep-walker headed back to his hotel room. He was anxious to tell his wife about how his sighting of the little girl has proceeded. He knew that she would want to know everything. He was also searching through his mind for a reasonably accurate picture of the man who looked like a bear when he first envisioned him. He had no luck in that regard, but he would keep on trying.\nHe and his wife had dinner, the table talk being all about his sleepwalking adventure, his conversation with the police officer, and his still failing attempts to conjure up a clearer image of the ‘man who was a bear’. His wife asked some good questions, but he still was a few answers short of being definite.\nThat Night\nThat night he hoped that he would do no more sleepwalking, but there was a restlessness in him that sometimes would be followed by his late night wandering. Sure enough, not long before midnight, still dressed in his dark blue pajamas, he got up and began the zombie-style walking like he had engaged in the night before. He passed by a few people who stared in dumb wonder, but did not say anything, thinking that he was probably drunk or stoned.\nHe went out the back door, as he had the last time. Again, like the previous night, he proceeded through the parking lot But this time he saw something before he hit the trail to the woods that he had travelled on before. He again spotted the bear, but this time he rapidly changed into the figure of a big man wearing a brown jacket. The man was carrying something in both of his arms. The sleepwalker saw the red hair again. The difference this time was that the shock of sighting both man and child once more woke him up to where his mind saw clearly what his eyes beheld.\nHe turned around sharply, but not before he got a good look at the number on the front license plate of the car the backseat of which the man was placing the little girl Then he moved quickly to and through the back door, heading for the reception desk. He took a chance and asked the male receptionist to call 911, but not before he told him, “I have just seen the little girl that disappeared. She is being kidnapped’. Fortunately, the receptionist overlooked that the man asking him to do this was in his pajamas, and did what he was asked to do. He was new at the job and did not want to anger a guest.\nThe sleepwalker got on the phone, and told the officer on the line who he was and that he had seen the kidnapper about to escape, taking the little girl with him. Guided by the license number, the police were soon on the scene and caught up with the man and the child. \nThe radio report the next day said that the man was the girl’s father, and that she had been rescued with the brave assistance of a tourist staying at a local hotel. No mention was made of his sleepwalking or of his dark blue pajamas." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Why Is The Answer\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1012\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character facing a situation that isn't awful, but isn't great." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Are you coming to bed?”\n\nThe voice startled Jay, and instinctively he placed his phone in his pocket before answering. “I’ll be there in a second, what are you doing up?” Jay’s question was more of a defense mechanism than a quest for knowledge. He was less concerned as to why Pam was up than that she was up.\n\n“Do you have a minute?” She asked, sitting down before Jay had a chance to answer. “I’ve been thinking.”\n\nIn the decade Jay had been married—I’ve been thinking—was second to only—we have to talk—in his list of things he didn’t want to hear, but experience had taught him there was only one correct answer.\n\n“Sure, what’s on your mind?”\n\n“Do you remember our wedding day?” Pam asked, “And Pastor Richard?”\n\n“Of course. It was the happiest day of my life,” Jay answered. His response was both true and ironic. Pam didn’t come from money and Jay barely had a nickel to his name so the two young lovers had been married on a beach just before sunset. The guests sat in folding chairs they brought themselves and the altar was nothing more than two tiki torches stuck in the sand at the end of a makeshift aisle. Unable to afford a minister, Jay and Pam had been married by a friend everyone called Pastor Richard. His name was Richard, to be sure, but he was not a pastor, not a trained one at least. He was, however, the type of person who saw truths in life that most people didn’t and there was no one else either Pam or Jay would have wanted to perform the task of joining them in holy matrimony than the unkempt but wise man. Yes, Jay remembered the day and the man, but the memory was no longer a pleasant one.\n\n“I’ve been thinking a lot about what he said,” Pam continued, “He told us that why was not the question, it was the answer.”\n\nA smile came over Jay’s face. He remembered vividly the advice Pastor Richard had given them before they took their vows. He had squatted down in front of the couple and placed two dots in the sand a foot from each other. There had been no rehearsal or even discussion of the ceremony so both Pam and Jay were surprised with the sight of their friend as he used the only canvass available to him.\n\n“This dot is you,” he said, pointing at the dot on the right and then at Jay. “And this one is you,” he said, doing the same with the second dot and Pam. “The paths of your lives have brought you together, here today, right now,” he said as he drew diagonal lines from each dot to a midpoint between the two. “You were on separate paths but no longer, now you walk life’s path as one,” and with that, he drew a single line towards the young couple and stood back up straight. “If you want to find the true reward of the oneness you seek today, you’ll remember that ‘Y’ is the answer, not the question.” \n\nJay remembered how struck he had been by the simple lesson Pastor Richard had taught that day. Life was a path and he had committed to share his path with Pam the same way she had promised to share hers with him.\n\n“Pastor Richard had a unique ability to see the truth and to share it,” Jay said, smiling at Pam for the first time in what seemed like years, “What made you think of that?”\n\n“Honestly I was thinking more about the warning. Do you remember?”\n\n“I do,” Jay responded, instantly aware of where the conversation was headed, “He warned us about being halfway in.”\n\n“It was more than that though,” Pam reminded, “He told us to beware of the paths to the side. I don’t think we listened to him that day. I pictured what our life would be and this reality just doesn’t match that picture.”\n\nJay instantly knew Pam was right, Pastor Richard had not stopped when he had drawn the ‘Y’ in the sand. He had squatted back down and started drawing lines off the unified path. “This is you choosing your friends over Pam,” he said to Jay as he drew a line out to the right. “And this is you, Pam, siding with your parents rather than with your husband,” he said, as he drew a line to the left. “Hobbies, work, and even children can be fatal distractions if you let them,” he said as he drew multiple lines to the left and right. “Before you know it ‘Y’ is no longer an answer because it’s no longer a ‘Y’. \n\nJay who had been looking at the floor, imagining the sandy beach where he had promised to love Pam for the rest of his life, looked up in time to see a single tear fall from his wife’s eye.\n\n“Is it too late?” Pam asked as she stood up and turned toward the bedroom. “Don’t be long, I don’t sleep well without you next to me.”\n\n“No,” Jay said, with a certainty, even he didn’t understand.\n\n“No?” Pam asked, turning back towards her husband.\n\n“No, it’s not too late. I’ll be there in a minute.”\n\nPam smiled and turned back towards the bedroom as Jay pulled his phone out of his pocket.\n\nThe text was still there waiting to be sent. Want to get a drink after work tomorrow? Jay had allowed pleasant conversation to become flirting and he had finally asked for her number. He knew the moment he did that he had crossed a line but trial and circumstance had worn him down. Now, where a lack of focus had dwelled only a few seconds earlier, Jay found clarity. It only took a few seconds to delete the unsent text. “Y is the answer,” Jay said softly to himself as he also deleted the contact from his phone and headed where he belonged, to his bed, next to his 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: When Emotions Took Shape As Words\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1466\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who feels increasingly irrelevant." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There was a hurricane of activity in the hallway. The atmosphere was exuberant. Ignoring all the frolic, Monika sat at her writing desk and stared at the speck of dust on the window pane, without diverting her gaze even for a second. That tiny speck seemed to take in the myriad eclectic emotions that churned in her heart and created a whirlpool. The paper that lay on the table fluttered in air and made a tapping noise each time in stroked the table. The clock ticked at its pace oblivious to the turmoil in her heart. Her mind was flooded with memories. Both good and bad. She was married at the age of twenty one. Dave was a good man and a wonderful husband. He was everything she had asked for. Two years after their marriage, they were blessed with their first child. She had given up her full time job and worked at a quaint cafeteria in their locality for a few hours everyday. She juggled between her role as a new mother and a part time employee. Her pregnancy glow was replaced by the grime and angst caused by the newly acquired responsibilities. \nDuring their fourth year of marriage, they were blessed with another child. Tiya was joyous on knowing that she was the elder sister who got to boss around her sibling. John was the quieter of the two. He was more sorted and balanced. He was Monika's ray of hope. She had trusted that he would be there for her in her twilight years just like she was there for him in every walk of his life. Her birdlings developed wings and as much as she enjoyed watching them take their first flight, she dreaded the time when they would leave her nest and build a small world of their own. A few years passed. She was engulfed by the mid life crisis. It was when Dave suggested that she wrote letters. He had gifted her a stack of colorful papers and a set of pens. Letter writing for her was a form of journaling. She wrote letters to her younger self. Her eloquent words spoke about what she missed. She wrote reassuring letters to her older self hoping that they would act as a guiding light in the years to come. She wrote letters to Tiya and John, some of which were read and the others were left unopened. She never inked any letters to Dave though. Her feelings for him were to be felt and understood and not written or read. Dave was good at that. He understood her unspoken words, gauged her camouflaged emotions and wiped her unshed tears. Their hearts beat in synchronization with one another for almost four decades until one morning when Dave's heart stopped. He left the mortal world and took a part of Monika with him. His death shook the earth beneath her. Like sand slipping away from between the fingers, she had begun to drift away from life. Sunrise didn't carry a ray of hope for her any more. The days seemed gloomier and nights felt darker. \nLoneliness and distress took a toll on her well being. Six months back, she slipped and fell in the bathroom and injured her hips. She was hospitalized for a week and Tiya and John took turns to nurse her back to health. She returned home but her health was status quo. John and Tiya couldn't visit her regularly. They were busy building a little cozy world of their own, a world in which their mother had no place. So they had chosen the easier option. They left her in a convalescent home. The home had nurses and doctors who took care of her. A physiotherapist helped her with her exercises and she was slowly limping back to normalcy. A squealing noise brought her back to the present.\nShe looked through the door that was left ajar and saw that her friends were playing with their grandchildren. They made merry as though their presence was permanent. They would all be gone soon and the inhabitants of the home would be loners again. The door opened and her grandchildren entered. \"Granny,\" they shrieked and ran to her. She hugged both of them tightly. A surge of warmth rushed through her veins and her eyes welled with tears. She peered at the door from beyond their shoulders. \"Where is your dad?\" she asked. \"Dad dropped us at the home and left for work. He will be back in the evening,\" said Tom. Lizzie was engrossed in her phone. Headphones were plugged in her ears and she swayed to the music. The technology made Monika feel irrelevant. She felt antiqued. Outdated. Old. Backwards. She felt low about herself. \"What are these?\" asked Tom pointing at the envelopes on the table.\n\"Those are the letters I have written to your dad and aunt. I'm yet to post them,\" she replied. Tom looked at her with surprise writ all over his face. Lizzie removed the headphone and asked, \"Why do you still write letters in the era of cell phones and emails. You can just ping us whenever you want. It makes the job easier.\" Monika smiled. She was relieved that Lizzie got rid of those clutches that held her ears and robbed her of the present moment. She looked at the letters endearingly and said, \"Letters give a personal touch and a tinge of warmth that the electronic messages lack. Writing a letter takes time and effort but when we put a pen to paper emotions take shape as words and flow freely from the nib. That doesn't happen when you type away on your phone or computer. That feeling of holding a dear one's letter in your hands is priceless. You can feel a whiff of their fragrance. When we read a letter it feels like the one who wrote it is conversing with us. We can hear their words, feel their emotions, caress their tears and share their smile. Letter writing is magic.\"\nLizzie looked at her and rolled her eyes. \"Isn't it time consuming? You can type and send a message in the blink of an eye. Letter writing is boring,\" she remarked. \n\"Writing a letter takes time. So does forging a relationship. In the era of two minute noodles and instant fixes one doesn't enjoy the process of doing things. Everything has become use and throw. Read and delete,\" said Monika and walked to the cabinet and opened it. She reached for a mahogany box. Placing it on the table, she opened it. The letters were torn at the edges. They had seen the good, bad and worst days. Ink was smudged at a place or two yet they were precious as were the memories. The letters carried the words written by Monika's mother. It gave an account of their lives. Picking up a letter from among the lot, Monika began to read it. \"You have always made us proud,\" she almost choked. \"My mother had written these letters many decades back. Whenever I read them I feel that she is by my side, protecting me and guiding me. Letter writing might have become irrelevant with time. But it is cathartic and soul invigorating,\" said Monika. \nLizzie nodded. She diverted her gaze. Maybe she had nothing to say in her defense or she wanted to respect her granny's opinion. She chose to embrace silence. \"I have written more than two hundred letters,\" Monika claimed with pride while Lizzie looked at her phone and nodded absent mindedly. The sound of pen rolling on the paper diverted Monika's attention. She turned and saw that Tom was scribbling away. \"What are you doing?\" asked Monika. \"Oh, I'm trying to write my first letter,\" he said. Tears threatened to bite the corner of Monika's eyes. \"Will you help me\" he asked. Joy flowed out as tears and she agreed. \nDear Ruby, I love your smile he began to write. \"Who's Ruby?\" she asked. \"My would be girlfriend,\" grinned Tom and continued to write. Monika helped him with the words. Lizzie watched them indulge in their favorite activity. Monika wasn't sure if Tom wanted to write a letter for his happiness or to make her happy? But she enjoyed the process. For the first time in years, she felt relevant. She felt important and useful. Tom was an empathetic kid. She stroked his hair gently and blessed him. She knew that a few hours later, she would be an empty nester again. She would be alone and unattended. She would have wait for months to see her children and grand children. But putting the painaway for another day, she revelled in the present moment. After all, the present was present from God." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Hill\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1015\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where your character is travelling a road that has no end." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It is pleasant, the drive. With the warm spring air, the windows are partially open allowing the sweet warm air in. They aren't heading anywhere in particular, just a relaxing Sunday afternoon drive. \nThey decided to take a road they haven't traveled before. “Live a little,” he jokes,” while I can.”\nGallows humor. Her husband of fifty years is dying of pancreatic cancer. This may be their last drive together. \nHer smile is strained. They are blessed, she knows. Fifty years is a long time, just not long enough. “Yes,” she wipes a tear off her cheek, “let's.”\nThe day before they were told there is nothing else to be done. Hospice has been scheduled. \nHe helps her into the passenger seat just as he had when they were first dating. In the lines of her face, he still sees the young girl.\nShe smiles at him, squeezing the hand that rests on the stick shift. \nAn hour later, they are well on the way down the old country road.\n“Recall the first drive I took you on?” She smiles, resting her head against him. The thick shoulder is now bony still she leaves it there.\n“Yes, you were smartly dressed in a suit. Approached my door with a bunch of flowers. My dad answered.”\n“Yes. I was shaking in my shoes yet recalled what my on pa told me. “Hold your head up high son. Meet his eyes and offer your hand. A good firm grip but not too hard. Wait for him to let go.” I did all that.”\n“You impressed him. He told me when you brought me back, right on time, that you were a gentleman, raised right.”\n“Still he hesitated to give me your hand.” \n“He would have been with anyone. Come, recall how you treated our daughter ‘s suitors?”\nHe huffs, “They were all idiots. Well,” He sighs, “until Dave.” \nGeorgia and Dave have been married twenty -seven years. Their eldest recently got engaged. A sharp pain at realizing he will miss her wedding. \n“Yes, she got a good one in him.” All their children are in good marriages. They have gifted them ten grandchildren and three greats, so far.\n“They all did. We did well.” There is a comfort in that. \n“Yes.” She smiles at the memories. Growing big with Jr. and convinced that her husband will never see her the same way again. The birth of their second son, eighteen months later, put that fear to rest. A daughter and then three more sons completed their family. \n“She will know I am looking down on her?” Her eyes fill with tears. A nod before she can speak.\n“She will.” Julie and her intended, Evan, have spoken about having a quick ceremony, ‘ so Gramps can be here.’ He assured her that he would be, no matter what.\n“She has always dreamed of a fancy wedding. Remember when she was little, she would play the bride using your shawl as a veil?” \n“Yes. I still have pictures of that.” \n“Get them blown up and use them to decorate for the reception.” Her husband suggests.\n“That is a fine idea.” She knows just the one too, the one where she is walking towards her Gramps.\nSo much he has experienced. Going away for war, the birth and raising of all their children, holding his grandchildren in his arms, now seeing his eldest granddaughter engaged. So much and yet… how much will he not see? She feels her throat close with tears. \nThe road continues, unceasing before them.\n“I know, mí cherí,” he hasn't called her that in years, “I know. But the purpose of this life is to prepare for the next. In that regard, I am successful. I know where I am going. We have raised a successful and blessed family. The future belongs to them.”\n“You always know just what to say.” He always had. When their eldest told them he was joining the military and she was scared, he had the words to comfort her. When she lost her last baby, halfway through the pregnancy, he held her, weeping with her. And now, when he knows he is leaving her, again, he knows just what to say.\n“Listening to that still small Voice. I know you will grief me. Just promise it won't be without hope, that you will know I wait on the other side for you?” \nShe lets a shaking breath out. “I promise.” Her tears wet his shoulder.\n“I will miss you too.” \n“In just a little while,” she starts to sing, her voice hoarse with emotion, “we will cross the Jordan. In just a little while, we will see the King of Kings.” It is a song they made up and sang to their children while they drifted off to sleep. Now it is a comfort as he prepares to cross the Jordan.\n“Soon and very soon, I am going to see the King.” He softly sings. She lets out a shuddering breath. How long have they been driving? They haven't turned or left the road. \n“This road goes on forever.” \n“The road to heaven, it does seem to go on and on. With its twists and turns. But, we keep on the road, walking with Him. Now there are only a few more miles left. One more hill to climb.”\nThey gather around him, his wife holding tight to his hand. Their children and grandchildren surround the bed. His eyes are cloudy, he looks up past them. His smile is full of peace. \n“Yes, Jesus. I see You. I am, “ He turns to his wife, “My heart, I will see you over the hill,” His eyes are beyond them once more, “I am ready Lord to go home.” \nHe lifts his arms, reaching into eternity before they fall slack beside him as he lets out his last breath. A moan of grief feels the room. His wife pats his hand, kisses his cheek.\n“Rest my love, in the arms of God. I will meet you when my own road ends.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Escape\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1487\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who feels increasingly irrelevant." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The first time it happened Cassie thought it was a dream, that she must have been asleep, and dreaming. Since that day, now and then, she had felt a similar sensation when she concentrated on Sonny, in the sliding of taut muscle or the shiver of skin under the tickle of a fly. On this sunny summer Saturday, Cassie was sitting in her favourite place in Sonny's paddock, her back against the steel gate and her legs stretched out in front of her, when it happened again. The morning sun was warm on her shoulder and the side of her face, and glinted in copper shards from Sonny’s chestnut coat as he grazed barely metres away. He munched with a steady rhythm, and she had closed her eyes against the glare of the sun, harsh and bright now as the morning stretched out. The next thing she knew, she was snatching the soft green strands between her own teeth, ripping with a slight sideways twitch, and feeling in her mouth the miraculous dance of lips, teeth, and tongue. She could taste the succulent grass, sugar-sweet and pungent.\n\nA cry from the house startled Sonny, and as one the two heads swung and looked. Laura, Cassie's big sister, was standing on the front deck and waving. ‘Cassie! Granny’s here.’ Cassie was sure she felt her own ears swivel and prick forward at Laura’s call. Laura once had a friend visit who could wriggle his ears, and after he'd gone Cassie sat in front of the mirror and tried to make hers move, tried and tried, but nothing happened. Before she was interrupted just then, it had felt like she was doing it. If only she could be a horse! But for now, she was just Cassie again. She scrambled to her feet and hurried over to the house, the circulation returning painfully to her rear.\nThey had moved here from the city six months ago, partly to be closer to Granny since Grandad had died, and partly because Mummy had excelled her highly motivated self to win an important job at the borough council. Since the move, Cassie’s world had changed in every way. She didn’t like her new school. She always seemed to say the wrong thing; the other children didn’t understand her thoughts, and stared or smirked at her questions. Mummy was hardly ever home, trying hard in her new job to ‘make a good impression’ and ‘prove herself’, always at work, even on auspicious Saturdays like today. When she was home, she seemed distracted and unreachable, constantly finding fault and out of sorts. Cassie was never sure what she had done wrong or how to fix it. The only good thing about the move was darling Sonny, the elderly chestnut gelding who had come with the property.\nHer yearnings receded as she ran to greet Granny with a hug and kiss. She loved Granny’s visits. She seemed to have a unifying effect on the whole family. Mummy would be lots calmer; she could even be quiet and kind. Laura played for longer with her, and Daddy tried hard, too. He often answered her questions when Granny was here, the sort of questions he usually grunted at or ignored. She was six and she had a lot of questions.\n‘Granny, can people turn into animals?’\n‘You mean like a shape shifter? People used to believe that, once. They thought it was a punishment from the gods, or a way to escape unpleasantness.’ Granny studied her thoughtfully. ‘Why do you ask, my darling?’\n‘I think I was turning into a horse just before.’ Granny smiled indulgently, and Cassie was suddenly cross with her. ‘Really, I was.’\n‘What would you do if you were a horse?’\n‘I’d eat grass and then I’d gallop around and around. And then I’d be itchy so I’d lie down and roll, and then I’d stand up and jump and kick.’ With enthusiasm Cassie demonstrated on the bouncy turf. 'Sonny would be my best friend and we'd be together always. And no one would be grumpy and shout and tell me I was naughty.’\n‘You would make a lovely chestnut pony,’ said Granny, ‘with your hair that colour. It’s like Sonny’s coat in summer.’ She gathered the little girl into a hug, but as she did it she tightened her lips and frowned over Cassie’s head. ‘You aren’t naughty my sweet, you’re a good girl.’\n‘Mummy said I was naughty this morning though,’ said Cassie, twisting out of the old lady’s embrace and gazing up into the sweet familiar face. ‘I just wanted to see Sonny before breakfast, and she said if I went, I couldn’t have any, so I ran outside with my toast.’\n'Oh dear,’ sighed Granny.\n‘And then Mummy went to work and she didn’t say goodbye.’\n‘I suppose she was running late. Never mind, you can say ‘I’m sorry’ tonight when she gets home.’ Cassie agreed that she would and felt comforted. She would recite a little speech, after which Mummy would hug her and they would both say, ‘I love you.’ Maybe then everything would be all right again.\n‘Are you here all day, Granny?’\n‘Yes dear. Your dad won’t be back from golf until late. If his day goes according to plan and he wins the club champs, he will have to stay and shout the bar.’\n‘Maybe he won’t win,’ said Cassie, and hoped he wouldn’t. She immediately felt bad. Winning was important to Daddy, and she wanted him to be happy. If only he could win and come straight home!\n'I’m sure he’ll win. He has been practicing every day since you moved here, hasn’t he?’\n‘Yes, he has,’ Cassie said. ‘Every day. He doesn’t even have time to read my story, and I’ll never find out what happens to Harry and Ron and Hermione.’\nShe was interrupted by the sound of wheels on the gravel drive. ‘Bye Granny, bye Cassie!’ Laura was waving from the window of the plum-coloured Corolla, the extra car they found they needed now they lived in the country. There was no public transport out here, so as soon as Laura turned sixteen she got her restricted licence. Now she was independent, able to drive herself anywhere she wanted to go. When she had her full licence, she had promised, she would take Cassie sometimes, but for now Cassie had to stay behind. ‘Where’s Laura going, Granny?’\n‘She has a practice for the high school stage challenge, didn’t she tell you? Then she’ll probably hang out with her friends. Which means it’s just you and me! Hooray!’ Granny hoisted two fists in a victory salute, but Cassie turned away, bottom lip between her teeth, and watched the car until it turned at the gate and disappeared on the road into town.\nLaura didn't return until the sun had lost its warmth and the fence posts were leaving long bars of shadow on the grass beside Sonny’s paddock. Granny left then, with waves and kisses. Cassie had prepared a contrite little speech for her mother, which she perfected as she snuggled up in bed that night. But the speech was wasted as her mother didn’t get home until late, when Cassie was already asleep and dreaming of galloping and bucking across green hills as a chunky chestnut pony.\nIt was another cheerful morning full of light and birdsong. Cassie woke to a restless urgency, and crept outside while the house slept, to watch the dawn with Sonny. The grass was drenched with dew, so she stood and leaned her back on Sonny's comforting shoulder, moving when he moved, facing the mound of hill to the east, black against a lime-green morning sky. When the first rays of the sun stroked her forehead, she closed her eyes and wallowed, lizard-like, in its warmth.\nIt was much later when Laura opened her bedroom curtains and looked across the lawn to Sonny’s paddock, to see a second chestnut grazing beside him, smaller and lighter with a deep russet mane and tail. She immediately thought of Cassie and how excited she would be. She hustled along to her sister’s bedroom door and pushed it open. ‘Cassie look, there’s a pony in the paddock with Sonny, and its mane and tail are exactly the same colour as your hair…. wake up sleepyhead!’. The room was still dark, and she peered at Cassie’s bed, willing her eyes to adjust in the dimness. One corner of the top sheet trailed on the floor, but there was no mound of fiery hair on the pillow where it should have been. ’CASSIE?’ Laura turned and shouted through the open door. ‘Muuum! Dad! Where’s Cassie?’\nBeyond the steel gate, the strange pony raised her head and pricked her ears. She gave a little buck, raced once around the paddock, then blasted back to stand beside Sonny, toss her mane, and stare." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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're Just So Intolerant\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 998\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the line “I can’t believe we’re arguing over this.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Content warning: this story contains allergens!\n\n\n\"I've thought about it, and it's chocolate.\"\n\"Well that sounds good to me. Thought about what?\"\n\"What you asked me earlier. Chocolate, it's a universal panacea.\"\n\"I didn't ask 'what?' is a universal panacea. I asked 'what is?' a universal panacea. It's all in the inflection and the emphasis.\"\n\"Oh, well you obviously inflected in the wrong place. That's so you. Nice pyjamas by the way. Are you comfy?\"\n\"Yes, thanks. I could have slept on the air-bed, I didn't mind. I like your jimjams too, cute little bears. So what is it then?\"\n\"I'm so glad you asked. It's the cure for all ills. Everything. Pain, sorrow, illness, World War III, the lot. I thought about it for a couple of hours and it's definitely chocolate.\"\n\"Erm, does the United Nations know about this? Or the World Health Organisation? Hmm, Hang on, Kim Jong, don't invade anyone today, have a bit of chocolate. Don't get your Covid 27 jab, have a bit of chocolate instead. Do you really think chocolate solves everything?\"\n\"Well, it does for me. Remember when I scraped my first car? I cried for a week but KitKat got me through it. And when Dan left, it was M&M's.\"\n\"You sobbed and snorted in the bag. It was disgusting.\"\n\"I still ate them. It made me realise I loved M&M's more than I loved Dan. He tried to come back, but I was stronger then. And he brought flowers from a petrol station.\"\n\"Cheapskate! That's hardly universal though, is it? Just you, and… were they the peanut ones? I mean, does that even count as chocolate? And why is it universal, and not a world panacea? What works on Earth might not do much on Jupiter. Or Alpha Centauri. Or the Crab Nebula. Do you want that pillow? I could do with another. Ow, you didn't need to throw it.\"\n\"It's good though, you've got to admit it. If someone, or something, did turn up from Orion's Belt, you'd give them a Crunchie. They'd love it and not invade Earth, because they're full of peace and joy and Cadbury's. It's the pheromones.\"\n\"I think you mean endorphins. What if it's Hersheys? Or Nestle? Ooh, or Belgian chocolate, like those little seahorses and seashells with praline in the middle?\"\n\"Now you're just being pedantic. Mind you, I'd invade Earth for Belgian chocolate seashells with praline, or those hazelnut noisettes. What time do you have to go in the morning?\"\n\"My train is at nine so set the alarm for seven, would you, please. Sorry that's early, but I'll have time for Coco-Pops before I go. Get my endorphins going. I'm not invading anywhere tomorrow,\"\n\"Haha, you're good! But anyway I'm right, aren't I. Everyone loves chocolate.\"\n\"What if you're dairy or lactose intolerant?\n\"Really? Like 2 or 3 people?\n\"Forty two million, although most of them don't know it.\"\n\"You're blowing my mind. They still love chocolate though.\"\n\"Endorphinately.\"\n\"I hate you.\"\n\"You'll miss me when I'm gone.\n\"I'm ignoring that. Okay, so it's a universal panacea for everyone who isn't dairy or lactose intolerant.\"\n\"Or diabetic.\"\n\"I'm starting to remember why I left home.\"\n\"Or gluten-free.\"\n\"Oh come on! A little bit won't hurt.\"\n\"Don't go there! I was sick for a fortnight last time.\"\n\"There's no gluten in chocolate. Is mum picking you up from the station? I have a birthday present for her if you'd take it.\"\n\"You don't read labels do you? Think about the KitKat. Yes, I can take it. What is it, chocolate?\"\n\"Funny. Okay, so we're settled. Chocolate is a universal panacea for anyone who isn't diabetic, or dairy, lactose or gluten intolerant. Are you happy now?\"\n\"You're forgetting soya. It's an allergen.\"\n\"What? Are you kidding? There's soya in chocolate? So far as I'm concerned, chocolate is the answer to 'life, the universe and everything,' not 42. Douglas Adams just had the wrong computer program running.\"\n\"But the best punchlines.\"\n\"I can't believe we're arguing over this.\"\n\"Who's arguing? You said chocolate, and I just pointed out you were wrong.\"\n\"Yep, you love doing that.\"\n\"I'm your sister. You should know by now, it's compulsory. You'll miss me when I'm gone.\"\n\"I'm still ignoring that. Why did you ask anyway? It's not your usual dinner table conversation. It's usually strange things.\"\n\"You mean, Stranger Things.\"\n\"I know what I meant.\"\n\"Gee thanks! Dad said to mum, 'wine is a universal panacea,' I wondered what he meant.\"\n\"Wine? What's he talking about? Was he drunk? There's sulphites in wine. And hangovers. And what about the Baptists? Or the population of Yemen?\"\n\"Yemen? We went to see that film, Salmon Fishing in The Yemen.\"\n\"I know. You ate my popcorn and drooled over Ewan McGregor. Yemenis don't drink alcohol.\"\n\"Oh God!\"\n\"Nope, forget God, there's been too many religious wars. Religion always kills someone.\"\n\"I wasn't suggesting God as a universal panacea, I was drooling over Ewan McGregor again. Although God is more universal than chocolate, I guess. Stop pulling faces. What's your beef?\"\n\"No good. You've just alienated the vegans, vegetarians, and pescetarians. And probably a few sagittarians. \"\n\"That's part man, part horse, not cow. You're nuts!\"\n\"Nuts? They're an allergen, and a choking hazard. You can't open a bag of peanuts on a plane anymore, not if there's a passenger with allergies. Did you know?\"\n\"Pfft. I'm going to choke you, in a minute! Or smother you with this pillow. Or let the air out of that mattress.\"\n\"Tough guy. Says, who?\"\n\"Sesame.\"\n\"Hahaha, do you fancy a hot chocolate drink before you go to sleep? And yes, sweetie, I will miss you when you're gone.\"\n\"Sleep, that's it! That's the universal panacea. Everyone sleeps, and like Mum says, 'it always looks better in the morning.' Go tell the world.\"\n\"Not if you've got sleep apnea. Ow, no, get off, get off.\"\n\"Night sis. Thanks for letting me stay.\"\n\"zzzzzzzzzzzzz\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: That Damn Remote\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1363\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two characters who have been fighting for so long, they can’t remember what started it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Months ago, my wife and I had a heated argument over the most ridiculous thing in the world. Our remote for our television disappeared, as they tend to do, which started a domino of exhausted complaints and snarls on both our parts. We checked the recliner cushions, under the sofa, we even checked the damn cat bed at one point. After at least 30 minutes of sprawling around like wild animals, nearly tearing the place up like it too, I sat down and bared our loss. “Let’s just give it a rest and return to this later. I’m sure it’ll show up” I suggested.\nMy bitter wife expressed the most sour disappointing look I’ve ever seen. A look an old fashion father would give after learning his son was gay while subsequently sucking a juicy lemon. “Way to give up, Gerard! That’s a new one”.\nI returned with a sour face of my own, “What’s that supposed to mean?”\n“You know what it means! You always do this and it’s why nothing ever gets done. I’d bet you the freaking house we’ll end up just buying a new remote knowing you!”\n“You’re overreacting again. For Christ's sake it’s just a remote, Kim. It’ll turn up soon enough and we’ll both look stupid for making such a big deal about it”.\nKim threw her hands up in disgust before resting them firmly on her hips as if getting comfortable for one of her rants. “Look, I’ll admit, the remote is a stupid thing. But this isn’t just about the remote at this point. Gerard, this last month you have failed to get the car cleaned, to buy Stavros’ birthday gift and even small things like taking out the trash or feeding the cat. I’m getting pissed that you’ve being so lazy lately”\nI sighed, knowing that was just a small part of her complaints. “First of all, I’ve been working overtime this week, second of all the car is nearly spotless and third of all, you’re just as lazy as me half the time. Those girls nights of yours last hours upon end and all you do is talk about stupid, mind-numbing stuff like work gossip and rom coms. I mean you guys sound like you came right out of desperate housewives in there. Meanwhile our kids rely on me and me alone to see them put to sleep while they wonder why mommy isn’t there to tell them a story or even kiss them goodnight”\n“You volunteered for that responsibility, thank you very much!” she yipped like a dog far too loud for how small it was, “When we got married we agreed to our responsibilities, I’m not good with kids and you know that, so you take care of teaching them and all that while I take care of keeping them busy and entertained. I’m grateful that you got that part of your job down, but tell me, why can’t you feed the animal and take the trash out when you can?!”\nAt that point our argument had derailed in directions they hadn’t in months if not years. I hate doing that with her but she always made it so difficult to reason. “Maybe you should consider trying. Every think of that? Kids aren’t exactly a walk in the park to deal with but once you put the effort in you can at least know how to talk to them like a parent should. This is a team effort so why do we have to separate ourselves like this?”\n“Oh so now you're making this about me being a bad parent?” Kim’s voice peaks with genuine shock, “This is about you being sloppy and lazy over simple little things! I do my part so why can’t you do yours? I hate having to argue like this as much as you do, but if I don’t you’ll just keep this shit up. Heck, I wouldn’t be surprised if this kept happening for months to come knowing you”.\nTaken aback by such a spontaneous situation I sit myself down on our couch. I rest my face into my palms and take a deep, necessary breath. “I don’t know what your problem is, Kim. But I’m not in the mood to argue any more. Can we please just end this and move on with our night. I’ll sleep on the fucking couch if you want just please. I hope the kids didn’t hear us”\n“I hope the kids did!” she shouted, “They need to know how much of a lazy piece of shit their father is. Maybe then they’ll start talking some sense into you too”\n“Just like how they need to know their mother is too much of a coward to love them like she should?! Let’s sleep this off, Kim. We can talk about this tomorrow. And not yell. Talk”\nKim began making her way towards the stairs, dimly lit by a nightlight in the corner. Her eyes looked as tired as I felt. I knew she hated to argue as much as I did, which still confuses me as to why she starts these things in the first place. I looked away while I could to make our departure less awkward. I found myself a cozy blanket to shelter myself under for the night and fell into an unsettling slumber accompanied by a dream of our life before the kids. Before getting married. Just two young idiots roaming the country for a nice simple life to share. I imagined how happy we were. How comforting and fulfilled we felt when we embraced. A fairly distant memory I find myself missing more often than I feel I should.\nThe morning finally came after my near endless depressing void of a dream. I quickly folded the blanket and put it back where it belonged so as to not tempt any questions from our very observant boys. The day went by silently and almost agonizing as it was both a weekend and one of my days off. My wife and I didn’t share a single word throughout the day. We hardly even saw each other. Halfway through it, I noticed the kitchen trash can was overfilling. I thought back on Kim’s words from the night prior and almost ignored it out of spite. But I decided to do the hygenic thing and deal with it before it became a bigger problem. A part of me felt great for doing something productive, however a different side of me felt guilt for doing it after our confrontation. It was almost as if I only did it because of the corner I was backed into. I felt humiliated and disheartened. Even so, I continued to do small things around the house such as sweeping the bathroom floors and wiping down the living room coffee table. I hardly felt any better after each courtesy.\nTrying to keep a level head about it, I made my way through the upstairs hall where our bedrooms are to check on our boys. Each passing room waited emptily as I creeped through. That was until I reached the room at the very end, Stavros’ room. I peaked in, slowly and cautiously after hearing soft words and giggles. Kim was sitting on Stravros’ bed, between our sons, talking about possible birthday plans and movies they might want to go see. A warm light thumped in my chest at the sight of it. I hadn’t seen my family so close since the boys were toddlers. Kim had a smile far outreaching any she'd ever had. I no longer felt anything negative doing those chores. I think the two of us grew a little bit from our heated argument.\nSince then, our arguments have been far less common, which isn’t to say they don’t exist, but I’m happy to say our marriage has inched a little closer to how we always envisioned it. Kim has spent much more alone time with the boys and I now have a daily routine for small chores around the house.\nFunny thing is, the only reason I brought this whole thing up is because I just found that damn remote." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Gingerbread Mafia\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1317\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character trying to heal an old rift." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Many folk tales describe hapless children marking their paths with stones, to not get lost. Now, it’s become a thing. Once humble hiking trails have transformed into gleaming, shimmering paths to a fantasyland. Or to the dark lair of a witch.\nTrends, fads and fashions prove spontaneous generation. Like ‘love locks’ on a bridge. Who expects the weight of so many padlocks to threaten its structural integrity? What captures the popular imagination?\nAlways innovating, the fad had outliers. A flock of birds reportedly swarmed a man tossing morsels of bread on paths.\nAnother report described a trail of peanut butter cups.\nThe sale of sparkling, pretty rocks had blossomed. And where money grows, the tax man reapeth.\nInvestigators Hansel Cutterson, and Keith Chekov, drove into the mountains. Their destination, the Pebble and Crumb tavern. Their assignment, investigate the trafficking of semi-precious stones. Mere stones held little interest. But talk money laundering, and everyone listens.\nLocal news featured two young men with a coin filled canvas sack. One walked a trail and placed a coin every few yards. Once his sack had emptied, he rested on the roadside.\nHis partner followed a mile back. He retrieved each coin. Reaching his friend while lugging his bulging money bag, they would begin again. They claimed to be philosophers, and insisted they ended each hike richer than before.\nHans never knew philosophers to flaunt their wealth. Could money laundering enhance their magic?\nThe fad, grown so popular with young romantics, led to crowded trails. Traditional hikers and ‘pebble pickers’ disputed over rights-of-way. Chaos ensued. Violence loomed.\nIt fell to the tax office to rein things in.\nLegend held a witch ran the Pebble and Crumb, a ridgetop watering hole for hikers. P&C’s fortunes rose along with the popularity of semi-precious stones.\nHansel and Keith pulled into the tavern’s empty lot. If you ignored the ‘wicked witch’ subtext, P&C’s classic gingerbread design was cute. Aromatic smoke poured from the chimney of the converted cabin. The adjoining herb garden boasted a team of gnomes.\nHansel said, “Stay sharp. I’ll do the talking.”\nThe simple bar had three taps, several small tables and vintage pinball and video games. Candles flickered. Black and white photos and prints adorned the walls. Keith pointed to a display case filled with various crystals.\nThe wizened proprietress watched from behind the bar. Her youthful spirit belied her advanced age.\nHansel approached the counter with a smile. “You’ve got a nice place here.”\n“Hard work. Never got a freebie in my life.” They kept looking around. “What can I get you?”\n“Just coffee. On the clock, after all.”\n“You a cop?”\n“No. County inspector.”\n“You look like a cop.”\nThe men glanced at each other.\nHansel said, “Ms. Bread?”\n“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”\n“Ginger, right?”\n“Ginny.”\n“Business good?”\n“Better than usual. What you want?”\n“We received reports of increased…”\n“Wait, I know you. You’re Cutterson. Woody…”\n“That’s my father.”\n“Right, you’re Han…”\n“Hansel.”\nShe began yelling. Moving about, brandishing a broom handle, she seemed everywhere at once.\n“Stay back!”\n“Just have a few questions…”\n “Oh, no, no, no. I’m not going through that again. Get out!” Hansel and Keith stood and watched. “I need a lawyer? Calling him now. Shut you down so fast... Harassment! He knows.”\n“Ginger! I’m not here for that. If I knew it was you, I would‘ve sent someone else. We’re following a report we received. No one’s accusing you of anything.”\nShe stopped and gave them a hard look. “About what?”\n“You know anything about moonstone trafficking?”\nShe dismissed them with a wave. “Nah…”\n“Okay. Here’s my card.”\nShe glanced at it. It read: Hansel Cutterson, County Tax Inspector.\nShe snorted. “It doesn’t say anything ‘bout inspecting pebbles.”\n“If you hear of anything, give me a call. That’s it.”\nShe stared. “Really? That’s it?”\nThe men looked at each other and shrugged. She let her guard down. They started for the door. On second thought, Hansel turned.\n“Since I’m here, Ginny. I want to tell you how bad I feel for what I put you through, back then. Hope there’s no hard feelings.”\nShe sighed and strode behind the bar. “Still want that coffee?”\n“Sure… Not being a hard case. Just doin’ our jobs.”\nShe poured two coffees and pointed to the creamer and sugar.\n“So, how’s Gretel?”\n“Okay. Moved back east. Got married. I’m an uncle! Six times over. Think they’re in college now.”\nGinny laughed. She leaned in and addressed Keith. “She was a feisty thing. Don’t cross that chick.”\n“Duly noted.”\nShe thought back. “…Terrible what happened to that little, Ms. Hood. Her granny and I went way back. Nice old broad. Tough... What that predator did… He got his…”\nHansel nodded to Keith.\nHer tone changed. “But that Goldilocks slut… She asked for it. What an entitled twit.”\nKeith spoke up. “But she was…”\nHansel stopped him with a look.\nLost in thought, Ginger continued. “Yeah… Those were wild times. The press raped me. Never got to tell my side. No one cared.”\n“But you stuck around. Built this place. Did alright…”\n“I tried a new start. No point. Always some newshound sniffing around, butting in… breaking a ‘new story.’ Exposé! Make a splash. Dish the dirt. Like a dog returning to its own… You know… Old lies sell better than a fresh, boring truth.”\nThe men sipped their coffees and listened. She refreshed their cups.\n“Better hide in plain sight. Nothin’ to see. Move along. Nobody’s got anything on me, that everybody hasn’t seen. Just an old witch with no secrets. Like it like that.”\nShe looked about and stood straight. She smiled and gestured to the room.\n“Has a certain cache, don’t you think? Come curious, leave full of food and fun. Come back and bring friends. Business’s picking up lately…”\nShe looked at Hansel and got serious.\n“Hansel, don’t you worry ‘bout what happened. You were a know-nothing kid. But don’t get me started on your sister…” He laughed. “But you didn’t mean nothing. Brought it on myself. Was the adult in the room, or so they said.”\nHansel nodded.\nShe shifted attention. “Want some live entertainment up here. With all these pebble pushers… who knows?”\nHansel picked up the tab. They turned to leave.\nShe said, “Bye the way. Don’t know about no moonstones. But if I hear something… Someone I know might know someone… You know the drill... But it can’t come back to me. I never said a thing.”\nHansel said, “Of course, Ginny. Good coffee, by the way. Later…”\nThey exited into the early evening. A line of hikers approached the tavern.\nKeith said, “Hans, what was that about? You know her?”\nHe laughed. “Do I look like the brothers Grimm to you? I could tell you a hair-raising story about Gretel and me fighting for our lives, PTSD and waking up with the sweats. But I never met her. No sister named Gretel.”\nTrying to understand, Keith shook his head.\nHansel continued, “I’ve heard stories about this witch forever. I wondered how she’d react to my name. You have to roll with it. Relax. Get her talking.”\n“Yeah, but… she knew you…”\nHansel scoffed. “This is why we need hard evidence. People like Ginger blow hot or cold. She could help us build a solid. Or she wakes up tomorrow, flies to Neverland, and pins the whole shmegegge on the little Mermaid.”\nKeith laughed as they got to the car.\nHansel continued, “Once a perp called in Sasquatch as a witness to his alibi.”\n“You’re kidding!”\n“True story… Try to serve that subpoena… Had to line up three interpreters, in case he didn’t speak English.” Keith pounded the steering wheel. “Of course, he didn’t show.”\n“That’s crazy…”\n“Anyway, we might… might have a source with Ginger.”\n“So, Betty Boop’s for dinner?”\n“Sounds good…”\nThey laughed as Hansel merged into traffic." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Light\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1594\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where your character is travelling a road that has no end." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A ragged breath comes from a lone traveler. His heavy leather boots lift slowly, and fall back down to the ground with a hard stomp. Sweat protrudes from his brow as the heat beats against his skin. The drops of salty water slid down his dirty forehead and sting into his eyes. Clang, clatter, clop, sings the leather sack that slides across the ground behind him, his aching arm clutching to its strings. The sand shifts from under him. Constantly changing from rocks, to dirt, then to sand all over again. He’s forgotten how long he’s been walking. He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he has seen another face. The only thing that comforts him is that clang, clatter, clop that sings behind him. \nHe never looks back. The light in front of him is all he can see, though lately he noticed that the once blazing light has now grown small into a little bobbing orb. Sometimes he thinks he’s only a few more feet from it, then comes to the horrible biting realization that it still could be miles and miles away. \nSand and dirt and rocks, that’s the only other thing that goes for miles and miles and miles. \nHis mouth is dry now, his lips screaming in blistering pain. \nHe just needs to get to that light. \nHis mind wanders, contemplating the innermost demons inside of him. The weight of the bag grows with every fleeting thought. His eyes wander back up to the light, his heart sinking lower than he could ever imagine. \nIt had shrunk into a pin needle, barely visible to the naked eye.\nHis knees gave way, sinking deeply into the warm sand. His heart beat strongly inside his chest, causing the breath to leave his lungs. His ears rang in the silence, and his sore throat let out a weak cry. \nIt is over now. \nHe sat there, tears streaming down his face, his eyes still looking at the little star of light that was an eternity away. \n“Cheers mate.” A voice broke the never ending silence. \nThe man’s head slowly turned from the pin needle of light, noticing a glowing white fox sitting right next to him. \n“Greetings.” The man said, his voice hoarse and scratchy. \n“Nice day for a strowl isn’t it?” The fox said. \nThe man didn’t know how to respond to this. For him, it had been a milenia of walking, pulling, crying… Bleeding. \n“I suppose.” Is all he could muster. \n“Any chance I could get some water from you? I’m parched.” The fox said, smiling. Its eyes were kind. The man could tell that it wasn’t mischievous, regardless of what humanity said about its kind. He could tell the request was genuine. How could he explain to the creature that he had been without water for years. \n“Sorry,” The man replied. “I haven’t gotten any.”\nThe creature tilted its head, clearly confused. “Oh, sorry about that. I assumed you were a well prepared man, seeing that large sack behind you.” The fox’s nose pointed behind the man, causing him to finally look back.\nHis eyes widened, a shuddered gasp filling his lungs. \nA large black mass sat behind him, towering over him. The only thing that still resembled the once small pack was the chipping leather. \nThe man’s head turned back to the fox. “I- I don’t know how… What.”\nThe fox nodded, as if knowing what the man was trying to say. \n“It seems you’ve been collecting some important things. I’m a collector myself.” The fox looked back at the pack. “But i’ve got to commend your strength, it’s got to be very heavy carrying all of that at once.”\nThe man noticed he was still tightly gripping onto the string of the sack, his hand now unable to loosen its hold. \n“Could I ask, could you just take a peek in that sac and see if there is any water? I wouldn’t be surprised if you accidentally misplaced some somewhere in that mass of a mountain.”\nThe man regarded the sac again, then looked back over at the fox. His eyes widened even more.\nThe creature that had been a fox was no longer a fox. It glowed like the fox and it sat like the fox, but what now sat in front of him was no longer a fox but a tall deer. \n“If it’s not too much to ask,” The creature said, still smiling. \nThe man shook his head. “No, it’s not too much to ask.” \nHe turned back towards the sac, ignoring the aching in his muscles as he moved. He grunted in pain, his hand shaking as he willed it to open and let go of the string. He rubbed it gingerly with his other hand, then slowly opened the sack. \nThe deer sat up and walked over to the man, illuminating the things that were within. Quietly the man got to work, reaching in and pulling out a jumble of miscellaneous things. \n“What’s that?” The creature would sometimes ask. \n“A coffee mug. My father would drink from it every morning.”\n“And that?”\n“A rock from my fireplace. On cold nights my family would sit in front of it and talk about our favorite part of the day.” \n“Oh that’s pretty.”\n“This was my favorite Christmas ornament. Every Christmas I would play with it as my mother put Christmas decorations on the tree.” \n“Oh, what about that?”\n“My wife’s wedding ring, we said our vows during a stormy night, but it was the most beautiful night I’ve ever had.”\nOne by one the things came out of the sac, cluttering all around the man. \nFinally the last thing came out of the sac.\nIt was a toy airplane, red in color, made of iron. \nThe man’s arms fell in his lap, the little plane resting in them. \n“No water.” He muttered.\n“I know.” The voice came from right next to him. The man’s head slowly turned, sensing something different from the voice. \nHis eyes met another’s deep gaze. \nAnother man sat next to him, his hair as white as snow, eyes blazing like a fire. He had a sad smile on his lips. \nHe lifted his hand and rested it on the tired man’s shoulders. \n“That looks like something special.” He nodded towards the airplane. \nThe tired man looked down at the red toy. \n“It was my dream.” He muttered.\nThe white haired man nodded slowly, “I know.” \nHe tugged the man’s shoulder, causing the tired man to turn and look into his eyes.\n“Will you give it to me?” He asked. \nThe tired man felt his heart rise up in his chest, an anxious and fearful feeling coming over him. He opened his mouth to shout ‘no’, but the cry died in his throat as another feeling bloomed inside his chest. \nHe looked down at the red object, then slowly raised his hands and handed it to the man in white.\n“You can have it all.” The tired man said. \nThe man in white gingerly took the red plane, taking his white garments and rubbing them over the old grime that clung to the toy. He smiled. \n“You better continue your walk. The day is only going to get better.” \nThe tired man noticed something that he hadn’t seen in a while. His shadow grew further and further away from him, causing him to turn away from the empty sack and see a growing light ahead of him. \nHe leapt up off the ground, eyes widening as the light grew into the horizon. He looked down at the man in white, who sat amidst all of his old things. \n“It does look like a good day for a walk.” He muttered, the thirst that had been with him for years finally starting to leave his lips. \nHe stepped forward,noticing that the shifting sand was turned to dirt. He took another step, noticing a lightness overcoming him. Another step and he found his strength returning. \nAfter every slow step a peppier step would follow. Before the man could realize what was happening he found himself running. The dirt turned to rock, then the rock turned to grass, and the grass turned to pasture. The light extended through the horizon, flowing over him and behind him. He suddenly stopped running, taking in deep clean breaths. The path before him is still ever growing, but no longer into a desert but a lush green paradise. He looked behind him, finding the path that he had come from to be lush and green as well, a small pin needle of darkness barely seen by the naked eye showed him where he had come from.\nA presence could suddenly be felt next to him. He whipped around, finding the man in white standing next to him.\n“I thought I’d join you.” He said, looking ahead. “Oh, would you look at that?” He pointed. \nThe once tired man followed his hand, seeing a beautiful red taildragger flying high in the sky, just beyond the path.\n“Let’s get a better look.” The man in white said, starting forward on the path. \nThe once tired man let out a chuckle. \n He smiled, then followed.\nMatthew 11:28-30 28 “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. 29 Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 30 For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Tea For The Queen\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2467\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the line “I can’t believe we’re arguing over this.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "WRITER NOTE: This is a retrospective for one of my characters, Queen Esther Greath, through her eyes in Chapter 41 of The Blacksmith's Nephew. This also happens to be one of my favorite chapters I have written so please enjoy.\n\nIt has been nearly four days since I, Queen Esther Greath of the Northern Kingdom of Rissindell, has sent my brave warriors out to save my one and only daughter Ruth. I have been hardly sleeping for the past few days. Each day, I keep on thinking about my daughter and each night, I was having nightmares which were being fueled with the Dark Wizard in them.\n\nOne night, I dreamt that Ruth gave up hope and said “I do” to the vile villain having to marry him for all eternity. The next night, I dreamt that the Dark Wizard killed all of her brave warriors and took Ruth beyond Rissindell, never to be seen again. But just last night had to be the worst one of them all! Ruth was somehow conceived to set her soul to darkness all thanks to the villain getting into her head. And with that, the two of them appeared in front of me trying to overthrown myself.\n\nAfter the final one of these series of nightmares, I've decided that I should start drinking hot tea before heading to bed. I was never a fan of tea to begin with but with the endless sleep and unwanted dreams, I had no choice but consider it as an option. \n\n It was about 6 o’clock in the evening at the Northern Kingdom. All was quiet throughout the night. Everyone in the village and castle were heading to bed early that evening. Ever since the kidnapping, everyone has been rather sad and depressed for the Princess was truly loved by many. The one who was suffering the most of them all was myself of course. \n\nThere hasn’t been much activity going around in the village because it was mostly Ruth who had made things such enjoyable. My Ruth would organize all kinds of events for us people in the Northern Kingdom. These events inlcluded: festivals, parties, masquerade balls, fashion shows, pie eating completions, singing and dancing contents. Everyone always had a blast at these events hosted by my lovely daughter of mine but with her gone and capture by the evil sorcerer, there was no need for such events. \n\nNo one worked at all and I was completely fine with this. I wouldn’t want my people to be out in case the Dark Wizard comes back to hurt them. Even the kids weren’t playing outside for their parents were awfully concerned about the evilness lurking about the village. Security was really tight within the week of my Ruth being gone. Though there haven’t even been any sorts of crimes at all in the village. This all made made the guards’ job easy yet extremely dull.\n\nEveryone and everything was quarantined expect for the knights and guards, for they were the essential lookouts during this time of need.\nWith everything being on lockdown mode, I had made sure my people got enough food and drinks to last the whole week. My guards, knights, servants and I gave the villagers the essential supplies for all of them to survive by going to each household. Even my dear best friend, Flavia, and her band of Fanjesters helped out with the supplies.\n\nI had made sure that Flavia and the Fanjesters would stay at the castle for the entire week. For I wouldn’t and didn't want them to be involved with any of this.\n\nThey accepted the offer but had no spirit of playing any type of music since Ruth was gone. I couldn't blame them; I won't have the heart for it either. The band was in lockdown as well as everyone else including myself was in the Northern Kingdom.\n\nIn my bedroom chambers up in the highest tower of the castle was where I slept. Before heading to bed, I had to drink my tea in order to try to get a good night rest. I sat there in my most comfortable chair near by the chimney which was warmed with fire. I wore a blue nightgown that night and with soft, delicate hands of mine, I held the cup as I felt the warmth given from the tea.\n\nI've requested a guard every night in my chambers while I was alone for I had feared that the Dark Wizard might want me as his next victim. The guard of the night: Aimon gave me my tea which was stored in a pot along with some sugar cubes, honey, and three cups all on a sliver plated tray. I offered Aimon some tea but he politely declined it. \n\nI then sat there and thought about my friend Flavia. We haven’t gotten talk much recently so I requested to have Flavia come join me for a cup of tea. Flavia accepts the invite, and shortly afterwards was seated on a chair next to me drinking some hot tea. Flavia wore a pink pair of onesies that evening. They also acquired white otters on it. She even wore some otters slippers made out of fake fur.\n\nThe two of us talked for some time once Flavia was acquired for. We chit chatted about the Fanjester’s journey across the country and beyond along with the my years of ruling and raising a child as a widowed parent over a cup of tea.\n\nThere I was, a more relaxed Queen sitting on a chair by the fire accompanied by a guard, best friend, and hot tea.\n\nSuddenly the fire in her chimney went out. Myself along with my guard and bestie became startled. A flame came up from the ground. It took shape of a six foot figure, the Dark Wizard: Gerlard, who stood there in the middle of the room grinning at the three of us. \n\nAimon quickly drew out his sword pointing it at the villain yet I held out my hand out for him to remain calm. He withdrew his sword but kept a very close eye on the evil sorcerer standing there before us. \n\nMeanwhile Flavia remained sitting there giving the villain an angry face. She didn’t want him here anymore than Aimon and I do.\n\n“Hello Beautiful, how are you doing on this lovely evening?” asked the villain through his villainous grin. He was referring to me when he asked the question.\n\n“What do you want now Gerlard?” I replied. “You are getting what you want! My warriors will be there before the week ends. Have you come here to surrender seeing my warriors’ potential of defeating you or did you want to kidnap me while you’re still at it?”\n\n“I’ve come here for old time’s sakes,” the villain said. “You see, it’s been years since we had talked, my love. And yes…I know you’re precious warriors are still on their way. I’ve been watching their every move. But no, I will never surrender because I am no quitter. You should know that given our history together. Anyways I’m good with just having your daughter as my prisoner and future wife.” \n\nI responded: “Save it! I don’t want to speak to you! You’re the cause of all of this! First of all, you waged war onto the great people of Rissindell; secondly, you killed my husband, Ruth’s father; third, you made everyone including my own people fear from any magic of the sort; and finally, you have kidnapped my daughter having me to be stressed and exhausted. There is no need to talk to you. You’re just wasting your time.”\n\n“Ha-ha-ha, sweet little Esther...always blaming it all on me for the troubles within the land of Rissindell…” said the villain as he drawls forward. Aimon the guard quickly drew out his sword again while Flavia and I immediately stood up from our cozy chairs. Gerlard sees this and chuckles. “Don’t mind me,” said the villain as he reached for the pot and cup from the table pouring himself some tea. \n\nGerlard poured his tea very dramatically and slow while having the three of us there standing feeling tense. The Dark Wizard takes his first sip from his tea, sighs with relieve and replied: “Ah, I do love me some tea…”\n\nMy dear friend Flavia then chimes in by saying: “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”\n\n“Flavia, please don’t provoke him,” I whispered to her.\n\nFlavia looks at me and replied: “It’s alright, my dear. I can handle this.” She then turns to Gerlard and continues on by saying: “You shouldn’t be here Gerlard. No one wants you here. You should leave because not only you have been stressing Esther out, but you’ve also have stressed me and the others out as well. All of this stress is killing me because of you kidnapping my precious niece.” \n\n“Ha,” chuckles the villain while rolling his eyes. He continued: “she isn’t your actual niece because you both aren’t blood related.”\n\nFlavia replied with frustration after hearing that comment: “That all doesn’t matter because I treat her as of my own. She is adopted by heart. Family is more than just being blood related. No matter who we are or where we have come from, we will always be there for each other. SHE IS MY NIECE NO MATTER WHAT YOU SAY!”\n\nI had some tears in my eyes. I've always appreciated that Flavia always treated my daughter as her own niece. But I had no patience with the villain at this point. “Gerlard, I’ll ask you one last time: what is it that you want?”\n\nThe villain stood there mid-sip while the I asked my question once more. He finishes his sip and then replied: “Why I have missed you oh so very much my dear. The only way I can reach you is through your dreams. You and I both know we had a thing for each other until that fowl king had to come into the picture and ruined everything.”\n\nI saw that coming. It wasn’t surprising that Gerlard would bring those sorts of stuff up especially with all the things he had pulled in the past. He always had to blame it on someone or something else he has done onto himself. 'I can’t believe we’re arguing over this,' I said this to myself mentally, 'especially when it was his own doing.'\n\nBut with soft sigh, I replied back: “Yes…we did have a thing, but that was a very long time ago before you started talking madness. You talked about wanting unlimited power and gaining control over everyone. Plus, I didn’t like that we were secretly dating considering it was against the rule for a knight to be in any sort of romance. Reuben came to me when I was at my lowest. I was only a milkmaid having with little to no pay. When he visited at the Capital’s market day all those years ago, he had brought all the milk he needed for him and his people. I could see his kindness from my own eyes with that gesture! He also saw something in me no one else could see and neither could I back then, which was my beauty. Since then, I have loved him and he loved me. Reuben’s twice the man you ever will be!”\n\n“SHUT IT!” shouted Gerlard making his flame burst upward making him look a little taller than he was. \n\nFlavia and I both took a step back. Meanwhile my loyal guard: Aimon went in front of us while we stood behind him. \n\nThe villain then takes his fist over his mouth and coughs, continuing more calmly now: “I loved you and you broke my heart. You should have given me a chance. No one else did and here I was thinking you’ll be different. But nope, I was wrong. You can’t be trusted. Not you, not anyone.”\n\nI was quite frustrated and tired. I've had enough of this man’s grudge towards me. Yet somehow I had felt a little bad from what he had to go through but even still, his actions were as of a madman. \n\nI sighed once again before continuing with a calm voice: “I had feelings for you too but that was all gone when I saw something in you that I didn’t want. I saw the ugliness from within. I’m sorry for breaking your heart but I couldn’t trust you either with all the things you had did in your past at the Knight’s Academy especially when you started the war. I hope you had made some closure today because I did what I can do for you. Now, please leave and never come back here ever again! And also stay out of my dreams, you creep!”\n\nGerlard responded: “As a matter of fact: yes, I now have some closure. It was about time I did. You know, you and I are the same if you think about it…Still holds true.” \n\nThe Dark Wizard then threw the tea cup into the chimney causing it to break in pieces onto the warmed logs. The villain then walks away to the middle of the room and slightly turns his head continuing: “And thank you Esther for the apology. You were always apologetic.”\n\nI was furious at this point from what he had said. For what he had said was true. In actuality, Gerlard and I were the same in a sense because both blame each other for what had happened all those years ago. So I threw my cup towards the Dark Wizard but as far as it went, it didn’t hit him for the fire was already gone, deceasing to the floor. \n\nI stood there for a moment with some heavy breathing through my mouth and nose. Aimon withdrew his sword as Flavia attends to me and says: “You must sit down, Esther dear.”\n\n“Yes, yes Flavia, you are right. Thank you honey,” I replied as I sat back down back on my cozy chair with Flavia and Aimon watching over me. I sat there praying in thought as my eyes shut: “Lord, please help my dear daughter and brave warriors come back home safe and sound.” \n\nAfter my little prayer, the chimney fire came back after the conversation with Gerlard and the pot was now filled with lukewarm tea.\nAs I seated still there, I thought about the knight rule and how silly it was. I've been thinking of changing it for quite some time now ever since I met Terrance all those years ago. I thought to myself: 'I shall have it taken care of once my warriors come back safely with my one and only daughter.'" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Passing Signs\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2471\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where your character is travelling a road that has no end." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t in this truck. The humming of the tires on the asphalt droned on forever, a constant note which was both comforting and ominous. Landscapes changed, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. Grassy hills gave way to dark, misty forests, then desert sands stretched out as far as could be seen on every horizon except for one. Before her, across the flat sands as the road disappeared from view there was a beautiful mountain range. \n Even from the highway it could be seen that the peaks were full of life. The mountains were dark green all the way to the top. Behind the mountains there was a radiant light which outlined them with bright beaming rays pouring out into the sky. \n Sometimes the mountains seemed very close and Kyra believed she could see tiny dots on the closest peak. She imagined these to be trees or possibly houses. But other times the mountain seemed very far away, with clouds covering them and the light beyond the mountains being barely visible. \n Kyra longed to be in the mountains, but she was also excited about her present journey as well. Deep in the recesses of her mind she could remember awakening for the first time. She found herself lying on the soft, cushioned seats, blinking her eyes and peering out of the window, fascinated with the world that unfolded before her. She was surprised to find that the vehicle was moving all on its own. The speedometer always showed the same speed with only one exception. Each night, the truck would pull over beside the road and stop. \n At this point she would get out, perform any maintenance that was needed and then stretch onto the bench seat and drift off to sleep. The next morning the truck was always moving forward again at the same speed. How or when it started in the night she did not know. This had been going on for so many days and nights that she was now quite used to the routine.\n She had recently passed the 19th signpost. You see, after many days and nights of this routine a signpost would appear. It was always a large, green sign with a curved symbol on it that she could not understand. She always counted each signpost as they only appeared every once in a long while. \n The 19th signpost came into view during a time when the landscapes were changing quickly. Kyra was enamored with the beautiful, flowing fields that came into view on the horizon ahead of the more recent desert sands. A small, white chapel could be seen in the distance with orchards and fruit trees and many other things which were interesting and unknown to her. Each turn in the road brought these rich and wonderful lands closer.\n She had recently grown much more fond of her truck in the time that she had passed the last few signposts. The nightly maintenance routine had become longer and longer. While she used to only focus on the essentials such as cleaning the windshield and wiping down the headlights, now she had added in all types of new tasks such as waxing the entire exterior, adding shine to the tires and a whole list of other small things to keep the truck looking immaculate and new. \n One evening as she had stopped on the side of the road she heard a voice call out to her from somewhere ahead. \n “Hello Kyra!”\nShe jumped and almost dropped the towel she was holding. It was a man with a long, brown beard and simple clothing. He seemed to be both old and young at the same time. His eyes were deepened by his travels on the road, yet his face was youthful and full.\n“Where did you come from?” Kyra said, looking around. She was searching for another vehicle but there were none to be seen. \n“I am Johan, a guide for journeyers such as yourself. I have traveled this road for much further than you have, past the sixtieth signpost.”\n“The sixtieth? Surely you have been up in the mountains then?” Her heart leapt as she pointed ahead to the glistening peaks which seemed so near.\n“No,” said Johan, “But I am getting closer. You see, not everyone reaches the mountains after passing the same signpost. It is possible that you may reach the mountains before I do.”\nShe frowned and turned back towards the truck, running the towel across the hood. \nHe continued, “Listen, there are a lot of things that you don’t fully comprehend, things you have heard but can’t possibly understand now, as your journey has only carried you to the nineteenth sign. I came to advise you.”\nShe set her towel down on the hood of the truck and leaned back against the bumper with arms folded. Something within her said that she should listen to this man, but she had never spoken to someone with this level of intensity and directness. It was unnerving. \nJohan said, “It is best that you learn what is important now, while it is early in your journey. You have been neglecting yourself.”\n“That’s not true!”\n“It is true.”\n”I have been working tirelessly to maintain the truck! As you have told me, there are many signposts ahead to be passed. I have worked hard to keep my vehicle in the absolute best shape it can be!”\n“I’m not talking about the vehicle, Kyra. It is good that you maintain it so well. And you may be right about the signs ahead. But I am talking about you, not the vehicle.”\n“Me?”\n“Yes. When was the last time you ate? Your face is thin. Your eyes are tired and red. Your hair is a mess. If you continue like this there will be much wasted time.”\n“I am doing fine. Honestly, it is insulting that you would talk to me this way!” said Kyra, hurriedly pulling her hair back and wiping her face with a quick brush. “Don’t you see the beautiful fields ahead? The chapel? There is so much to learn, so much to be seen that I have never experienced. I’m fine, really. Thank you for your concern, but it is getting dark, I need to get going.”\nJohan sighed. “Kyra, yes there are many enjoyable places ahead of you, But you must not forget to nurture yourself. The real you. Your truck is in excellent condition now, but one day it won’t be. You will live forever, but it will one day come to an end.” \n Kyra barely heard the end of Johan’s pleaing words. She jumped back into the truck and slammed the door. Dark was creeping in quickly now and she curled up on the seat, falling asleep within minutes. The next morning she awoke to the familiar hum of the tires on the road. Beautiful skies and flowing fields streaked by her as each day seemed more exciting than the last. \n She forgot all about Johan and his warnings. The truth was, she knew he was right. But there was so much to look forward to in the days ahead. So she shut his words out from her mind and only focused on the scenery around her. \n As the days continued the signposts began to pass faster and faster. Soon they almost seemed like a blur as they streaked by the window. The road became rougher in places, asphalt turned to gravel and then back to asphalt again. \n The truck was not running as smoothly as it once had. Recently she had noticed some squeaking sounds when the truck would slow down at the end of the day. Also, the handle in the glove compartment had broken off. The outside of the truck was also beginning to show signs of age as well. No matter how much she cleaned and waxed it, it didn’t shine as well as it used to. \n She began spending more and more time with her maintenance routine, staying up late to perform it and sleeping less and less. She spent greater amounts of time thinking of new ways to keep it as clean and beautiful as those early days, sometimes it seemed that this was the only thought in her mind.\n One evening she had spent more time than ever attempting to restore the truck to its former glory. Sweat dripped off of her frail body as she took a few paces back admiring her work. In the last rays of the sunlight the vehicle looked good, but not the same as it was long ago. The frame had begun to sag, there were also many chips in the paint from the gravel roads. Signs of wear had begun to show on many parts. She also could see that the tire treads were becoming more and more shallow.\n She sighed and fell to her knees, panting from exhaustion. It had been a while since she had truly stepped back and looked at the vehicle from a distance. Tears formed in her eyes and she didn’t bother wiping them away. For a long time she sat there, motionless as the last sunlight faded and the vehicle became one with the blackness behind it. A quiet stillness surrounded everything. \n Her tear-stained eyes turned from the dim outline of the truck to the road ahead. Even at night the light shone from behind the mountains, illuminating them against the sky. Far down the road she could see the silhouette of a man walking toward her. He wore light colored clothing and walked slowly and deliberately. It was Johan. As he approached, Kyra could see that his beard was longer, but even after all this time he did not appear to be any older. She watched him approach as clouds covering the moon moved away, brightening the grassy field around them.\n“Hello Kyra,” he said as he came close enough to speak. \nShe looked down. \nHe went on. “You don’t look well. What is troubling you?”\nHe waited for a moment and when there was no reply he sat down in the grass next to her, both of them looking at the vehicle before them and the land which stretched on toward the mountains.\n“Kyra, have you thought of what we spoke about when we last met? Or have you forgotten? I have passed the eightieth marker now. I can smell the sweetness of the mountains before me. I’m getting close to the end of my journey. I came to see you, to know what you have learned as you have made your way through the lands beyond the 19th sign.”\nHe shifted to where he was looking directly at her and continued, “Kyra, you know that your vehicle will not continue to carry you forever. You should take care of it, but you must focus on what is greater. Your vehicle is made of this earth, which is both beautiful and fallen. It won’t be able to ascend into the mountains. One day it will stop moving forward and then you will have to leave it behind. In some ways, this will be a day of sadness but also of new life. It will be a fulfillment of what you truly long for, a great change from the temporary to the eternal”\n“I know this,” Kyra said, “But I’ve never been without the vehicle. It seems like it is my whole life. I really can’t imagine leaving it behind. Last time we talked, I knew what you were saying was true, but… I guess… I just thought I had more time.”\n“You must not allow your life to be wrapped up in this vehicle, Kyra. It will break down and stop one day. Focus on the building up of what will last in the age to come, what will go on into the mountains when this vehicle turns to rust. You are a living soul, and the frame of this vehicle will one day crumble. You must feed yourself, Kyra. Seek to rid yourself of the cursedness of this earth to prepare for the world beyond. Leave this obsession with the temporal and move to thinking of the eternal. Do you remember the words of your Creator? This vehicle is a gift, and you should take care of it. But don’t hold onto anything in this world too tightly, or you will be greatly disappointed as your journey here draws to an end.”\n“I guess I’m just afraid.” Kyra said, “It’s hard to trust in what will be, when all I have known is this world. I do long for the mountains, but I am afraid of the change.”\nJohan stood up. “Kyra, you must trust in your Creator and believe his words. Did He not give you this truck and supply you with this world around us? Yes, it is broken and cursed from our sin but His goodness is still reflected in it. His mercy is shown in every sunset and flower. He placed you here, and He placed the longing inside you for the land beyond the mountains. For a greater land. And besides, if he supplied you with this vehicle for this world, do you not think he is capable of providing you with another, better one in the next? Trust Him and grow in your longing for what is to come, loosen your grip on your life as it is now.”\nWith these words Johan stood up, turned and walked back towards the road . The light beyond the mountains outlined his body as he slowly disappeared from view. This was the last time that Kyra saw him. \n Her life contained much more joy after this meeting she had with Johan. In the days to come her eyes were focused more than ever on the mountains ahead. They seemed closer now, and the light behind the mountains grew brighter. The signs continued to pass by as time went on, faster and faster. Her truck continued to show more signs of wear each evening as she performed her routine, but her heart no longer was intertwined to the metal frame of her vehicle. In a strange way she also had a different, deeper appreciation for it. She grew in her understanding that it was a gift which was meant to be used. It was given to be worn and spent as it carried her on towards the glistening mountains on the horizon. \n The hum of the tires droned on. The road continued to wind to and fro with landscapes changing, sometimes slowly, sometimes rapidly. Her vehicle rattled and squeaked each night when it came to a stop. This didn’t cause her to be afraid. She was a soul, not a body of rust, and that is all that mattered." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Night Of Waking Dreams\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2600\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character saying “I can see it now.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“I can see it now,” She says nervously. Her big blue eyes stare over you, out the window. “I can see the rain now. It wasn’t raining before, was it?”\nYou pretend to be asleep. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. You force yourself to take big, deep breaths, breaths like the ones Aria takes, the times she’s fallen asleep faster than you. You let out a little sigh, a sleeping sigh, and pray it wasn’t too dramatic.\nAria is sitting up. She had been asleep—then the storm started. Probably woke up to the sound of the sky cracking in half and booming as it broke.\nNot literally, of course. But by the thundering growls outside, it sure sounded like it.\n‘Iris?’ Aria’s small hand taps your shoulder, ‘Iris? Are you asleep?’\nYou choose not to answer.\nYour eyes are closed, but you can still feel her eyes on you, in the way most sisters can. She’s watching for a twitch of the eye, a flick of the wrist, a jerk of the leg.\nAnd you won’t give it to her.\nThe thunder roars, past the yellow flowered curtains, lighting filling up the night sky like flying electric eels. Squinting your eyes the littlest bit, you see shadows dancing and twirling and waltzing on the bedroom wall. The room, and the world outside the window, looks eery and dark. The clouds cover the moon, but sometimes they shift to let its light through.\nThe soft glowing white rays illuminate the walls and the objects in the messy bedroom, filling places that shouldn’t be filled with a sheet of ghostly white. The storm and the night work together to play tricks on your eyes, on your mind. You see a shape flick past you, to your right. Or maybe you don’t. you hear a howling in the distance. Or maybe you don’t. a hill to the west, not visible through the small window, but there nonetheless, would make a perfect place for howling at the moon. A perfect place for dangerous night things. A perfect place for fear.\nBut you’re thirteen years old. Storms don’t scare you. You’ve studied them in school, studied their patterns and formations. And you’ve lived on this farm all your life, lived near the hill to the west, and you have never seen a dangerous night thing.\nYet.\nA small hum comes from your side, light and high and worried. A siren. Or a little girl.\nYou remember Aria next to you. In truth, you never forgot. You feel her weight shift, as she lays back down, seemingly giving up on the thought of waking you.\nNot that she could. You like to consider yourself the best fake-sleeper there is. Seven years of sharing a bed with Aria does that to you.\nYou wait until you hear her breathing slow, hear her whimpers resolve. You turn slowly on your side, facing her, silently hoping she’s really asleep. Or even in that land between sleep and waking, that land filled with tunnels of light and explosions of dreaming particles. You like that feeling, that feeling of being half-asleep, half-awake. You like feeling like time has frozen in place. You feel safe there, in that land, so close and yet so far away.\nYou hope Aria feels safe, there, too.\nHer little body is curled in on itself, frilled, clumped. She holds a small bundle—a bundle of rags. A bundle called Rugs. A bundle called love.\nHer young, plump fingers squeeze the tighter and tighter and tighter. Unflinching. Clenching. Because it seems she’s still awake. It seems she hears the thunder. Though her eyes are closed, she must see the bright flashes of lightning behind her lids.\nThat’s alright. You used to worry that you subconsciously liked Aria best when she was sleeping. A strange worry, that was. You’ve had a lot of strange worries.\nBut you know now, for sure, that even though you like sleeping Aria, you like awake Aria better. Normally. But maybe not now. Not an hour past midnight.\nShe looks so peaceful, even if she’s only faking sleep.\nAnd then, the thunder cries louder than it has before. The ground seems to rumble the ceiling fan swings ever so slightly, casting a dancing shadow—a large bird flying in the dim light.\nAria’s eyes fly open. Her death grip on Rugs loosens and she reaches her small arm to you. She needs you.\n‘Iris,’ her little voice—the voice of a bumblebee, mother says—calls to you.\n‘The storm,’ she whinnies, a pony with pigtails, ‘Rugs is scared.’\nRugs is scared. Of course rugs is scared. Rugs is a bundle of rags. If you were a bundle of rags, you'd be scared, too.\nFine. Fine, she wants you awake. You had both been faking each other, in truth. And you both knew it, too. You weren’t asleep, and neither was she.\n‘What, Ari?’ your voice comes out more crackly than you thought it would, ‘What can I do to help Rugs feel better?’\nA roaring thunderous boom.\nAria sits bolt upright. Her hair is sticking up at all angles, and you would laugh, if she didn’t look so terrified.\n‘Rugs wants a story. Can you tell him a story, Iris?’ she says.\n‘Ari, its late. Later than late. I’m not sure if a story’s a good idea.’\n‘Pleasssse,’ she stretches out the word so long it sounds more like a moan.\n‘Oh, alright. One story. And then will Rugs stop pestering me and go to sleep?’\nShe bobs her head full of straw-colored hair. Up and down. Up and down.\n‘Once upon a time,’ you start, ‘there lived two sisters. One of them, the older one, was called…um…Isabel. and the younger one was named…Addy. And they were pirates. They lived on a boat called the Dangerous Night Thing, but they called it the DNT for short. Yeah. The DNT. Anyway, the two sisters were—’\n‘Princesses?’\n‘Excuse me?’\n‘They were princesses, right? Weren’t they princesses, Iris?’\n‘Uh…well, I told you they were pirates. That’s their thing.’\n‘They can have two things, though. Can’t they be pirate princesses?’\n‘Pirate—oh, fine. Let me keep going, though. These two pirate princesses sailed the seven seas with the DNT, and they fought sea monsters for a living. Not because they liked too, really, but because fighting sea monsters was a stable job with a good hourly pay. And this one night, they were fighting a big sea monster with tentacles. It was like a giant octopus, if a giant octopus was neon orange. And it had one eye. One big, glaring, blinking eye. And it could swallow a whole fishing boat with one gulp, a bit like how you ate your potato salad yesterday. But it couldn’t eat the DNT, because the DNT was as big as it was. It would be like you, trying to eat a motorcycle. If you were the size of a motorcycle. But yeah. Isabella—’\n‘Isabel, Iris. Her name was Isabel.’\nYou give Aria the stink eye. ‘No,’ you say, ‘I’m telling the story and I say her name was Isabel. But she went by Isabella, sometimes, too.’\nShe shrugs. ‘Keep going.’\n‘That’s all there is to it. They were fighting a sea monster. In the DNT. And they were winning. The end.’\n‘That’s not a very good story.’\n‘I know.’\n‘Then make it better.’\nYou cross your arms. ‘How?’\n‘Act it out.’ Aria’s little bottom lips pouts out. She seems to have forgotten about the storm outside. Good. You’ll keep it that way.\n‘Alright. Lets say the bed is the boat. See that chair? That’s a lifeboat. And the ceiling fan in a seagull.’\nThe thunder clapped outside. Aria leaned closer to you.\n‘Rugs doesn’t like the thunder, Iris,’ she says softly.\n‘Well, tell Rugs that’s not thunder. That’s just the sea monster roaring as we so bravely vanquish it.’\nAria’s frown twists and flips until it runs into a grin.\n‘I can tell him that. So we’re fighting it—the sea monster—right now?’\n‘Yup. We’re winning, too.’\nAnd, looking out into the bedroom, you let yourself imagine. You haven’t, in a long time, but you do now. The carpet dissolves into a black ocean. Your guitar in the corner tangles into a school of piranhas. There have to be piranhas. Obviously. Aria’s soccer ball becomes the DNT’s anchor, slowly sinking so that you can keep fighting the monster.\nOh, the monster. It roars and growls and hisses. It gets louder every few seconds, then dies down as you stab at it with your swords. Side by side, you and Aria take on a beast.\nBut the roaring gets louder. Louder than any living thing could get. And the carpet turns to carpet again, and the guitar and soccer ball become just that. And you and Aria find yourselves squatting on the bed together, facing a monster that never existed.\nA powerful crash of thunder.\n‘Iris?’ Aria’s bumblebee voice squeaks, ‘I don’t want to be on the boat anymore. Rugs is scared. Tell me another story.’\nAnd you do. Because you want to feel that feeling again—that feeling you get when you imagine, and everything dissolves into something better. You want to feel alive.\nThis time, the story starts in a jungle.\n‘Not just a jungle, a jungle cave. Two super smart and brave scientist ladies are there together, studying the rare one-footed dart frog. The frog lives on trees but will squirt poison at your through its eyes if it sees you. So that’s why they’re hiding in the cave. And in this jungle, it never rains or thunders. Ever. Never ever.’\n‘But Iris,’ Aria interrupts, ‘How are there trees if it never rains?’\nSo smart, that one.\n‘Well,’ You say quickly, ‘The trees get their water from an underground river. Like a aquifer.’\nTake that big word, Aria. You’re smart, too. Aquifer. Ha.\n‘Where’s the cave for us?’ she asks.\n‘Under the bed, of course. Ready to go?’\nAnd together you crawl under the bed. Its warm and stuffy, and its cramped (because you seem to have grown since the last time you were there), but a jungle cave is warm and stuffy and cramped, too.\n‘That pile of clothes? That’s a rare berry bush. Called the shadow berry. The lamp it the tree we’re watching. And that stain on the lamp, from when I spilled my chocolate milk, is the one-footed frog. It looks asleep, but its only faking.’\nAria stares at the frog with an intensiveness you match. You can hear the tropical birds calling to each other from high above.\nAnd then you hear a scratching sound. Like a fingernail against a blackboard. But it’s not, obviously. No, it’s the big oak outside the window dragging its branch across the glass.\nErrrrrch.\nIt might be the spookiest sound you’ve heard all night.\nAria shivers beside you. She’s not looking at the stain or the lamp or the pile of dirty clothes anymore. She’s looking out the window, at the dark silhouette of the branch, like a witch’s hand, dragging on the sill.\nAnd before you can stop her, Aria’s squirming out from under the bed, Rugs in hand. In a flash she jumps under the covers and pulls the quilt over her eyes. You hear her ragged breathing coming fast from beneath the fabric.\nIt takes you longer than it took her, but you join her on the bed.\n‘Aria?’ you ask quietly.\n‘I don’t want to be in the cave anymore,’ she says, ‘Rugs is scared. Tell a different story?’\nIts late. And you’re starting to feel tired. The adrenaline from studying the poison-shooting jungle frog is wearing thin.\n‘I think we need to get some sleep. Rugs, too.’\nThis affects her instantly.\n‘I caaan’t!’ she whines. If Rugs talked, he would be whining, too.\nYou rub you temples. But you have an idea.\n‘Fine. One more story. Once upon a time, there was a little girl. This little girl wasn’t a pirate, or a princess, or a scientist. She didn’t live on a boat, or in a jungle cave. She lived in a little house on a farm with a hill to the west. And she was sitting on a bed with a blue quilt. And she was holding a ball of kitchen rags wadded together. She called it Bugs.’\nAria’s eyes narrowed. ‘This girl sounds a lot like me. And Bugs sound a lot like Rugs. I don’t know what you’re doing, Iris, but whatever it is, stop it.’\nYou go on.\n‘And its storming outside. But here’s the thing: this little girl and her bundle of rags—Bugs—loved storms. And so she walked up to the window and looked out. And she saw God. Well, maybe not God, but she saw something that looked a lot like God. She saw little drops of silver, falling from the sky in the smallest drops. Where had those drops been before? She saw a flash of bright light, like a ray of sunshine, only faster, quicker, smarter, filling the night sky with a powerful blanket of a thousand stars. She saw the fingers of a motherly oak, stroking the windows in a caress. And she heard the most spectacular sound. Like a billion moments of laughter, all bundled up together. Like a collection—a chorus! Of miraculously hilarious instances, let out in a few seconds of built up noise. It was awesome. And the little girl just sat there, for the rest of the thunderstorm, with Bugs by her side, and she watched and listened. And she felt so small. But that felt good. Because there was so much out there—so much awesomeness. And the storm reminded her of that. And then, after she got really tired, she went to sleep. And because she was asleep, her big sister felt safe and secure. And her big sister kissed the little girl’s cheek, and kissed Bugs’…well…kissed on of Bug’s rags, and went to sleep, too. The end.’\nYou cleared your throat. And sat in a moment of silence. Was Aria asleep?\nYou turned to face her. No. no, she was awake. She wasn’t looking at you, though. And she wasn’t looking at the bed-boat, or the lamp-tree. She was looking out the window, at the rain. The lighting. The oak branch rubbing the window. And the thunder boomed loud and powerful and good, and she didn’t hide. She didn’t curl closer to you. She just held Rugs a little tighter, and kept watching.\nAnd she didn’t say a word. She just sat there. And you sat there. But oh, were you tired. Slowly, ever so slowly, you laid down. You closed you eyes. You fell asleep.\nLater, you awoke—but not really. You were half-awake, and half-asleep. Maybe your eyes opened, and maybe they didn’t, but the next morning, you could have sworn you had seen Aria, still watching the window, a small smile playing on her lips.\nHours passed, and then you woke up for real. It was still dark outside. The storm was over. Water droplets were racing each other down the window pane, and the oak’s branch wasn’t waving in the wind anymore.\nAria was next to you, fast asleep.\nYou leaned over and kissed her forehead. And then you kissed Rug’s…well…rag. And you laid down next to your little sister, and let yourself drift off into a world of your on creation. You dreamt of pirate princesses and neon orange sea monsters. Of explorers and poisonous fake-sleeping frogs. And you dreamt of new things, wonderfully crazy things, until morning came." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Nothing But Blue Skies\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1703\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone whose job is to make miracles happen, literally or figuratively." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Your husband tells me you can’t sleep.\n\nI explained to him--Is his name Frank? I explained to Frank that it’s not that you’re not sleeping. It’s that you’re not sleeping well. You’re getting some sleep here and there whether you know it or not. The trouble is that it’s of no quality. Sleep is like food--there’s the good kind and the bad kind. You’re getting potato chip sleep. You need carrot stick sleep. Did you ever show your children the food pyramid when they were younger? Not that it’s any of my business what you did or didn’t show your children. I never had children. I told myself if I was going to have children I would want nine girls. If I couldn’t guarantee myself that I’d have nine girls, I wouldn’t bother at all. So I never bothered. I got a lot of sleep though.\n\nThat’s just a little joke.\n\nMy mother used to beg me not to joke. She’d say “Crystal, you are my golden child. My gem. My Faberge egg. But you are not funny and never will be.”\n\nShe had a talent for honesty.\n\nNow your husband, Frank--Is his name Frank?--He’s at a hotel tonight. It’ll just be you and me. I brought some yarn, because I’m working on--I work on all kinds of little projects. I hope you don’t mind. I’m making some blue. Isn’t blue a lovely color? Everything I do, I opt for blue. Blue sweaters, blue blankets. I never had enough blue growing up. I didn’t see colors until I was fourteen. It broke my heart. I’d look at a fresh strawberry and it was no different than looking at a newspaper in terms of the aesthetic. On my fourteenth birthday, I was helping my father fix something on our roof. I had to help him, because both my brothers were scared of heights. I wasn’t scared of anything. While I was up there, I felt a dizzy spell come over me. The next thing I know, I’m down on the ground. My mother saw me come down right in front of the kitchen window. She screamed bloody murder. The scream was what woke me up. I opened my eyes, and what did I see?\n\nBlue.\n\nThese beautiful blue skies.\n\nFrom that moment on, I could see any color I wanted. My mother and father said it was a miracle. What a tiny miracle, I thought. Some girl who saw the world as dull and gray could suddenly see maroon and aqua. I thought miracles were supposed to be all about healing those who couldn’t walk or saving the souls of the damned. I felt selfish. An entire miracle wasted on me being able to appreciate a blue sky. My mother told me not to question it. Who knows what would happen now that I’d been made better? Maybe that meant I was supposed to do something with all these colors I was seeing. Become a painter or a writer of some kind. I never did either, but I did pay attention to the little ways people can be assisted when they’re struggling. When I turned eighteen, I started posting little notices all around my town.\n\nPotential Miracles - Free of Charge\n\nPotential meaning--I don’t know if I can actually do miracles. It seems to me that if someone’s had a miracle bestowed upon them, it might have rubbed off a bit.\n\nI found out pretty quickly that I have no skill at healing the injured. I can’t make ignorant people worldly or hateful people kind. I laid hands on my cousin Sherman, who could never remember anybody’s birthday, and his bad memory stayed bad.\n\nWhen I had no luck with people, I tried animal and mineral. The family dog was missing an eye, and no matter how hard I prayed over him, the eye never grew back. Dead plants remained dead. I tried to turn a head of lettuce into a cabbage--a simple enough miracle, I would think. Nothing doing.\n\n“It’s all right, Crystal,” my father comforted me as I held the leafy green, “I never did like cabbage too much anyhow.”\n\nIt wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that I discovered I could do miracles after all. My roommate, Rhonda--I think her name was Rhonda?--She had trouble getting that carrot stick sleep. She’d toss and turn all night. Finally, one night, I said to her, “Rhonda, I’d like to try and perform a miracle on you, if you’re up for that.”\n\nRhonda looked at me like I was a talking pentagram, and I guess I don’t blame her. She came from a family of atheists and Communists, and people were always trying to show her Jesus in their cornflakes in the mess hall at breakfast. I let her know I wasn’t trying for a conversion. Just wanted to contribute to the positive energy of the Universe.\n\nThe poor thing was so exhausted, I think she would have let Ivan the Terrible sing a lullaby to her if it would have helped. Ivan was probably a better singer than me, so I didn’t try anything like that. I just sat across from Rhonda--I think her name was Rhonda. Rhonda or Rhoda like from The Mary Tyler Moore Show--I sat across from her and I told her I’d be right there, sitting awake, if she felt like sleeping.\n\nNow, she must have thought that was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard, because what good does somebody sitting across from you do when you’re trying to sleep? If anything, it should make you self-conscious, shouldn’t it? Somebody staring at you? Eyeballing you while you’re trying to give your beleaguered body some respite? But something in my soul told me that was what Rhonda needed, and you know what?\n\nShe passed out in two minutes flat.\n\nWell, once word got out that I could put people to sleep, I was loaded with requests. It turns out college students live and breathe off potato chip sleep, and if I could help get them to the higher plane of REM, they’d have more energy for studying--or partying. That’s how I ended up sitting across from someone every night until they went to sleep. Two minutes was all it took--sometimes less. Nearly all of them offered to pay me, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I was so excited to finally have a gift, there was no way I was going to risk losing it by using my ability for selfish reasons.\n\nNot to mention the fact that as soon as I found my first gift, my second one came along right behind it. You see, once I started helping other people sleep, I noticed I didn’t need any sleep of my own.\n\nOh sure, I’d try.\n\nAs soon as my nightly charge was awash in slumber, I’d retire to my own bed--but nothing would happen. I’d just lay there. The wild part was that it didn’t affect me whatsoever. Every morning I’d get out of bed feeling as revived and refreshed as if I’d slept like Van Winkle under his tree. I told my doctor about it, and he explained to me in a very slow-moving voice, that I had to be getting sleep. That there was no way I could exist without it. He said I’d die if that was the case. \n\nThat was nearly forty years ago.\n\nI haven’t died. I haven’t slept. And I can still get anybody to sleep in two minutes or less--free of charge.\n\nOnce somebody asked me if I miss sleeping. I couldn’t lie and say I didn’t. I used to have wonderful dreams every night about flying over the great mountain ranges of the world. Soaring through the blue skies--especially once I knew what blue was. Then again, you have to sacrifice if you want to do good in this world. I lose some sleep, and somebody else gains the sleep I lost. Seems like a fair trade to me. And all that extra time comes in handy. For one thing, I always get my taxes done early.\n\nMost of the time I’m there when somebody wakes up. To see the realization on their faces that they’ve been asleep when they thought they were going to be eating potato chips forever? It moves me every time. The doctor who saves your life may be like a god to some people, but the woman who tells you she’ll be there if you feel like letting yourself go for a few hours so nobody comes along to harm you might just be an angel.\n\nOh yeah, that’s how I think of it. Maybe the reason people can’t sleep is because we have it conditioned in our bones to never be vulnerable. Never weak. Never at risk of having somebody or something hurt us. So as much as we tell ourselves to give in to rest, another more primal part of us fights back. It might go back to the Stone Age days, I bet. Chances are, nobody got any real sleep until we started sleeping in packs. In communities. One person always stayed up with the fire to make sure nothing bad happened. Even then, I bet some people had a hard time. Why wouldn’t they? Good sleep is a matter of trust. It’s hard to trust these days.\n\nSome people think of me as a kind of Sleeping Angel, but I don’t see it that way at all. I just think something about me is easy to trust, and this is one of the benefits. You see me sit down across from you, and that part of your brain that’s been keeping you up says--\n\nWe’ll be okay with this one here. As long as she doesn’t try to tell us any jokes.\n\nThe next thing you know, you’re flying through those blue skies just like I used to do.\n\nI’ll admit it’s not much of a miracle, but--\n\nOh, would you look at that.\n\nAnd I didn’t even have time to sit down.\n\nWell, some are easier than others, I suppose.\n\nBetter go call--\n\nFrank?\n\nIs it Frank?\n\nYou know what?\n\nNever mind.\n\nI’ll ask you when you wake up." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Meek Shall Inherit the Earth\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1936\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Don’t interrupt, it’s not polite. Wait your turn. Stop fidgeting. Make eye contact. Are you even listening? Speak when spoken to. Children are seen and not heard.\n\n\n\nChicka-chicka-chicka. The plastic blades on the oscillating desk fan perched in the kitchen corner awkwardly rubbed the slightly dented cage while it continued to push air. The hardwood dining table was covered with a vinyl tablecloth decorated with vibrant summer flowers. It was the kind that when you rest upon it for a bit too long, especially when it was as warm as it was today, it makes that horrendous sound when you peel it off your skin as you move. The chair under me was slightly unbalanced, the front left leg teetering ever so slightly. It was my only salvation as the two women around the table continued their in-depth conversation.\n\n“Your daughter is causing you a lot of concern? What is she doing that has you so troubled?” My mother’s voice sounded so kind and understanding but I caught the air of superiority as she glanced in my direction. I was supposed to take note of the heartbreak this rebellious child was causing this poor woman.\n\n“Yes, ever since she started high school she has been running with the wrong crowd. Recently she has started to come home at all hours of the night. I fear the Devil has gripped her soul.” Mrs. Vaughn lowered her eyes, the surface of her tea quivered as she tried to keep her composure. I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to be completely open with us, we could barely say we knew each other. My mother had made her acquaintance not even a week ago when she wandered into our church on Sunday.\n\nI wanted to comfort her but I was not there to contribute. I was there as a resume reference since I was such a ‘perfect child’. My ability to be well-behaved qualified my mother to speak to this woman about how to raise her daughter to be as lovely as the example I was meant to portray. I wiggled in my chair and felt the easy tilt as the weight pushed to the unbalanced foot and made a soft tap sound on the laminate floor. Mother’s eyes were immediately on me, a reminder little girls are not supposed to move. Girls dress nicely, look pretty, stay quiet and well-behaved, just like dolls. That is what good little girls should be, it doesn’t matter if you’re 5 or 50. Age does not change the fact you are supposed to be a ‘good little girl’ in this world.\n\n“Naida, you’ve been through so much. The loss of your husband and now your daughter is acting out. How old was she again?” my mother pressed, again hoping to draw parallels between Mrs. Vaughn’s daughter and me. I had just started high school myself; her daughter and I were likely close in age.\n“She just turned 16. It seems like just the other day she was so young.” Mrs. Vaughn sighed heavily, thinking about how her daughter changed and how helpless she was to prevent it.\n\nThe two women bonded over the hardship of children growing up in a world full of the corrupting forces of hell. Their repartee was familiar but meaningless. They spoke for hours saying little to nothing of import. I attempted to pass the time by playing a game show in my mind based on their conversation. They were the contestants and the first one to break the small talk string lost. They volleyed back and forth, and my eyes followed their mouths as a spectator watching a ball in a tennis match. The tea we had first been served had long since gone cold and Mrs. Vaughn lost the game by realizing that they must both be parched from talking so long.\n\n“Would you like some more tea?” Mrs. Vaughn was already up and out of her chair.\n\n“Ye…” my mouth made the movements to form the words but no air seemed to pass through. Nothing intelligible came out only a mouse-ish squeak.\n\n“No, thank you. We’ll have to be going soon.” Mother answered for both of us as I tried to clear my throat.\n\nI sat back in my chair and felt it lean off the shorter leg. My throat was dry and my tongue felt swollen in my mouth. I could feel it stick to the back of my teeth. It had probably been this way for a while but I was only now realizing that I was denied the opportunity to correct the situation. Despite my mother’s insistence that we would need to leave shortly, it didn’t stop her from continuing their conversation. This was my mother’s favorite part of playing spiritual counselor.\n\n“Let’s pray about it together, Naida. I know God will hear us and will make his will clear to us.” My mother’s gentle smile and friendly demeanor made it easy to like her at first. Mrs. Vaughn seemed appreciative as she returned to the table to take my mother’s hand. My mother’s off-hand sought out mine as well.\n\nSo, I was actually here, in this space. Sometimes I wondered if I was physically in a place or if I was simply part of the background. Perhaps I was a ghost that jumped between other people? But here, in this moment, I must be real. Most people do not hold their hand out for imaginary people after all. I extended my arms, taking the hands of both women. I could already feel the plastic trying to seal me into place, adhering to my skin. I wouldn’t be able to move for the rest of the prayer or I would be glared at for being disruptive again.\n\n“Father God, we come to you today for your daughter Naida. She is in pain, Father. Her daughter is reckless, disobedient, and causing trouble. She does not know the pain that she is causing or the damage her actions might cause this family in the long term. God, it has only been six months since you accepted Naida’s husband into your arms. Please help your daughter have peace. Show her and her daughter your love and understanding. Help to guide them to live in your light. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.” My mother sanctimoniously led the prayer for the group. The moment she finished her prayer, she squeezed our hands tight and broke the circle.\n\nContained within my mother’s prayer was what brought about my empathetic understanding of what might be going on with Naida’s daughter. I tried to open my mouth, wanting to share my enlightenment, but Mrs. Vaughn had already begun to thank my mother for all her assistance. My lips slammed closed once more and, as if on instinct, I shrank back. I could not give voice to my epiphany. It wasn’t my turn. I had to wait for a lull in their chatter.\n\n“I already feel much more at peace. I can’t thank you enough for coming to sit with me.”\n\n“Of course, Naida. This is why the fellowship community is here: support during troubling times when we feel our faith is weakened by the Devil.”\n\n“I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t seen that sign for the church on Sunday.”\n\n“God works in mysterious ways. I hope this means we will see you next Sunday as well.”\n\nI had words welling up inside me. I just needed to say them but each time I tried to open my mouth someone else would speak. I knew this feeling. I had felt it once before. As a child, I had been grabbed by an undertow while in the Ocean. I had managed to break free of the current by propelling myself upwards as the soles of my feet touched the sandy floor. I had no way of knowing how far I had gone from the shore; I only knew I had to swim in the direction I believed to be up. I pulled towards the surface as fast as I could, but my chest was already burning. I couldn’t open my eyes but it felt like things were growing darker and my arms and legs grew heavier. The water around me felt more like wet cement as I struggled to make my body move. Odd that the longing to be heard could match the desperation during the scariest and most painful moments of my life.\n\nThe sheer frustration of being completely unable to utter a word while the two women prattled on brought tears to my eyes. I was waiting, I just needed one of them to take a breath so I could insert what I needed to say. There was no space to infiltrate, they never left a moment’s pause. This feeling wouldn’t go away, had I been holding my breath hoping to be given space to say anything this whole time? Please! Someone, notice me! Someone, hear me!\n\n“Dear, are you okay?” Mrs. Vaughn finally halted the conversation, seeing my reddened and tear-streaked face.\n\n“I…” Once again, I choked on my stale voice. My mother’s annoyance was palpable as Mrs. Vaughn gave me the time to clear my throat and find the voice I had been holding back. “I need to tell you…” my thoughts felt scattered now that the spotlight was on me. Perhaps I shouldn’t say this? What if it’s so obvious that they resent me for saying it? But the need to speak was so intense I couldn’t hold back to appease my anxiety. “She needs you to talk with her. About your husband. She needs to hear you grieve and she needs you to grieve with her. She needs to see all the pictures and hear all the stories. You can’t do it alone in your room or with strangers. Her whole world has been turned upside down and she’s seeking companionship and control, just like you are.”\n\nThe room fell into a moment of silence as I finished speaking, save for that clanky fan that filled the sudden still. Mrs. Vaughn and I both had tears streaming down our faces. The tension in my body was suddenly gone. The burning sensation that had clenched my chest had disappeared as the words flowed out of me; just like when I had finally broken the surface of the water and got a deep breath. We cried together for some time without any words of praise or the need to give thanks for the message I had offered. We sat in that moment together, fully open, and emotionally vulnerable. When we were done, we blew our noses and laughed with lighter hearts due to the release of something we had each carried too long.\n\nHugs were passed around as we collected our stuff, as my mother realized we had to rush home due to the time. As the buckle of the belt clicked to secure me into the car my mother cleared her throat poignantly.\n\n“What was with all the waterworks?” her jovial tone replaced with stern disapproval.\n\n“I… I didn’t mean to. I just. I just felt like I had to say something and I couldn’t find an opening.” I felt my timbre grow quieter as I trailed to the end of my thought.\n\n“You could have just interjected. It’s not that hard. You don’t need to be so dramatic.” My mother finally started the car as she scolded me. I wanted to remind her that I was raised never to interrupt but it was clear she didn’t want to hear it." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Propagandist of Death\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2508\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Death is the sweetest…\nA knock on the door. I dared not finish the sentence before opening—that might make it a prophecy. Prophecy? My job was to dispel such superstitions, to propagandize death for the Society of the New Way. But surely the attorneys of the Society would want my missive completed, and bound by their incessant legalism, no one but I could complete this last sentence. The editor could only change it after I had submitted it for review. The New Way Society, headed by lawyers, determined when usefulness had been fulfilled and sent doctors to do their dirty work. In this world, death wore a white lab coat.\nMy life’s work was selling the concept of usefulness fulfilled, like the admen of old who hooked the world on smoking vile weeds bringing an early demise to those who took the bait. Those hucksters of old were richly rewarded for selling death. I, however, lived as others, toiling in my cell, posting my wicked arguments more directly, to encourage the acceptance of a poison more directly poured into the veins of the no longer useful, or more accurately, no longer useful enough. The High Court of the New Way Society had meted out that compromise concerning the barely useful, siding with the cause of death.\nSo, I at least had a few words left to make me useful, to complete the missive. Having a natural way with words, I had had a long career convincing the less than adequately useful to voluntarily go to the men in the white lab coats, who I now, knowing better, could not call doctors. I had discovered my mind was not my own. And my mind had changed. Long held beliefs I now questioned. And that was dangerous. \nMy status, as the longest running member of the Oblivion Acceptance Team, allowed me a window in my cell, and the word came two days ago, written in some red substance I assumed was blood, on a leaf tied to the leg of a pigeon.\n“Seek the Old Way\nThe culture of life.\n362MW3F 3L 5W”\nThe culture of life? The Old Way? Of course, there must be an old way if there were a new way. How had I labored so long for this culture of death and not considered this obvious deduction? But what was this old way? This culture of life? Surely, it had been abandoned or snuffed out for its inefficiency. Did it value the lives of the useless, wasting precious resources? How would such a thing make sense and survive? It hadn’t. That is how it became the old way. And yet, what of this pigeon? And what was the significance of “362MW3F 3L 5W”?\nHow could I seek the Old Way? The thought intrigued me. My communications were limited, strictly controlled and monitored. All that came in was that which was necessary for my tasks—documentation on the importance of efficiency and the avoidance of waste and other New Way Society propaganda. Such was the basis for my work. But convincing the useless to accept death went beyond the rational and into the emotional, else a machine could do it as well as I. My usefulness, and thus, my life, depended on this premise.\nWhy had I not questioned this placing of efficiency over life? Was there something beyond usefulness as a reason to live? What I knew of philosophy spoke of meeting a purpose as what gave value to life. Was this a New Way philosophy? Had there been an older philosophy where the value of a life was not derived from its usefulness? Such a thought was contrary to the Creed of the New Way: We believe that only that which fulfills its purpose has value and its value is measured in efficiency. But perhaps, there was another creed, an older creed? The note said to seek the Old Way, but how?\nShould I report the note? In that way lay danger. I had violated the creed in reading it: We believe that information is the truth and the only source of information is the New Way Information System. Gaining information from an outside source, especially for a member of the Oblivion Acceptance Team, meant an end of one’s usefulness. But someone had sent the note and violated the creed, which went beyond ending his usefulness and becoming an agent of malinformation. Perhaps this person monitored my work? Had he risked all to reach me? Or could it be some kind of loyalty test? Ink and paper had been outlawed as inefficient in the New Way Society long ago. Most people would struggle to handwrite the characters routinely typed or dictated and taken down as bits of data into the New Way Information System. Would the Ministry of Information have gone so far as to use blood on a leaf delivered by a pigeon to test the loyalty of an old cog in their machine, approaching the end of its useful life? They needn’t go through so much trouble. They could just send the normal end of usefulness documentation which I had expected might come each day for the last five years or so. \nBut to “seek the old way?” Even to contemplate it was risking diminished usefulness. The only source of information available was the only source of information allowed: the New Way Information System. But surely, searching for the “Old Way” or the “culture of life” would be flagged as suspicious activity by the Ministry of Information. I rarely searched for anything. Curiosity diminished one’s usefulness rating. Toiling in silence, meeting your deadlines, these were the keys to survival in the Society of the New Way. \nWhat of this “362MW3F 3L 5W”? Searching for something as cryptic as that would directly inspire a visit from a white-lab-coater with the Happiness of Oblivion shot—that was what they called the poison. The end result was a corpse with a macabre smile, which I had extolled the virtues of in countless missives. But I was not the only one. The Ministry of Information—Oblivion Acceptance Team had many writers. Was this some sort of alternate index to point me to where I should search? The official indexes were machine code. Humans could search on dates or by keywords. Was the sender of this message encoding the index to a document in this strange sequence of characters? Could it be hiding a keyword? Or a date?\nI committed the message to memory. I could not afford to be caught with this evidence. The monitors constantly ran and recorded all activity, but only certain activities attracted attention. I was recorded, surely, futzing with the leg of a pigeon, and removing a leaf entangled on it. And glancing several times at the leaf. For an older man like me, I doubted anyone monitored the bathroom. I washed the blood off the leaf and tossed it in the trash. If they found it, they would not find the message. And, if they looked, they would find the leaf. That was important. Disposal of evidence was indicia of guilt.\nI made myself useful, a necessity of life, and worked on my next missive on the joys of death. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to send me a pigeon, an old-school unmonitored method of communication. Was it even intended for me? How did the pigeon know where to go? \n…Uncle Jim’s lips curled into a smile, I wrote. Sally glanced at the doctor, who met her eyes gently and took her hand, warmly. Uncle Jim had gone happily into oblivion. He had had a life of supreme usefulness, and now, Sally knew, she would follow in the New Way, where he had led.\nI ended my latest missive and submitted it. It wasn’t very good, but I had a deadline to meet and it hit the essential points. The distraction of this pigeon-delivered note might just send me on the happy way to oblivion. “362M,” what was it? Had I forgotten the rest? “362M…W3F.” Yes, that was it. “M…W…F.” Of course, Month, Week, Friday. It was a date. 362nd month, Week 3, Friday. That’s 46 years, ten months. Had the Ministry of Information been at this that long? Had I been at this that long? I started when I was twenty. That would make me sixty-six years old. That was about right. I had lost track of the years in my life of usefulness for the Ministry of Information, separated from the world in my private cell. The tenth month? That would be last month. Now I had something to search for that was less likely to generate inquiries. I checked the date in the system calendar, which I rarely bothered with—a change in behavior that might be noted in the system. Everything was monitored. But it would be less conspicuous than searching for something cryptic. The third week of October, Friday, the 18th. \nThe missives from the Ministry of Information—Oblivion Acceptance Division were fictional accounts extolling the virtues of the happiness of oblivion. There were several authors, but the works were never signed. They were missives from the state, not from an individual. I read through the missives for October 18th. There was nothing special about them. Except in one, a curious violation of the line-spacing algorithm. A minor editing glitch. Or was it?\nI took a closer look. On the third line, an odd sentence. “Anthony thought that to seek oblivion would be a sin, and he was right. Usefulness must always be the priority.”\nTo suggest that a character would seek oblivion was edgy. Encouraging curiosity. Curiosity decreases usefulness. But that was a word from the note from the pigeon. The fifth word, in the third line. 3L 5W. And there, down the scroll of words, the fifth word in every third line: “seek the old way the culture of life.”\nI searched the missives for the following days, reading the fifth word in every third line:\n“Search and you will find.”\n“First to die, then the judgement.”\n“Be transformed by the renewal of your mind.”\n“The Father gave us the wisdom to understand fully the mystery.”\n“In Him and through His blood we have been redeemed.”\n“Seek first the kingdom of dog.”\nThis last one was strange. The kingdom of dog? And that word seek, again. But there was a familiar ring to a few of these coded messages. Something from long ago, from my childhood. Those days, when people believed in fairytales and went to Churches and listened to priests, before the New Way Human Transformation Programing encoded the Preconditions for Happiness in my mind. But were they, after all, fairytales? Was this life of usefulness leading to oblivion, the New Way, was it the right way? Was that old way of fairytales and priests, of hope and faith, and, love…when last had I heard these words? When did usefulness become the sole measure of worthiness? Was there an Old Way to seek? Was it to be found in every fifth word of every third line of every thought in my mind? Hidden in some neuro-linguistic puzzle, buried, waiting to be discovered? Who was this Father? And who was He? And how could His blood redeem?\nI wrote another missive. In it, on every third line, every fifth word, I embedded a question: What must I do to follow the old way?\nI submitted the missive and waited. I slept little that night, my mind fighting to regain what might remain of the treasures of the old way, amidst the lines and words of my mind. I dreamt of a stone in front of a cave, rolling away, and woke as a great flash of light from the cave blinded my eyes.\nI checked the New Way Information system for the latest missive and found the answer: Repent and believe in the good news.\nThe Old Way, the way of repentance and good news, the old treasures of thought buried from childhood. I recalled the fairytale long rejected, of a man who had risen from the dead. His message: Repent and believe the good news. Thoughts long forgotten. Words long forgotten. Oh death, where is thy sting? The New Way Society had sought to remove the sting of death with the Happiness of Oblivion shot. What a mockery! And I had aided them. The sting of death is sin. And I had a great weight of sin upon me. In the old way, the way of repentance, there lay the answer—but there was no priest to hear my confession. The New Way, was there someone who could absolve me? Or was the only answer to go gentle into that good night? With the drug-induced smile of the Happiness of Oblivion shot?\nThe knock had come at my door on this, the third day since the coming of the word on the leg of a pigeon, interrupting my latest missive, which I intentionally left uncompleted. They wouldn’t allow me to complete it if they discovered the code. I opened the door and greeted the smiling dealer of death in his white lab coat.\n“Yes?” I asked.\nHe checked his electronic tablet. “Our records indicate that your usefulness rating has descended past the point of viability. As a member of the Oblivion Acceptance Team, I’m sure you know what that means.”\n“I’m sorry, doctor, I have unfinished business to complete.”\n“Well, I’m sure you are aware that the Oblivion Acceptance Team likes for its members to set a good example. You are sixty-six years old and have proven useful for six years past the standard expiration date. We have completed all the documents with the legal team. It should only take a minute to administer the Happiness of Oblivion injection.”\nThe man in the lab coat showed me the order on his tablet. It indicated a normal Happiness of Oblivion visit, with no indication that my recent curiosity or work were the cause. That meant, if I completed my missive, it should go through without extra scrutiny. I could appeal and gain a delay, to complete any unfinished business. But to do so, would initiate a review. Would they find the video of my encounter with the pigeon? Would they discover the messages embedded in the missives? Would the review bring discovery of the mysterious source of the Old Way evangelism?\nI nodded. “Okay, doctor. It will just take a minute for me to complete the final line of my missive. I’d like to go out completing this one final act of usefulness.”\nThe dealer of death smiled. He would soon have the pleasure of watching me depart this life.\nI finished the last line: Death is the sweetest good-bye and nothing to be feared. My usefulness at an end, I was ready to face what was coming with a smile. I submitted it. Unknown to the editor and the censors, however, every fifth word of every third line read: Forgive me Father for I have sinned, good-bye." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: For the Rest of My Life\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1108\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two people who form a bond with each other through music." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Their high school friends had gone on ahead, laughing and teasing one another, yet the thought of entering the Fall Festival’s “Howl-O-Scream” terrified her. It was the not knowing what lurked in the darkened corners that bothered her the most. She hated being surprised. \n“Are you ready?” her boyfriend asked. \nBoyfriend. What an insubstantial word for what he meant to her. She loved him beyond measure.\n“I’m not sure,” she replied, reaching for his hand. \n“You don’t have to go,” he said, nuzzling her forehead with his own. “I’ll stay here with you.”\nGamely, she shook her head and smiled at him. He cradled her chin with one hand and gave her a kiss that still curled her toes. \n“I’ll be all right,” she conceded, looking apprehensively at the towering structure. \nWhile they walked down the woodland path to the haunted house, she shared with him the last gooey bites of buttery caramel, luxuriously wrapped around a crisp Granny Smith apple. In turn, he fed her large chunks of funnel cake, topped with whipped cream and a caramel drizzle. \nDusk fell swiftly. \nShe sensed shadowy figures on the fringes of the fallow field from the corner of her eye; whether they brought her good cheer or meant her harm was indeterminate. She had a fairly good idea what was going to happen in the haunted house, but there was enough uncertainty to slow her step. \nHer boyfriend stopped up short and looked directly into her eyes. \"Look. We don’t have to go. We can ride the Ferris wheel or the Tilt-A-Whirl.”\n“I want to go,” she said, fooling neither of them. Their friends would mock her mercilessly. \n“Okay, we’ll go” he replied. “And I’ll be right by you. You trust me?”\n“I do,” she said. More than life itself. “But what if someone or something pops out of the wall and I pee myself?”\n“Is that likely?”\n“And what if I get really scared and poop my pants?”\n“Is THAT likely? I mean, we can stop at the bathroom if you need to—”\n“Ugh! I’m being ridiculous. Let’s just go.” \nWarm and reassuring in the late October chill, his strong arm encircled both of her thin shoulders. \n“Hey. Remember. If you get scared? Keep your eyes on me,” he said. \nShe nodded. That would be easy to do. Ever since she first saw him in elementary school, she thought he was the most beautiful boy in the whole world. Little had changed since. \nNow settled on the matter, there was just the path forward. \nThere was no turning back. \n🜋 🜋 🜋\nAs they approached the attraction, he held her hand as they climbed the endless staircase to the top of the old mill, converted each fall into the popular horror show. She could hear screams—immediately followed by loud laughter—from both inside the mill and all around the “Howl-O-Scream” grounds.\nA vampire with bleeding eyeballs motioned them to the entrance. A crowd expectantly waited, only a few sent in at a time. \n“Does anyone have any cold medicine? I’m coffin too much,” the vampire joked.\nHer boyfriend snickered. She stood stone faced. \n“Maybe some fruit? I just love neck-tarines…”\nThe crowd chuckled good naturedly as it moved forward. \n“I’m a bad artist,” the vampire continued. “I can only draw—blood.”\nThis time, she joined her boyfriend in giggling at the bad puns. \nThis was fun. It would be all right.\n🜋 🜋 🜋\nFive minutes later, she had dug her fingernails into her boyfriend’s arm. \n“No! No! NO!” she shrieked, when they walked into the Mad Doctor’s Operating Room. The deranged patient lay supine on the surgical table, hacking off his own leg with a hatchet. Gouts of fake blood spewed everywhere. A ditzy nurse with a knife in her back gleefully mopped the floor. \n“He’s chopping his leg! He’s chopping his leg!” his girlfriend repeated over and over, each time more shrill. \n“Hey, it’s just an animal bone. Not a femur, I promise,” her boyfriend explained. “See? His real leg is tucked underneath the table.”\nThe next room was worse: the medieval torture chamber. A girl about her age was lashed to a rack, writhing in pain as a masked man ratcheted the wheel. A little farther down, another young girl was displayed, impaled in a solid iron cabinet with a hinged front and spike-covered interior.\n“Behold, the maiden in the Iron Maiden!” announced her tormentor. He threw a bucket full of clear liquid that had the word “ACID” emblazoned on the front. \n“Oh my god!” she howled, when they entered the Inferno, devils dancing in a demonic disco, all decorated in Day-Glo paint, illuminated by the black lights. \nHer boyfriend just put his arm more tightly around her. \nAfter a few more terrifying rooms, they finally exited the mill into an empty clearing. After the hay bale maze, all they had to do was to walk to the end of the lane where their friends awaited, no doubt drinking hot chocolate around a bonfire.\nBut the lane was lined with large oak trees, the perfect jump-scare alley. \n“We’re almost through, okay?”\n“Okay,” she said, blinking back hot tears. \nThey walked arm in arm. \nIn a flash, a werewolf loped over to them, long white fake fangs bared. \n“GAH!” she screeched, dissolving into a gibbering mess, faced pressed into his shoulder. \n“Look, Wolfman. Fuck off, okay?”\n“Mwahahaha…” the wolf man laughed menacingly, returning to the woods. \n“And you,” he said to his girlfriend. Girlfriend. What an inadequate word to call the love of his life. He would take her to prom. He would marry her. “Keep your eyes on me, okay?”\n“But what if—”\nHe looked sternly at her. \n“But what if—” she repeated.\n“But what if—you give me this dance?” he said, fumbling with his iPhone, queuing up their favorite song. The first twangy chords of her parents’ wedding dance soothed her immediately. By the time Anne Murray crooned her country ballad, her boyfriend had taken her into his arms, faux-waltzing her through one horror after another. \nA mummy staggered over, muttering ancient curses, but she was lost in her boyfriend’s eyes. \nFrankenstein and his bride attempted to stop their progress, but he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. \nWhile Freddy Kruger and Jason Voorhees stood with dripping knives high overhead, even they paused to see the lovely young couple, enraptured, slow dancing down a lane of mayhem. \nBy the end of their dance, all the creatures and monsters and villains had come from the edges, applauding as a couple finished their dance, turning a night of tricks and treats into a veritable Valentine’s Day." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: One Final Good-Bye\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1583\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which an important message is cut off, leaving characters to wonder or puzzle out what was left unsaid." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "One Final Good-Bye\nThe morning was crisp and cool. It was a perfect day for a flight. Alan awoke early and after a light breakfast (he had learned long ago not to have a heavy meal before a flight) he drove the short distance to her apartment to collect her for the flight. The her was Polly, Alan’s long term love interest. They had been friends, close friends, for years. They had comforted each other through both of their family’s tragedies and mutual broken relationships, but in the last few months they had realized the inevitable. They were soul-mates. They confided everything, took long romantic weekends and enjoyed traveling together to exotic locations, though their jobs limited extended trips.\n Now they were traveling to a tropical island for that long awaited week-long trip. Polly was awaiting his arrival. Her bag was packed and by her front door. After a final check of the apartment, she was ready for the trip. Polly gave Alan the usual peck on the cheek and bounded to the car. Alan noticed that she seemed just a bit quieter than usual. Her bubbly personality was there, but she seemed a bit, well, a bit wistful. Alan was sure that the excitement of the trip and the long relaxing vacation would bring her back to normal state. \n At the airport, the TSA lines were mercifully short. They breezed through the gates with minimal delays and had a few moments to sit together in the seats at the departure gate. \nAlan began what he hoped would be a momentous conversation. “Well, at last we’ll have a full week of uninterrupted time together. I hope you’re looking forward to it as much as I am.”\n Polly seemed to not to hear his statement and was staring out the window to the tarmac. Alan restated his enthusiasm for the trip and she agreed. “Yes, of course, This will undoubtedly be the most eventful trip of my life.” She reached over and gave Alan an unexpected kiss—a long and passionate kiss. It was certainly a more romantic display than the usually reserved Polly was known for. She was usually a private person, reserved in public, but warm and loving in private. \n Alan looked at her questioning and she only gave him an enigmatic look. The boarding began before he could further explore the change in Polly’s emotional state. Polly had the window seat. She always enjoyed looking down on the green earth. She was always amazed at how green most of the earth was in spite of the threats of man-made climate change. Alan was happy for the middle seat just to be close to Polly. They sat holding hands. Alan was bubbling with anticipation of the trip and its meaning for their relationship. Polly griped his hand tightly but said very little. \n When the plane had reached its cruising altitude and the seat belt sign was off, Alan could not contain his self any longer. “Polly, do you know how much you mean to me?”\n Polly looked lovingly at Alan, but remained speechless.\n He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the small velvet box that had been secreted there for weeks. He retrieved it and opened the lid to reveal to Polly the engagement ring he hoped she had been awaiting. “Polly, I can’t get down on a knee here, but I just couldn’t wait a minute longer.” He gulped and tears began streaming from his eyes. The passengers surrounding them in the crowded cabin became silent as they gave the couple their rapt attention. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife and life-long companion.” \n Tears were streaming from Polly’s eyes as well as those of several of the fellow passengers. “Alan, you know I love you; I love you with more of my heart and soul than I knew I could. But …”\n BANG!\n Polly was gone. A huge split had opened above Polly’s seat. A gapping hole consumed her and her seat in a moment. The plane went black for seconds before the emergency lights engaged. Oxygen masks dropped down with another loud bang, but Alan’s ear drums were ruptured so he could hardly hear a thing. The plane went into a severe dive, but the pilots were able to correct and were diving to a lower altitude where there was breathable air. Several people were unconscious, many were screaming, including Alan, but he was unable to hear much of that. He reached over for Polly and was waving his arms frantically till he remembered that she was no longer there.\n He didn’t remember the rest of the flight. It was all a nightmarish haze. He remembered the severe pain in his head and ears. The burning pain in his lungs due to hypoxia and the extreme empty feeling of the loss of Polly. \n It was days before he was well enough to leave the hospital. His family and many well-wishers had wanted to visit him, but he sent them all away. His first visit post discharge was to Polly’s family. He had known them for years, but had not considered them to be a close family when he and Polly had become a serious item. Now he needed to see them.\n They greeted Alan as if he was a close relative. Hugs abound and continued with both happy and sad stories of Polly as a lively and happy daughter. They brought out the family photo album and regaled Alan with stories of Polly’s youth. He saw her in her confirmation dress. Photos of family trips were a big part of the family, including Polly. “Here we are in Paris. She loved France. When it came time to pick our vacations there was no question that we would go anywhere else but France.” She loved the culture, the food, the wine, but she especially loved the people. Here she is on her semester in Paris at the convent of Saint Cecilia.”\n Alan had to ask the question that had been burning into his soul. “Did she ever talk about me?”\n “She spoke of you often, and always with love. We assumed that you and Polly would someday—Well, it’s no use dreaming of what might have been. When she came back from her last visit to Paris, she kept telling her mom and I that we should care for you. It was kind of a strange statement, but she was concerned in particular for your welfare.”\n At that moment, Alan knew that he was bound for France. Polly had found something in France, something that had been so important to her, more important than him.\n Following a period of rehab, Alan arranged a leave and flew, yes, flew to Europe. He stayed in Paris, but moved about the country. He kept the photos of Polly in France and tried to find every spot she had visited and try to absorb her essence. He wanted to replicate the love of things French as she had. He visited many cathedrals and met with many clerics along the way. He began to understand not only her Francophilia, but also her faith. As he copied her route through France, he began to develop a relationship with the Almighty.\n He had been there almost a year, when he reached the end of her album, The Convent of Saint Cecilia. He found himself praying at the altar of a small chapel in the facility when he felt a presence in the room. He turned and saw a small figure behind him. “I’m sorry to impose. I didn’t know I was disturbing the order of the convent by praying here,”\n “You’re not disturbing anyone. Prayer is always welcome here. Can I help you?”\n “Someone very special to me spent time here several months ago. Tragically she is no longer with us. This place seemed to be very special to her. I felt that by coming here that perhaps I could feel closer to her.”\n “You must be Alan. I’m Sister Anne, Mother Superior. Polly told me about you. She loved you with a deep and abiding love. Here, I have a letter she left for you. I think she knew that you would eventually find your way here, though I doubt that she could have predicted her death. Few can?” With that she pulled a white envelop from beneath her apron and handed it to Alan. “Stay as long as you wish or need to. I will be near.”\n Alan, My Love,\n You are the kindest and most understanding man I have ever known.\n My relationship with you has been the joy of my life. Only one\n Joy could compete, the joy I know by serving the lord. I know you \n may find it difficult and It’s the most difficult decision I’ve ever made,\n but I will serve the lord here—here in the quiet peace of Saint Cecilia’s.\n God bless you Alan,\n Love forever.\nSister Anne appeared again when Alan had ample time to read and absorb Polly’s letter. \n“She was here and made her plans to enter the convent as a novice shortly before her last return to the states. She wrote this letter and trusted it to me. She was to tell you of her decision to commit her life to Christ on that visit, but was concerned that you might not accept it and would search for her here. Perhaps her spirit is here. I can feel it. Can you?\nHe could." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 My Dreams\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1562\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story involving a noise complaint." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They called my name from the black microphones in their hot hands. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers. The stage manager gave me a light nudge on my back, and I took one shaky, deep breath. I emerged from the shadowed wings into the spotlight, which created an intimate focus of attention on me, dressed in a green, sequined button up top, leather pants, and dress shoes too tight for my big toe to breathe.\n\nI could hear the whispered sounds of the crowd as they stared at me, in awe and admiration, and in judgment. My muscles relaxed, and I accepted the loneliness of the circular stage. My head tilted to the right and whipped to the left, and my entire body spun 360 degrees.\n\n“Hit it,” I shout into my wireless microphone, and the pre-recorded drum beats sound. The energy of the audience shifts when mine exudes for their enjoyment. Seven years of; disappointment, rejection, working exhausting shifts at fast food restaurants, performing gigs at weddings for cash that would only allow me to eat fast food, and writing, producing, and marketing myself for labels. Finally, my dreams are coming true in front of those who believed in my talent; my manager Tessa and best friend Kalif, and those who were waiting on my downfall; my family.\n\nMy hit pop single, which is number 5 in Global Music’s Top 10, and sold 200,000 copies in one week, is now being performed for the first time, live, on stage, in front of millions of viewers watching the North American Music Awards, and my adoring fans who came to support me.\n\nI ready my throat for the first verse of my song, Boom Boom.\n\n“Wake up, wake yourself up baby. The sound is getting louder, and you can’t be at peace. Boom boom. Boom boom. You try to sleep in your misery, but it eats you alive. Your ears are consumed with the deep vibrations, you can’t survive. Boom boom. Boom boom. Boom…”\n\nBoom!\n\nMy eyes fly open to see my fraying floral wallpaper in the darkness of my tiny bedroom.\n\n1:30 AM\n\nIs Denise seriously still playing those drums at this time of the morning again? This is exactly why I didn’t want anyone who played instruments living in the building.\n\nI slip my feet into the warm slippers Kalif gifted me for my 35th birthday last year. I navigate through my low lit apartment, grabbing the grey jumper that hangs on my dining chair, and leave apartment #100 to berate a woman 15 years my senior. \n\nDenise isn’t a bad person; she’s one of my best tenants. Rent is always given to me on time; she often brings me Ukrainian food packaged in plastic containers when I don’t have the energy to cook rice and chicken after teaching several lessons at my uncle’s music store, or dealing with building issues and inquires. She also supports my endeavors and passions for music, as she is the lead drummer for The Rodents, a classic rock indie band.\n\nI have told her numerous times, she is only permitted to play her drums between 12pm and 5:30pm. If she wants to continue playing, she has to find another space out of apartment #101. But, for the past few days, I have been waking up to the same nuisance every night, boom boom.\n\nI don’t understand why she doesn’t want me to dream in peace. But I seem to be the only person bothered by the noise because I haven’t received any complaints from other tenants. But tonight, I am going to end this nonsense. I wonder if any landlords have ever filed for noise complaints against their own tenants before?\n\nI lightly tap her emerald green door, carefully listening for her footsteps on the other side. Her hair is wrapped in a silk scarf patterned with giant dead rodents, her bands infamous logo.\n\n“Ikenna.”\n\nShe’s the only tenant that is on a first name basis with me.\n\n“This is your first warning, Denise. I’ve been hearing you play those drums of yours two nights in a row already. At first, I figured you just got carried away and would remember the rules and obey them, but if that were the case, I wouldn’t be standing here in front of you.”\n\nShe yawns loudly and wipes saliva from her upper lip. Her eyes are narrow, trying to adjust to the light from the hallway behind me. “I’ve been sleeping since 10 o’clock.”\n\n“You’re telling me you weren’t just playing the drums two minutes ago?”\n\nHer face holds confusion and she shakes her head.\n\n“Man, I think you’ve been working too hard. You need some rest.”\n\nShe waves for me to leave and slowly closes the door.\n\nBoom boom!\n\n“There it goes again!” my right hand applies enough pressure to push the heavy door back. “Did you hear that?”\n\nI peer over her shoulder into her kitchen, then to her cozy living room, and finally the wooden bedroom door that is wide open, revealing her messy bed.\n\n“It’s quiet as a mouse. I’m sure everyone is asleep right now, which is what I think we should both do,” she says agitatedly.\n\n“I’m sorry, Denise, I don’t want to pry around your space at such an inappropriate time like this, but I have been hearing this boom boom sound, and it’s driving me crazy. Can you please allow me to search your apartment?”\n\nShe rolls eyes, “Ikenna…”\n\n“It can’t wait, Denise.”\n\nI reflect my desperation into her tired eyes.\n\n“Be quick. And just advising you, you’re not going to find anything, because I’m not playing any drums or music, and there’s no one in here.”\n\nI ignore her as the booms continue to taunt me. I creep around the space like a lucrative robber, opening cupboards, peaking outside the open window that reveals a lonely alleyway. Only coming across cans of beans and soup arranged erratically, a bathroom with no faulty pipes, and the slight weeping sounds of the nightly wind. I’ve checked this poor woman’s entire apartment, and still couldn't figure out the source of the noise.\n\nI head back towards the front door, “My apologizes, Denise. Maybe I’m going insane or something. I’ll probably investigate the other apartments in the morning. Again, I’m so sorry. Have a good night.”\n\n“Yeah, night.”\n\nBoom boom! Boom boom!\n\nMy feet stop in its tracks near a flimsy coat closet in the front entrance of her apartment.\n\nBoom boom!\n\nIt’s louder than before. Clearer even. I look to Denise and she stares back with no reaction, just a sleepy trance. I point to her closet and gesture that I’m going to open it. Her loud exhale can’t even be heard over the booming sounds that repeat in an aggressive manner. My shaky hands reach for the brass knobs, slowly turning them to the left. The dark, dusty state of the closet is a dead end. The sound is present, but all I see are coats and spiky sneakers or 8 inch heels. My head leans closer to into the closet, understanding of the ominous feeling flooding my senses.\n\nWhat is this noise and when will it end?\n\n“You need to go back to your room, Ikenna,” a voice says.\n\n“You sound funny, Denise.”\n\nI turn around to see Denise is no longer standing behind me with her arms crossed. She is sitting on her cream couch, and a man dressed in blue scrubs stands in the spot she previously stood in. His arms coax me into his grasp, and I lean into his body.\n\n“I need to find the noise!” I shout with rage.\n\nKalif shushes me, “I know, I know, but we need to get you back to your room now. You shouldn’t have been able to leave your room this easily, you know.”\n\nHis brown beard scratches my cheek, and we walk in unison out of Denise’s apartment. She sits still on the couch, staring at nothing, never acknowledging us.\n\nBefore I can digest the pity I feel for her, I am back in my bedroom. This time, there is a woman dressed in identical scrubs, strapping black Velcro bands around the bed poles and my wrists. The woman smiles at me and reaches over my head towards the antique shelf screwed on my wall. Her veiny hand comes back into my view, holding a transparent pill organizer. She opens a flap and shakes her head, her locks shaking by her forehead and pierced ears.\n\n“I see you haven’t taken your meds yet. You can’t be skipping on your pills, Ikenna. I know you don’t like taking them, but it’s only for a little while. Until you get better. It’s going to help you get the boom out of your life and get you home to your family soon,” Tessa explains calmly.\n\nShe hands me a blood orange pill and a half empty water bottle. I ingest. Tessa is pleased and switches my bedside lamp off.\n\nMy upper and lower limbs are strapped to the bed, I attempt to dream peacefully.\n\nIf I don’t take Thorazine, they will strap me to this bed every night because I keep wandering out of my room to bother Patient #101. If I keep forgetting to take Thorazine, I won’t be able to finish my nightly performances of Boom Boom." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 doom of Saint Lawrence\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 3017\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which an important message is cut off, leaving characters to wonder or puzzle out what was left unsaid." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As a man of the church, I always thought we were the sole creations of God... How foolish we were.\nI now know that there are things we cannot comprehend. Things that have no logic. Nightmarish things that defy God. There are things amongst the stars that defy our beliefs and mock the ignorance of our ilk.\nTo whomever finds these writings. My name is Father Thomas Greenwich and this will be…my valediction.\nWe were en route to a monastery in the Pyrenees mountains. The monastery had stopped answering our messages two months ago, so I was sent to investigate. My party was made up of 5 companions. Herkimer, Deniel, Siegward, Parsifal, and myself. Herkimer and Siegward were Crusaders who defected from the battlefield but were captured after killing a pair of guards who recognized them.\nHerkimer was a German lad, taller than all of us. Sky blue eyes, a perfect chin, and blonde hair. He wore a black gambeson, a chain mail, and his tunic of the Teutonic Knights, battle-scared and dirty. Wielding a sword and shield. Siegward on the other hand was chubbier. He was an average-sized man with a big belly showing his love for beer. Long black hair, amber eyes, and arms as thick as tree trunks. He wore a thick white gambeson, chainmail, his tunic from the Knights Hospitaller, and an oddly looking helmet; wielding a Halberd as big as Herkimer.\nDeniel was a mercenary who knew the way to the monastery. He was a young Spanish lad. White skin, tall with brown almost honeyed eyes. Wearing only his ragged clothes; a short sword, and he carried many knives with him. And finally, Parsifal. He was a young priest under my wing. Pale skin, green eyes, thin and quite frail in body. He wore a brownish tunic, a deep blue coat, and on his belt, a well-crafted dagger, holy water, and a reliquary.\nDays before we arrived at the monastery, we stayed at the closest town to the mountains before our climb. We were having dinner at the local inn when suddenly, I overheard Siegward ask the Innkeeper about the monastery and the monks’ whereabouts.\n-We haven’t seen any of them in over two moons. We didn’t give any thought to it at first but now it’s concerning. –\n-Do you know what might have happened to them? –\nSiegward asked but the innkeeper only shook his head.\n-They only came to buy supplies twice a month. Julius, Timothee, and Marcus were the monks that usually came to buy stuff but they didn’t talk much. Last we saw them they looked normal to meself.\nIt’s quite odd cause they weren’t the kind that only stays up there. The monks came at least once a week to take care of the ill and watch the church. I hope they’re all right up there. –\n-Has no one gone up to investigate? –\nThe Innkeeper thought for a moment and said:\n-Yes. A young lad named Hugo. He’s the blacksmith’s apprentice. He climbed up there as soon as the monks stopped coming but after he went up there; he hasn’t spoken about the matter. Only God knows what he saw. –\nSiegward thanked the Innkeeper and was going to see the lad when I asked if I could join him. He looked at me with a deep stare and gave me a gentle nod.\nThe autumn night was rainy and it was getting cold and colder as hours went by. As we walked through the muddy streets of the little town, we began to hear metal hitting metal. We walked inside the blacksmith’s shop and asked for Hugo. The blacksmith called the lad and a thin yet muscle young man walked out the back. He was covered in soot and sweat. He looked baffled at us and asked:\n-What may I help you with, sires? –\nI took a moment to see him. He was in his early 20’s. Black hair, stout hands, some scars on his arms, and red eyes from so much heat. I asked:\n-We were told you were the last person to go up to see the monks at the monastery. We are investigating what…-\n-Don’t. Don’t go there. The monastery is…No. Just…don’t go. –\nSuddenly, he turned around and walked back inside. I turned to see Siegward and we both followed him. Hugo grabbed his hammer and got back to work.\n-Lad. –\nSiegward said.\n-Tell us what you saw up there. We need to know what might have happened to them before we do the climb. You’re the last one that saw…-\n-I didn’t see…them. I couldn’t. I…I only heard it. I…I didn’t dare to gawk inside. –\nSaid Hugo, interrupting abruptly.\n-What happened, lad? Tell us. What did you hear? –\nHugo stopped working and hung to his anvil for a moment. He took a deep breath and said:\n-My little sister was sick and one of the monks always came to see her. Dominic. He brought her medicine and helped us when we needed it the most.\nOne night, I was finishing up work when I saw a star falling from the sky and landed somewhere in the mountains. That’s when the monks stopped coming.\nI began to see my sister’s health decline and the monks were nowhere to be found so I climbed to the monastery to get some medicine and… there was smoke coming from inside the temple. I rushed to the door but before I opened it…I heard screams. –\n-Maybe there was a fire…-\n-These were not human screams, my sire. –\nSaid Hugo cutting me off quickly.\n-I have never heard a man nor beast scream like that. There’s something unholy inside the monastery. Something evil now lurks there. I tell you, if I were you, I would go back from whence I came before I followed their fate. –\nHugo sighed deeply and continued hitting the metal again and again, muffling his thoughts with each hit.\nAs we walked out of the blacksmith, I turned to Siegward and asked:\n-Do you think the kid’s telling the truth? That there’s something evil lurking inside the monastery? –\nSiegward took a moment to think and said:\n-I know the face of a man that lies and I know true fear when I see it. The lad is not lying. There is something up there. –\nWe both stood in silence, thinking to ourselves until Siegward uttered:\n-Should we tell the others? –\nI kept quiet for a second as I looked up to the heavens and caught a glimpse of the top of the mountain.\n-No. We’ll go and see what happened by ourselves. Whatever it was that happened, we need to know. –\n***\nWe began our climb at dawn. There was already snow covering the mountain tops. It was mostly a silent trip to the monastery. None of us spoke. We all investigated by ourselves what might have happened to the monks and we all had our theories. “A disease. A fire. Seclusion.” But none of us were prepared for what awaited us…there.\nAs the Sun was setting, we finally arrived at the monastery and as we saw it, we all knew something was wrong…very wrong. I took a moment to see it for the first time. The monastery was built of cobblestone. A stone wall surrounded and protected the temple, however, something more important caught all our attention. The observation tower that rose 15m from the floor, was destroyed and an oddly looking blue moss grew all over the walls, like an infection.\nAs we walked closer to the main gates, Deniel grew warier and uneasy and once we stopped, he said:\n-I am not going in. This is as far as I will go. I won’t go inside. –\n-You cannot turn back tonight, Deniel. Nightfall will freeze you to death or you might end up lost in these hills. There’s no alternative but to stay here for the night. –\nSaid Herkimer.\n-Are you not seeing this? This is…I don’t even know what is this. And don’t you feel it? My gut is saying: “Don’t go there!” and that’s what I’ll do. –\nAs Herkimer and I discussed with Deniel, Parsifal, with Siegward’s help, climbed the wall, and suddenly he yelled:\n-Father! –\nWe all looked up and saw his face pale and confused.\n-Look…. –\nHe said as he pointed at something inside. I started climbing desperately, consumed by curiosity. I’m not sure what I was expecting to see… but it was not what I saw.\nAs I climbed to the top of the wall, I saw the inside of the temple and there was a hole in the middle of the church. As if God had pierced the land himself. The church had been destroyed and half of it was gone, and from the destruction, the blue moss extended all over. As an infection. A corruption. More than half of the temple was now covered with it.\n-What in God’s name happened here, Father? –\nAsked Herkimer as he stood next to me. I couldn’t turn to see him but I knew they were as confused and as stunned as me.\n-Father. –\nSaid Siegward as he grabbed me by the shoulder, snapping me out of thought.\n-The monks. We must look for them and leave this place tonight. Understood? –\nI had traveled beside this man for weeks now and then and that was the only time I felt fear in his eyes. After Deniel saw what had happened, he refused to go with us and left immediately. Unfortunately…that was the best decision any of us could have made.\nAs we delved deeper into the castle, the moss grew thicker and thicker and a stench unknown to any began to lurk everywhere. We had to light torches and lanterns as we advanced for darkness grew thicker with each step.\nHerkimer and Siegward were our guides and walked in front of us the whole time. As we walked through the halls of the temple, an eerie feeling grew amongst us. As if we were being…watched.\nThe deeper we delved the more the temple felt as if it didn’t belong to us anymore. We didn’t want to split apart, none of us was brave enough to do so. So, we explored the temple together. We began in the kitchen but we found nothing. We moved to the rooms of the monks but found nothing but moss beginning to creep inside the rooms. As we walked into the dining room, we all stopped as shivers moved down our spine at the sight. Moss covered everything; from the floors to the ceiling. Tables, frames, knives, chairs, everything was covered in moss.\nNeither of us dared to speak or utter a sound. We were all…afraid. You could feel it. As we walked closer to the church, we stumbled upon a blocked entrance. A little door was still visible through the mossy walls. We all tried our best to open the door and finally managed to walk inside. As we entered a little chapel, we finally found the body of a monk. The moss crept through the cracks on the door and his body was somehow fused to the door by it. Herkimer knelt next to the corpse and saw a book and a pen on the hand of the monk. He opened the book and began reading in silence as we pondered how in god’s name was it possible when he simply said:\n-Father…–\nWe all turned to see him. His face was pale. His eyes showed fear and his expression utter confusion. He handed me the book and I grabbed it from his shaking hand and began to read it aloud.\n- “March 24th of 1109, the year of our lord.\nLast night, a star fell from the heavens. It destroyed the observatory along with the church. None of us were injured thanks to our Lord. Tomorrow, we will begin the repairs of the temple and discuss what will be done. –\nMarch 26th of 1109 the year of our Lord.\nBrother Lucas has disappeared from the temple. We don’t know what has happened. His things are still here but he is nowhere to be found. The last thing I knew, he was eager to see what fell in our temple and said he was going to investigate even though Father Maxxwel had prohibited us from doing so, but we were all so excited to see what it is.\nI…I. We screwed up.\nWe went at night to see the rock and there was a blue moss growing from it. Oliver thought it was smooth and decided to cut a piece of it…but the moss screeched in pain and from it, spiky bones spawned, piercing Oliver’s hand and arm. We tried to pull him out of it but…the moss began creeping up his arm, drinking his blood and growing, and…we saw Oliver be eaten alive by the moss but…he was still alive. The moss had grabbed him and embedded him into the wall, still conscious. He screamed in agony as the moss drank from his insides. Jonah pushed me aside and threw some oil and burned the moss away…but it only made everything so much worse.\nThe moss…it. Run…”\nHerkimer knelt back to see the corpse and pushed it away from the door, revealing whiteish roots spawning from the moss directly into the corpse. We all saw the roots drinking from the corpse, eating it little by little. We all crossed ourselves and Herkimer said:\n-We must go. This is no longer safe. –\n-No, we must push forward. We need to know what we’re dealing with, Herkimer. We need to reach the church. –\nI spoke.\n-The church? Father, look around you. This place is no longer a monastery. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. This is dangerous. –\n-We cannot leave without proof. They’ll lock us up claiming we went mad. You know the church as well as I do. You know what needs to be done or we’re as good as dead. –\nHerkimer lowered his face as he swallowed his words. Siegward sighed deeply as he stepped out of the little chapel, followed by Parsifal and myself.\n-We’re all going to die…-\nUttered Herkimer as he followed me. As we delved deeper and deeper into the temple, we finally reached the church. Half of it was destroyed and all of it was covered in moss. Moonlight shone upon the destruction revealing the core of it all.\n-Very well, Father. We’re here. Now what? –\nAsked Herkimer. I thought for a moment as I gawked at the black hole on the ground that spawned the corruption.\n-We cannot take the moss, so we’ll need to get a chunk of the rock itself. –\n-We cannot go down there. We don’t know how deep it is nor what’s inside. –\n-Listen. If we do not get a piece of whatever this thing might be, we’re as good as dead, do you understand, Herkimer? –\nThere was a slumber silence that filled the room for a moment when suddenly Parsifal spoke.\n-I’ll do it. –\nWe all turned around and he continued:\n-I can climb down there and get a chunk of the rock so we can all go back. I’ll do it. –\nParsifal grabbed his lantern and put it on his belt. He tied a rope around his waist and began to descend.\nWe all gawked, skipping heartbeats as we saw the lad go deeper into the abyss. I turned to Siegward and he was looking behind us with a wary look.\n-What is it? –\nHe thought for a moment and said:\n-I heard something. Like a frog croaking. –\n-I have it! Pull me up! –\nWe all heard Parsifal faintly yell and we all went for the rope and began pulling the lad up, however, as we were about to pull him out, the rope slipped out of my hands and the lad fell for a moment. Siegward and Herkimer caught him…but the lantern fell off his belt and hell was unleashed.\nAs we pulled him out of the hole, we heard the lamp break, and a screech louder than anything we’ve ever heard broke the silence of the night.\nWe all looked confused at what had happened when we heard a rumble and the floor beneath our feet trembled. Siegward grabbed his torch and walked into the dark when we suddenly saw it rise from the dark.\nA demon. A monster not from this world. Made of flesh, bones, roots, and moss. Faceless. Claws made of bones. Ribs poking out of the back of its arms like spikes. Skulls sticking from his back. It was as tall as the monastery’s gates.\nWe all stood in silence as the monster towered over Siegward and saw him screech like an animal before using its tail to pierce Siegward’s chest and bite off his head.\nParsifal screamed as the beast devoured our friend and he took off running, however, the monster screeched once more and ran after him.\nI stared in disbelief at the lump where Siegward once stood when I felt Herkimer’s hand pull me up and say:\n-We need to go, now! –\nAs we ran from the church, I heard the screams of Parsifal being silenced in the blink of an eye, when we heard the screech of the monster once more. As we ran through the temple, we heard it come closer and closer as the feet beneath our feet trembled. I stumbled upon something as we ran blindly through the church and got separated from Herkimer…but I know he’s dead for I heard his screams but a moment ago.\nAs I hear the beast creep closer and closer; I write this as a warning.\nAbandon all hope thee whom enters here. God bears no power in these halls.\nHe has forsaken us.\nGod has forsaken all of us…" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Daddy's Chair\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1330\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who has been nominated for a prestigious award, but isn’t sure they deserve it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Once upon a time, there was a little girl. Her name was Rana, and she lived on a farm. Her family was made of a dad, a mom, six brothers, eleven cows (Bessie died last fall), two dogs, and three cats. \n\nThis day started off quite ordinary. Her brothers were milking the cows.\n\nRana took her little bucket and walked carefully to the first milking stall. Annabelle, the biggest cow, looked at her with big, solemn eyes. Randy, her brother who was leaning against the cow’s side with his hands working the teats, looked at her with sleepy eyes. “Go ask one of the other boys today.”\n\n“But they don’t give me enough. My kitties are thirsty all day then.”\n\nRandy sighed. “Hold your bucket closer.”\n\nShe obeyed, and he filled it almost to the top. “My kitties will say thank you, Randy.” He mumbled something. She held the bucket with both hands and walked to the corner of the barn. Taffy, Shaggy, and Ruffles came to her right away, and she petted them while they drank their milk. When they were done, the boys were done milking, and everyone went inside for breakfast. \n\nMama asked the same question every morning. “What are you guys doing today?”\n\nRandy said he and Rey were going to work on the treehouse. Ricardo was going to draw pictures of all the birds he could find. Rowan, Rudy, and Ryan were going to go fishing. Rana wasn’t sure. \n\n“Do you want to come grocery shopping with me?”\n\nRana shook her head. “Maybe I’ll go fishing too.”\n\nRudy protested. “You always splash around and scare the fish away.”\n\n“No need for loud voices at the breakfast table.” Daddy didn’t like arguments. “I noticed a weak spot in the fence this morning, so the cows have to stay inside today. I’m going to walk the fence and see how much lumber I need to get. We’ll need all hands on deck tomorrow for repairs.”\n\nLater that morning, Rana found herself walking down a deer path through the woods. She could hear the creek to her left. She followed the path until the trees opened up to a meadow. She could see the creek now, bubbling happily into the pond. Ripples made the reflected sky look magical, and she smiled. \n\nThere were a lot of sweet williams blooming at the tree line. She picked a handful and brought them to the pond’s edge. She picked off the individual flowers, put them gently into the water, and watched them dance on the ripples. \n\nFarther away, the pond was as smooth as glass. She could see the boys across there, sitting on the bank with their lines in the water. She watched Rowan get up and hand his pole to Ryan. \n\nRowan made his way to a big maple tree that grew close to the pond. He jumped for the lowest branch and caught it on his first try. Rana watched as he pulled himself up and wiggled along a big branch that hung over the water. He motioned for Ryan to hand him back his pole. \n\nRyan held on to the tree trunk and leaned out with the pole. Rowan bent from his branch and reached. He grabbed the pole, lost his balance, and pulled Ryan into the pond with him. \n\nThey made a wonderful splash. Their big ripples came all the way across the pond and fought with the little creek ripples. Rana giggled as they climbed out, dripping wet and shivering, and Rudy groaned about “for sure not catching any fish now”. \n\nAll four made their way back to the house. Rudy cleaned up the poles while Rana ran inside for dry clothes. She came back and threw them into the barn, where Rowan and Ryan were changing. \n\n“What do we do with our wet stuff?” Rowan wrung out his tshirt. “Mama wouldn’t want it in the house.”\n\nRyan shook out his hair like a dog. “We can hang them up in Bessie's stall.”\n\n“But it’s so humid.”\n\n“What if we turned on that little heater? Just until our clothes are dry.” \n\nThis course of action was adopted, and the extension cord was run to Bessie’s stall for the little heater. The boys left to see how the tree house was coming along, and Rana climbed up to the loft to find her cats. \n\nShe dug a little nest in the hay and waited. Soon Taffy and Shaggy were purring happily as she scratched around their ears. Ruffles curled up beside her and fell asleep.\n\nA weird sound came from down below; like popcorn, almost. Rana frowned and stood up, sending the two cats away. She walked to the ladder. “Boys? Are you down there?” She caught a whiff of air that smelled like winter: woodsmoke. \n\nThe cats followed Rana as she clambered down the ladder into a haze of smoke. Annabelle and Clara were shifting nervously on either side of the empty stall. Rana could see tongues of fire licking up the straw around the heater. She unplugged the extension cord, then ran for her little bucket and filled it up at the water trough. She sloshed it over the heater, but the fire was spreading fast through the hay. She dropped the bucket.\n\nRana ran for the big door and threw her weight against it. She pushed it all the way open, then grabbed the morning bell and rang it twice, the same way Randy always did when they were finished milking. The cows stirred and started backing from their stalls, but the fire had reached the wall and was racing up it. \n\nBarking caught her attention as Guardian and Lassie dashed past her into the barn. They pushed the cows, nipping at their legs. Rana watched in relief as the cows exited the barn one by one until Lizbeth was out and the barn was empty. The whole ceiling was on fire now.\n\nRana sent the dogs, and thereby the cows, to the other end of the pasture. Then Mama got home from grocery shopping, and she got scolded for standing so close to the barn. It was all burning now.\n\nThe boys came running, and Daddy came up from the field. Everyone wanted to know what happened, but Rana was busy coughing. The barn turned into a pile of ashes. \n Evening came. Daddy and the boys set up a makeshift fence to keep the cows from getting too close to the scene of the fire. They did the milking into extra pails from the garage. Rana got a container from Mama to give milk to her cats, but only Taffy and Shaggy came running. \n\nRana suddenly remembered Ruffles, curled up in the hayloft. She burst into tears and ran into the kitchen. Mama let her cry until the boys were washed up, then dried her tears and led her to the table. They prayed.\n\n“I don’t want to eat.” \n\n“I want you to eat a little bit, at least. Do you want to tell us what happened first?”\n\nShe told the whole story, but broke down when she got to the end with poor Ruffles. Daddy looked at her very seriously before getting up out of his chair. \n\n“Rana, I want you to switch spots with me.”\n\nShe halted mid-sniff. “What?”\n\n“This spot is for the protector of the family. You did a lot of protecting today. Your quick thinking saved all the cows, and two of the cats.”\n\n“But Ruffles—”\n\n“Rana,” he pulled back her chair and gave her a hug. “You did everything you could. I’m proud of you. Go sit in my chair.”\n\nShe felt very small in Daddy’s chair. The boys all looked like they wished they had been at the fire. Rana wished they would have been there, too. Maybe they could’ve saved Ruffles. \n\nBut Daddy was proud of her. She wiped her nose and sat a little straighter. Maybe she could eat some supper after all." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Golden Apple.......\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1112\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story including the line “I can’t say it.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In his nostalgic moments, as his life passed by, Marty often looked back on some of his life-changing moments. One golden memory was when Marty first told anyone he was gay. Directed by their mother, who had said, \"You're reading too many books, go for a walk,\" Marty and his older sister had walked for a sunny afternoon of fresh air.\nTaking their library books under their arms, Marty and Louisa had sauntered into a neighboring orchard. There were no fences, the fruit trees overladen with ripened apples had all been earmarked for a housing development. A golden haze seemed to hang in the air, insects buzzed, birdsong was sweet.\nUnder one apple tree, Louisa plucked some golden apples, sun sweet, and the two teenagers munched, while chatting and reading. Louisa was already wearing her friendship ring, they were both expected to marry well. Marty did not like her boyfriend, he had heard him talking too much trash.\n\"You'll get a girlfriend soon,\" Louisa commented, as she was discussing her impending engagement party. Marty groaned, but had to share. \"Don't tell Mum and Dad, but I think I love a boy.\" Louisa ate the rest of her apple, and threw away the core. \"It's only a stage, you'll grow up like the rest of us.\"\nMarty shut up. She probably never would understand. \"I can't say it,\" he thought. Big sisters are scary, so he kept silent about how their local parish priest had introduced him to meeting a man's biological needs. Marty had tried to put that behind him, but girls had no appeal for him. The priest had covered his tracks so well, liked them young, and vanished to another parish long ago. Marty supposed he had someone else by now.\nAt 4 pm exactly, Louisa glanced at her watch, and said, \"Time for home.\" The golden afternoon had been pleasant enough, she had not really judged him. Marty was an excellent student, his father encouraged the manly sports. Marty preferred English, Music and Drama. He kept up his mastery of several musical instruments, and won scholarships and prizes, enough to fund his tertiary studies.\nThe old orchard was turned into large bonfires, the housing estate bloomed, gardens were planted. The golden apples of his youth were part of nostalgia, part of growing up, always feeling on the fringes of youth. Marty associated true love only with male forms. He did have some brief encounters with men in his college years, only flings. He was expected to pursue his career as a music and drama teacher, so he applied for a very posh job at an exclusive Catholic college.\nMarty's parents were ageing now, so he stayed at home, doing what he could to support them. In his vocation, he stayed in the closet, deciding it was not worth his job to declare he loved men. As part of his job, he had to attend Mass regularly, a role model, well-groomed in more ways than one. Sometimes he prayed, so he could find his true path, but his God seemed silent. The plaster saints smiled, Jesus on His crucifix gave Marty a blessing. He acted as normal, whatever that meant, feeling some distress, always in silence.\nMarty had stopped asking internally what the Catholic Church could do for him, while he was teaching at a Marist College. He tried to do what he could in that environment, never quite pleasing his father, who wanted him to marry a nice girl and provide him with grandsons, bouncing baby boys.\nMarty was never quite game to tell his father that was never going to happen. Louisa by now was the mother of two young girls, she had divorced her 'nice ' husband. She now owned two mortgages, a car loan, a garden, the kids, and resumed her job. That had been marrying 'well'.\nMarty's father had passed away after experiencing prostate cancer. Marty trotted off and got his checked, all clear. His frail mother sat at home on Saturday nights, while Marty presented the school musicals. Great success, drawing forth very talented musicians and vocalists from the schoolboys and their allied schoolgirls.\nAfter the accolades, Marty drove off, his secret life in his briefcase, always hidden from his mother's snooping. He went to a gay bar he had located. somewhere in the city. There he could dance his cares away, always seeking more than sushi. By now, Marty had accepted that he was never going to be the Bishop's pet, unless of course, the old Bish was camp too. It was all swept under the carpet of a different place and time.\nThen his mother passed over too. Marty and Louisa renovated the old family home. The sash windows were replaced by sliding glass, the dated textured carpet was ripped up, polished heritage floor boards gleamed. The bleeding heart of Jesus and gold flocked wallpaper disappeared, along with all the votive statues of the Blessed Virgin. \"Don't know any Virgins!\" Marty said to Louisa.\n\"When are you going to take a stand?' his big sister asked him, always there for him, no matter what. The middle-aged siblings split their inheritance, and stayed in touch. Marty had, indeed, seemed to have met someone. He went to his lover's pad, and told him what Louisa had said. Could he spend his golden years, finally happy?\nWell, yes. He wrote a letter of resignation, then brought some cookbooks. He was going to explore his inner wife, creating was cool. He had moved all his gear into Benjy's home, they were finally a true couple. On his planned last day of teaching, Marty did himself proud. He was supposed to be teaching Silly Billy Shakesbeer to his oldest students, rugged big footballers, one and all. Very devout, eager for their identity.\nDressed as Ophelia, with the wig and the frock, Marty stormed into the class. \"Don't listen to us oldies.! Bullshit is only spam we have fed you all these years. You've heard it all before. You can be whatever you want to be! Don't let them get to you!\"\nOne of the boys complained about hearing swear words from 'that old poof'. The principal entered, \"You're fired!\" \"NO! I quit!\" Marty yelled back, being very dramatic. \"Enough of this oppression. I pray for your acceptance. Take your job and shove it!\"\nWith that, Ophelia, disguising Marty, had taken a stand. He drove off to his future. True love beckoned, no more conflict with his day job, freedom and equity. That golden apple of love, and being himself was now Marty, until the end of time. I guess we can all blame the Marists. He does........" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: True Silence is a Blessing\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2973\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a silent retreat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Nestled deep in the forest beneath the snowcapped mountains of Montana, lay in ruins the remains of six extremely decayed cabins. It had been fifty years since Monica had visited this land. Fifty years since she met the love of her life. Fifty years of wonderful memories. Her children had begged her to not make this trip, due to her health condition, however, knowing in her heart that she would never get another opportunity, Monica opted to disobey the wishes of her children and return to the place that started her life. The area that she found would be the cornerstone of for who she would become…wife, mother, teacher, and grandmother.\nThe sun was high at noon and though she was slower than she would have liked, Monica made good time getting to this spot. Her guide up the mountain assisted her in clearing an area for her tent and helped her to get set up. Working as a team they had camp set up beautifully and Monica explained that she was to be left alone for the next three days. That this was a sacred area, a special time, a moment of reflection between her and God. She explained to the guide that she was well aware of the surroundings, but not to disturb her until mid afternoon on the third day. With concern, her guide agreed that he would be back for her by mid afternoon on the third day…without fail. He gave a hug of encouragement and understanding to Monica and began his trek back to the base of the mountain. Because the area was considered dangerous, from a multitude of rumors and superstitions, her guide pleaded with her, and she agreed to allow a specially trained dog to stay on site with her. Should she have any trouble, she could command the dog to get help.\nMonica finished tidying up, grabbed a bottle of water from pack, sat down against a tree and relaxed. The cool breeze across her brow was just what she needed. Her gaze transfixed on the dilapidated cabin forms; her mind sank into a deep meditative state of memories.\nFifty years ago, Shelly, a dear dear friend told her about this wonderful three-day retreat. It was purposely placed in the middle of nowhere. No phones. No radios. No electricity. No world. When it was time for a meal, a servant would appear at your cabin to collect you for mealtime. When mealtime was over you were released. Each retreat only allowed twenty-four participants at a time. Four groups of six participants would be assigned a moderator. The moderator would escort their individual group to a different location each morning and midday. In each location, the participants would be left alone to meditate, silently. For three days, no words were to be spoken. You were there to find yourself. You already knew what your voice sounded like, now you needed to hear your mind and your heart. The world used words to communicate, here gestures, eyes and mannerisms were the forms of communication allowed.\nWhen Shelly told Monica of this retreat, Monica looked at her as if she had lost her mind. Monica was working her way up the sales ladder and her voice was her golden ticket to that dream house she had always wanted. Once she attained that, she figured that her life would be perfect. She was already third in line for promotion with all her hard work. Why would she want to disappear for three days? Why would she want to put her career on the back burner when the three days that Shelly was speaking of were the biggest convention of the year and if Monica played her cards right, she could propel herself into the number one seat. Shelly had lost her mind if she thought that Monica was going to give up this opportunity.\nShelly finally convinced Monica to have brunch with her two weeks before the event. Little did Monica know that Shelly had already paid for her place at the event. Shelly was convinced this was what her best friend needed. This was a time that she needed to break away from the rat race of corporate hob-knobbing and take a few days for herself. Monica was pushing herself to a heart attack in her attempts to be the best, Shelly saw this and had to intervene. She could not bear to lose another friend to the high stress of this lifestyle.\nAt brunch, Shelly introduced Rod. Rod was a well to do man of his late fifties, yet he looked as though he might be pushing thirty-five. His complexion and aura displayed a young confidence and stature. Monica was surprised to learn his true age. Rod was the founder of this retreat. He reassured Monica that he was no salesman. He simply wanted to give his testimony and explain why the retreat was formed. That if she still did not want to go, he understood. Rod explained that his wife was running a little behind but would be here shortly to give her testimony as well. Again, they just wanted to make sure that Monica had all the information available before she gave a hard NO to possibility.\nRod began to explain that he was corporate headhunter. He spent hours upon hours seeking the best of the best talent and motivated clientele. He had worked his way to the top of this business. He was sought after by all major companies needing exquisite employees that would allow their companies to soar. Rod had a gift that let him see the trueness of people and could guide them to the right company. However, the money and the fame that came with that talent overpowered him and consumed him. At the true age of thirty-eight, he collapsed in his office and was rushed to the hospital. Though no definitive answer was established, Rod knew that he had to change his life. This rat race was going to kill him one day. Because he was so good at what he did, even being hospitalized did not stop the calls and letters. Rod had to disappear.\nAs a boy Rod liked to camp with his dad and uncles. They called it bonding time; Rod called it hanging out with the big boys. The memories he had were all wonderful. He remembered this place that they had gone several times and where he always had the best sleep. Rod decided that he would go there alone this time and reset his batteries. He thought about inviting his friends to join him for a quick retreat, but after pondering on the concept of spending time alone in the woods with his pals, he decided that would not be a good idea. He decided that three days alone with no outside world influence was what he needed. Letting no one know where he was going or doing or how long he would be gone, Rod disappeared up the mountain. He explained that the nearby brook provided a few fish for dinners, and he had packed the rest that he needed on his back. Rod regaled the stories of his adventure and then closed his testimony with this, “The entire time I was alone, I felt a presence of protection around me. There was no one there, however, I felt secure from the wild and from the world. Those were the best three days of bonding I could ever have had. I bonded with my inner self. I did not have contact with anyone in the outside world and my entire being and perspective on life … well it changed. So, I decided to find out who owned the land, either purchase it or rent it, and then build the retreat of silence. So far, it has been a remarkable success. I do not advertise for it is not a marketing gimmick, but a cornerstone beginning to a new life.”\nMonica listened with intent curiosity. Shelly watched her friend’s mind process the stories and changes that Rod had described. Shelly knew that Rod had gotten a hook in, now, was he going to be able to reel her in? Maybe, if he couldn’t, MaryBeth, his wife, would be able to. Shelly really wanted her friend to step away from the race she was running, but the drive in her to succeed was much greater than even Shelly had realized.\n“Sorry I am late. Traffic on the turnpike is brutal this time of day.”\n“Turnpike?” Monica said with a complete questionable tone.\nRod laughed and cleared up the confusion. The turnpike is our home with three young children who absolutely love to drive their mother crazy when she has to be somewhere that they do not get to go too.\nEnjoying each other’s company, MaryBeth explained that she met Rod after he had his runaway to the woods. He caught her eyes as preppy wanna be woodsman. She thought for sure he was on some kind of television reality show. He was quirky and yet confident. She explained that there was something amiss about him that she found completely intriguing. He had come into the restaurant she was working at and ordered so much food she thought there was going to be a party at his table. He ate every last bit of it. I kept looking at him like where are you putting it all. When I brought him the bill, he did not even flinch and then tipped me quite nicely. Little did he know at the time that I was short on my rent and that handsome tip was what I was short. I cried the rest of my shift and thanked God for providing.\n“WAIT,” Monica interrupted, ‘is this some religious thing?”\nShelly looked at Monica and explained that it was not a religious thing, it was look deeper inside you think. “Why do you think that everything I bring you to try is a ‘religious’ thing.” With hurt in her eyes, Shelly excused herself from the table.\nMonica, still not convinced, turned her gaze to the couple. “So, is it?”\nMaryBeth looked at Monica sternly but with very loving eyes, “It is a ‘make of it what you want thing’”.\nRod explained that while he was alone for those three days, he found a peace that he could not understand. He felt secure though he could hear the wild encroaching in on his campsite. He slept the best sleep because of calming of nature and peace in the air. If that was God, okay then, he was good with that. Many who had came to the retreat found God, many just came to terms with themselves. It was completely up to Monica what she got out of it.\nMaryBeth, continued her story about how God had sent Rod to help her and neither one of them knew it at the time. Later that month, Rod had returned to the restaurant, this time to ask MaryBeth out on a proper date. He explained that she was the only thing on his mind since he came for lunch. The rest is history.\n“Monica,” Rod began, “I started this retreat for those who are lost in their own story to find their peace. I spent three days in almost complete silence. There were a few times that I let out a few yells just to make sure that I still had a voice and ears that worked, but the rest of the time was silence. That silence re-centered my soul. That silence allowed me to hear my heart and my fiery desire and corporate recruiting was not it. My ardent desire was to truly help people who are lost. Our retreat is not advertised, it is done by invite only. Shelly reached out to me when she heard about our retreat. She is worried about you. She knows the path you are on is similar to my story and she afraid that you won’t seek a break unless … well until it is too late.”\nIn Monica’s group there were three men and two other women. Their moderator was of Native American descent and deliberate in their presence. You could tell that they had a natural talent for this. Their wishes for the participants were very vocal in a silent way. There was a since of security in his presence. Still unsure if she would last the entire three days, because that convention held her future in the palm of its hand, Monica pressed on to make good on her promise to her best friend. To take a time out before it was too late.\nMonica started to get stiff sitting on the ground. Her 75-year-old body was not what it once was. She was fit for her age, but the diagnosis of stage four cancer had put her in a bad mind set. Monica moved to awning of the tent, located a pillow for the lawn chair, and found her way back to memory lane.\nHer weekend was the weekend that she got a two-fold blessing. After acknowledging that she would remain number three in line for bit longer, Monica embraced the ambiance and tranquility of the retreat. The first day, her silence was like echoing tambourines in her mind. She could not fathom how anyone could do this for one day let alone three. However, after dinner, they all gathered around a huge campfire. Monica found herself engrossed in each flicker and pop of the flames. They hypnotized her to the point that she fell asleep in her chair. She woke up the next morning in her cabin with no recollection of how she got there. She was still in the clothes that she had worn the day before. How could this be? Because talking was not allowed, she could not inquire. Her guide met her at the cabin door and escorted her to breakfast and then a scenic precipice over the valley. Still confused about how she got to her cabin, Monica opted for a mental note to ask when the silence ban was lifted at the end. Though her group had been on the precipice for nearly three hours, it felt as though it had only been a few minutes. Monica was mesmerized at how time could fly by and how calming it was.\nNow sitting on the same campsite as fifty years ago, the emotions and reflection of then came rushing back. Monica began to weep. It was on the morning of the third day, when she found the love of her life. Sitting in a cove with a pond on one side, joyfully playing wild animals to the rear and beaming light breaking through the trees, Monica saw an image that frightened her but embraced her in love all at the same time. She did not understand at the time, but as she described her time to her friend Shelly afterward, Shelly explained that she had been praying for her to have a breakthrough. That morning of the third day, Shelly brought over some powerful prayer warriors, and they all sat locked in prayer over Monica. Shelly began crying when Monica told her of what happened, then the unthinkable happened, Monica asked Shelly if she could join her at church next week.\nAs Monica sat at her campsite, reflecting on her weekend of silence, she felt a twinge. Not really sure what it was, she left it alone. Night was falling and she retired to the comforts of her tent and fancy cot. Closing her eyes, she saw the image that she had seen so many years ago, startled, but a peace, Monica closed her eyes for the last time.\nWhen morning came, the rescue dog sensed an urgency and ran down the mountain. The rescue teams rushed up the mountain to render aid to this marvelously adventurous woman, only to find that her clothing had been neatly folded and placed on her pillow, but she was no where to be found.\nA memorial service was held in her honor where Rod, who was now over one hundred years old, approached the podium and said, “Silence is the healer of all wounds and frustrations. When we become silent within ourselves, we see the answers that God has placed before us. Monica learned this lesson when she came to my retreat so many years ago. She left me this to read to you should she not come back down this time…” Rod took out his glasses, unfolded a single piece of paper, cleared his throat, and began, “Silence speaks volumes. The world is noisy and hard to understand. But when you take the time to be silent, then He can be heard. Do not mourn me, for I have found my way home. I leave you with this …Grace and Peace be with you all.” Rod folded up the paper and added, “In her ministry, Monica helped many to find their inner self. I watched her with addicts; talk them off ledges. I watched her with orphans find their foothold in life. I watched her in her own family rebuild burnt bridges. She was able to do all this because she became silent and listened. God is not our enemy; he is the silence that we miss because the true enemy is the clanging cymbals of racket to drown out His love. Reflect on Monica’s work and life as you do your own and find your peace. God bless.”\nRod stepped down off the podium, grabbed ahold of his wife MaryBeth and said, “Take me home, He is speaking to me. It’s now my time.” The two left the memorial, returned to the campsite where they, too, saw the image and light of Monica … and joined 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: \"Two People Sitting in a movie theater, waiting for the lights to come back on\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1147\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with two people sitting in a movie theater, waiting for the lights to come back on." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "two people sitting in a movie theater, waiting for the lights to come back on\nShould I say something? She is so gorgeous, and I did have my eyes on her. She has lovely eyes too soft and looks kind. What are the chances she is sitting two chairs from me! But this is a movie theater – I just can’t go over to her – in the semi darkness at that. And – she is by herself. I wonder why though. Sigh – what to do. The lights are out. Perfect reason to introduce myself and have a little chit chat. I have wanted to see this block buster for sometime and here I am finally. Oh man the reviews – fantastic. I just know an award or two is in the works. I wonder what her name is. I love her dress too – yellow suits her. I should go say something. If I go, will she be welcoming? Scary to say the least – for both of us. And what if she is open? That would mean talking – I just can’t introduce myself and leave it at that. I was so looking forward to watching this movie alone with no chatter from my friends, to destress from the hectic week. Then again it may be worth it – she is gorgeous, so poised and relaxed. Goodness! She is not looking at her phone or texting! Very admirable. I really should say something to her. But I don’t want her to think I am a creep or something. It is so frustrating that in today’s world a man has to think twice before trying to start a conversation with a beautiful woman in a semi dark theater. Wait, is she looking at me? I will be damned! \nWhy is that light taking so long too come back on? I am going to say hello to her! What is the worst that can happen? Hello. I am Josh – how are you?\nOh! There is the man I noticed in the line! Should I say something? Why not? It is 2022 after all women can approach men. But this is a movie theater. And – he is by himself. I wonder why though. Sigh – what to do. The lights are out but I don’t want to look at my phone for heavens sake. I promised myself a carefree afternoon and I have been waiting for this movie to hit the theaters. I hope it lives up to the hype. We could engage in easy banter. If I approach him, would he think I am crazy? I wouldn’t blame him. Where is his girlfriend? Wife? Friends? Silly me I am here by myself, aren’t I? Well, couldn’t that be the case with him? Chances are he just wants to watch this movie by himself – just a stress free afternoon. He is so handsome, looking so confident and dapper. Black suits him too. Black shirt and khaki pants. Amazing – that is a popular combination among the male species. Us girls are lucky – we have so many choices. What are the chances we end up sitting two chairs from each other! Oh wow! He doesn’t have his phone out! So he knows how to be in the moment. Impressive! I really should say something to him. Oh dear. What if he thinks I am a fast woman who goes around chatting up strange men in movie theaters. Such a shame really that thought would enter anyone’s mind, including mine. In today’s world a girl has to really, really think before approaching a good looking guy for conversation. Well, I guess it is different if we were at a bar or party. Did he just glance at me?? I hope he didn’t see me peeping at him. Now that is hilarious. I am acting like a schoolgirl. \nWhy is the light taking so long to come back on? I am going to say hello to him! What is the worst that can happen? He is strolling over. Hi Dave, I am great! My name is Theressa. \nMay I? Sure – I don’t think this seat is taken. \nSo Theressa do you come here often? They both laughed at the ice breaker. Well, actually Josh, I love movies and usually go with friends. Oh wow, so do I. Where are your friends today? Oh I decided to come on the spur of the moment – I just needed to lose myself in this movie that I promised myself I must see as soon as it hit the theaters. \nWhat a coincidence! I came without my buddies to just destress from a rather hectic week and I do want to see this movie also. I was wondering why you were alone – seems unusual. Theresa burst out laughing – you were? A smiling Josh said guilty as charged. I like your dress by the way. Thank you – yellow is my favorite color. Sunny color. Exactly. I don’t think yellow would look good on me. Peals of laughter. Josh thought her laughter is beautiful and joyous. I would like to know more about her. Theressa hugged the thought to herself – he is interesting and funny. I would like to know more about him! \nYou know Josh this is the first time I am at a movie waiting for lights to come on. Me either but look how that turned out. We both meet someone new today. If nothing else. I wonder if she heard that last part – don’t want to scare her. I heard you mister – don’t think I didn’t – Theressa said in her mind. And yes, totally agree – if nothing else.\nBut there is the promise of something else! That chemistry felt across one empty seat and even more sitting right beside each other.\nAnd so it continued – chatting away as if they were long lost friends. Both, at various times, chastised themselves for wasting precious time that the non lights provided. They spoke of the excitement, the wonderment, mystery of movies and the actors who inhabit them. They dissected each other’s favorite movies. They delved into each other’s favorite actors. Then the topic of award shows came up. I can’t believe we are talking about award shows – they thought. But it feels so natural. \nThe lights came back on. Are they disappointed? Only slightly - they want to see the movie. Are they happy? Oh sure! There is the chemistry and the promise to come. Thank goodness for lights out at movie theaters. How lovely. And those friends? Wait until they hear this adventure - surely it is an adventure! How will they react? Happy to be sure. Slightly envious - oh yes. Thank goodness for movies and actors. And sunny yellow dresses. And of course movie lovers." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Always and Never\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 1722\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character discovering a surprising strength in either themself or another." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sensitive: sexualized language, and cursing.\nThree years ago today, it was a Mother’s Day Sunday. There is an anniversary picture on my cell phone of my infant daughter sitting in my ex- husband's lap. The memory holds a story of spouses, out to dinner, with two beautiful children. \nIn the picture, her Father looks blankly beyond the camera, with no affect in his face; the musicians must have been in that direction because my infant daughter is also gazing in the same direction (and there is a rational voice inside me that knows certainly they are not BOTH avoiding my gaze). The memory holds that he had a double jack-and-coke; the picture shows it was half gone before we were seated. The memory holds the same absence of enthusiasm for the rest of the meal. \n I can recall making an intention to verbalize gratitude and enthusiasm to engage my family and incite joy in the children, “Oh my goodness look at all these cakes! Sweetheart would you like a cake with Mommy?” \nTwo months later, it was a Tuesday morning, before leaving for work, on a bright orange morning of summer, when I threatened him with an exasperated “You’ll wake up alone one day if you’re not careful!” \nWhen he replied “Good!” I decided aloud “Today’s the day!” \nSince then, I have thought a lot about being alone. At the time it had felt like such a worthy curse to consequence him with, after all the things I had felt I had coped with doing alone in our love together. \nAfter I left him, I often felt panicked that “NOW... no one would know the real me!” A faulty assumption that a. he ever “knew\" me in the way I had romanticized and b. that somehow the internal world I romanticized my whole life could somehow be understood by any willing party living outside of it. \nI despise the exclusionary elitism of the phrase “you have to be good at being alone before you can be with someone else.” I have been good at being alone my whole life; as a child, as a married partner, and now as a free mother in the world. I tended to siblings and smoked cigarettes alone as a teenager, then listened to music, did my nails, and painted in oils and wrote in black leather-bound journals, alone. \nI occupied myself with house cleaning, making dinner, tending to babies, working out with punk music and pink legging sets, going to bed reading books and drinking tea as a loving wife, alone. \nAs a free Mother I shopped, went to movies, tended to plants, ate ramen, and watched Sci- fi alone very well. I cry, steam, sing, dance, scream and cum alone in the light of day or the dark; my solitary resume is complete. \nDespite these skill sets my heart does desire sharing these things, in the morning and at night, with someone curious enough to learn my romantic internal world. Even all the spiritual teachers I would listen to would deny the necessity to train oneself around the truth of their hearts, as vines around a scaffold. \nThen a shift started several months ago, where I could embrace answering my own desires intentionally. It was then I realized I had been doing this for several years, simply out of necessity rather than the choice. Making the intentional choice to attend to my alone-ness was, yes, novel, I will admit that here. In doing so I discovered many voices to be heard inside me; yes, the famed “little me” (the one living in all of us -I dare you an evening alone with a nostalgic food and movie pairing), a hero animal (mine a large oil-breathing and red eyed dragon, now often sleeping), a wise minded (handsome, tall, dark werewolf of the screen) figure of Jesus to guide me, and finally my pensive perished Great –Aunt watching me peacefully from her seat inside the wooden box of silver flatware she gave me after my son was born. \nWeeks went by and I kept this audience company as I navigated my new life, feeling supported by my own personal universe and kept by closest friends. NEVER TRULY ALONE, I felt, always holding this group of voices inside me, their drinks spilling as I breathed and fretted about outside their waiting room in my chest. Several weeks went by peacefully in this fashion, petting the dragon’s head and watching the child color pictures and practice meditation, her tiny hands folding obedient at our heart. Jesus’ hand resting on my heart and my Great –Aunt watching down on me (which is strange to visualize from inside me) with tranquil approval. \nThose several weeks passed and finally, I was not anxious about my daily life of living “alone” as I laughed in the out-and-about with my family of voices inside me. I was engaged and attentive to my daily and fluctuating needs, so much so that soon, all the voices dissipated. Naturally it is objective to report that also, I think I performed much better overall in my few external relationships as well (she says thoughtfully scratching her chin and looking up above her shoulder). \nAt first, when I noticed the quiet, I had assumed that since I had grown attentive to my needs, the childish personification of my moral compass, my immature defense mechanisms, all of that had dissipated away into a more mature and whole conceptualization of my being. I was so pleased with my newfound maturity. \nSuddenly, on a Sunday afternoon, after picking up the groceries and just before piling up the laundry, I became awash with cold, white dread. \n The truth is that I will always be alone. \nThis voice has not allowed me rest, no matter what reframe or wise Aunty I compel to soothe my fear. I have quietly pondered this truth for 24 hours. I realized that when I was married, or now that I am a free mother, when I am surrounded by people or here in the dark, I am alone with my experience. No one will understand my experience of magical animals and strong Jesus except through my voice and the magic I give them. All the people I see as “connected” on coffee dates or in dancing poses are still just two people sharing their alone; they have actively tailored their form for the purpose of façade that there is an elevated state beyond the truth I have frightfully realized. \nMy maturity and I waited for the understanding of this sad knowledge to grow into something else. Neither handsome Jesus nor little me came forward with any answers, and the red –eyed dragon remained asleep. I continued behaving the way I always do, except, with the knowledge that I would not be fighting against the truth today. I knew, I would always be alone, but secondly, and more importantly, there was liberation at the bottom of this terrifying well, dammit and I would stay present in this fated disillusionment until I came out the other side. \nI did my day’s work under this cloudy consciousness and sought out no one. \nI heard a line while I was folding laundry (if you are folding and putting away all your laundry in the same day there is something wrong with even you, my friend; leave this reading knowing that even you have still room to elevate to a freedom in which your unicorn of empty hampers is a myth... liberate yourself from the toil of laundry!) that stated something to the effect of suggesting that, if I am trying to fill the never – ending hole, I am probably missing something in the that moment of vital importance to that hole. \nI put the tee shirt down and look up at the reflection of myself across my bedroom; I hear my daughter listening to cartoons in the living room. \nI go out to join her on the couch; she looks over at me and rests her head into my chest crawling under my free arm, the same fluid movement she has done for the past 3 years whenever we are together in front of a television. We sit this way for twenty-four minutes; I pat her belly and squeeze the soles of her feet gently. \nI quietly tell her “It’s time to brush teeth for bed, baby.” \nShe responds with a squeal and a cry “Come here” I whisper, empathic sadness in my upturned mouth for her desperate tears. I hold and rock her as I tell her “It’s alright- we will watch it again tomorrow.” \nI rock her in the fashion I did when she was newborn, on my lap now, her heart against mine, and I hum the same song “twinkle twinkle little star”. My memory holds so much time that first year, alone with her, us together, in the middle of the night, humming that song from a muscle memory in exhaustion rocking in our recliner chair. \nI tell her tonight “I used to sing you this song when you were a baby.” \nI do not tell her, that I chose that song, because when I tried to sing to her “You are my sunshine,” I would cry, every time, until choking on my very breath, at the flippant lyrics suggesting I could ever lose her now that I had her in my arms. \nI tell her, “Do you remember that I live in your heart?” \n“Yes Mommy.” \n“Do you remember that you live in my heart?” \n“Yes Mommy.” A rehearsed magical thought I first taught to her older brother, eight years earlier, still also a part of his foundations of cognitions about our relationship. She lowers her gaze and rests her tearful cheek against my tee shirt, her runny nose rubbed dry in a long swipe on the black cotton. \nI do not tell her tonight that it was our solitary moments in wee witching hours in that leather recliner that grew the red- eyed dragon from my rib sinews and my boiling flesh, that would eventually carry us to our new life, where she and I could cry, scream, and sing all alone in the night, the strong hand of Jesus and all the universe to support us, Amen. \nI am always and never, truly alone." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Your Best Bet!\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1102\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Nicky meandered into work, her sleek attire impressive as always. Her hair was well-groomed, in an upswept bun to show she meant business. Her skirt was pencil slim, topped with a matching jacket. Nicky had a bit of a shoe fetish, her high heels showed off her legs, with sheer hosiery.\nNaturally, Nicky did not tell her collaborative team of Christian counselors about her own fixations. She had already been promoted, and was regarded as slightly icy to males, but a true professional mediator in well-being. As one of the leading professionals in her workplace environment, Nicky could not tell anyone that these days, she was taking some of her work home with her. She was unable to turn off her brain at night. So, she bought more high-heeled shoes, always presenting as so immaculate and focused on improving everyone's outcomes.\nIt had all started when a younger male client had been referred to Nicky for anger management counselling. His name was Beau, dark, tall, a bit scruffy. He was a handsome man, he knew it. But he was a seething mass of dependency and resentment.\nBeau was on parole, and had breached everything in his recommended anger management course. He and another angry young man had punched each other, terrifying their psychologist. So, desperate to avoid being jailed, he had agreed to overcome some of his issues by consulting the Christian Outreach Center, hoping for a fresh start.\nNicky was not too overwhelmed when she first met Beau, but maintained her professional status. He complained about sorting her fee, but she kept her cool. Nicky had studied for all those years, and was full of holistic good intentions. One slight blooper, as she and Beau first chatted .She asked him, \"Tell me, how do you feel when you are arrested?' Beau, who could turn on the charm, did a double take. For once, he did not know what to say. \"Angry, definitely!\" He finally settled himself, and began listening to Nicky's suggestions about changing his choices, and future.\nNicky privately thought Beau behaved like an infant on certain days, but she started being drawn by his flashing dark eyes. Beau kept going with his appointments, it was part of his community service for some of his misdemeanors. He had to spend at least 100 hours doing tasks for no wages. He did complain that this was preventing him from having a job, so Nicky kept pumping him up. She told him that this phase would not last forever, he had to take any opportunity that the court system had given him.\nNicky was there to listen. At nights, she sometimes woke up imagining Beau's lips on hers, a first kiss, completely unexpected. She tried to imagine crossing that line, in her office, or at his pad, or hers. How could she mellow this fellow? That was her job, not fantasies. Of course, Nicky had read of counter-transference by health providers, so she had her guard up for each of Beau's appointments.\nBeau, on the other hand, had started grooming up, his dress sense had improved, his aftershave was appealing. He had taken stock of his love life, while he had been compelled to stuff envelopes with pamphlets for his community service. He fancied Nicky, and started smiling, even meditating for reducing his stress levels. He was not sure that he could ever abandon his drinking and gambling, he was a racing fan. He thought Nicky was a beautiful filly, and just knew he had to have her in his arms.\nSo, one day, he asked Nicky what was her best strategy for staying sober. She had inspired him. Nicky was pleased with Beau's progress, for sticking with his counseling. \"Jesus is your best bet, \" she said, \"He has the best hands.\" No, yours are, \"Beau replied, \"Yours are lovely.\" Nicky blushed, she could not help herself. As a professional and a Christian, her role meant that she could not interact this way.\nSo she played some meditation music for Beau, and silently prayed for some suitable approaches. She could never share with her team at work that she was so attracted. It was totally inappropriate, but she hesitated to refer him to someone else, that might set off Beau's anger again. She, of all people, wanted him to follow a future in the community, to be another one of her success stories.\n\"Come on, Beau, we can meditate now, and I shall pray and meditate with you. Take yourself to a happy, peaceful place in your soul, and focus on aligning your goals with Our Lord, for non-confrontation and peace to all.\" Unexpectedly, Beau laughed, and said, \"Here I am, aligning myself with my inner lentil. No one can prove it's not as good. Jung, be proud.\"\nNicky giggled, her ice was broken. She was struggling for professional rapport here, but kept on praying. She knew her attraction to Beau was reflected in his eyes, dancing in the darkened meditation room, very holistic. He was only eight years younger than her, but he wanted her to be his cougar.\nIt had been a long, hard path for Beau, but he was now a stayer, as a racing commentator would say. So was Nicky, she did agree to meet him for a magical coffee. Yes, she crossed the line, never game to tell her counseling team of Christians. She breached every workplace protocol with Beau. Beau by name, and her beau by nature.\nBut it all came good, with a few hiccups along the way. Beau did grow up in Nicky's arms, his community service complete. With his new bed-mate's comfort and healing love, he finished his interrupted journalism degree, and landed a job as an online racing and sporting tipster.\nNicky was still a Christian, but at night she and Beau would lighten up in a soothing meditation, just to maintain his freedom from anger issues. They dreamed together. Nicky had her sleek life and couture, but at home she was wearing not much at all, just the way Beau liked her. Neither of this couple knew how long this would last. Beau did depend on Nicky, but that was what she was there for, it was always him.\nNicky wondered if she could ever convert Beau and his inner lentil to becoming a true believer, as he did need some crutch to get through life calmly. She should not have worried. Beau did really well, finally He was now a recognized racing expert. He was a tipster himself. Ironic, but his weekly column online was called, \"Your Best Bet!\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Ninth Morning\n\nGenre: bedtime\n\nWord Count: 2180\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who wakes up in someone else’s clothes — or utterly weird apparel they don’t recognize as their own." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My morning started with me lying facedown on the floor.\nThe hardwood was cool against my cheek. It would have almost felt nice, if it wasn't because my wrist was throbbing in pain from breaking the fall from my bed. It took me a few minutes to gather my bearings.\nMy alarm hadn't gone off yet. The light coming through my window was the pale light of the really early morning hours. I pushed myself up with my good hand, ready to climb right back into bed, but stopped when I looked down and saw what I was wearing.\nMy cotton pajamas had been replaced by layers and layers of... Silk? No. The fabric felt too soft and airy, though it did have a shine to it that resembled silk well enough. The texture was so pleasant that I could sleep in it as comfortably as I could in my pajamas, but this outfit was no oversized t-shirt.\nI scrambled to my feet, drowsiness and pain evaporating away in the face of curiosity. Standing up, I looked down at a long white dress that seemed ripped out of a fairy tale.\nThe skirt flared wide, like that of old-timey ballroom gowns. It looked like it should have been heavy, but the fabric was so light that even the numerous layers practically floated around my legs.\nThe bodice had the look of a corset, flush against my skin, but it was far from restrictive. There were no wires or laces. The thin fabric clung to my chest and waist as if by magic.\nThe bodice and skirt were embellished with flowers -not floral prints or even embroideries. There were dozens of actual daisies, poppies, bluebells, dandelions, iris and even orchids. The flowers' colors were bright and the petals unblemished. I plucked one coral-pink orchid to examine it up close. There were little dew drops on the petals, and a delicate sweet scent rose from the flower.\nI looked at my bed next: the sheets were tousled and wrinkled, like they were every morning. I plopped down on the bed in a flurry of skirts and petals. I stared at the blank wall.\nI regretted the fact that I had no mirror. I hadn't had time to buy one yet for the new house. I didn't plan on buying anything new until I finished unpacking boxes- and I wasn't even halfway done with that.\nI had felt out of place in the house before. There were no decorations, my bed and an old sofa were the all the furniture I had, and most of my belongings were stuffed into unlabeled boxes and the occasional garbage bag. But this was the first time that I felt out place and out of time.\nI sat in a daze for so long that the light streaming through the window grew bright and hot. There were birds singing outside, loud enough to be annoying. I turned to look toward the window. It was open.\nI finally stood up and walked around the bed, to the opposite wall where the open window offered a clear view of the trees outside.\nI remembered closing that window last night. It was a French style window, so its panels swung out wide. I shut it to avoid bugs flying into the room, or worse. Part of the house's charm was that it had several acres of woods out back. As much as I loved that, I did not want to wake up and find that a fox had climbed in through the window.\nCould a flowery gown have flown in through the window? Maybe a performer lived nearby and was drying laundry? I supposed I could have put on the dress in my sleep.\nI tried to remember what I had been dreaming about before falling off the bed. I could't recall any images, but I did get the vague memory of feeling nervous, or anxious maybe. It was the sensation of my heart beating fast in my chest.\nI could have spent all day pondering how I came to be wearing the dress, but I was forced to put those thoughts to rest when my phone's alarm jarred me back to the present.\nI took off the dress, leaving piles of flower petals on the floor in the process, folded it up as nicely as I could and shoved it in a mostly empty closet.\nI all but forgot about the whole thing for the rest of the day. The weirdness of it all seemed to fade in the mundanity of a day spent in an office, typing emails and making phone calls. That night, however, I made sure to shut the window properly before going to bed.\nI woke up in a dress the next morning.\nIt was a different dress, though it was made of the same soft fabric, and covered in flowers as well. This one was an apricot color, and most of the flowers were pink thistle. Before I spent too long examining this dress, I shut my eyes and tried to remember what I had been dreaming about.\nAgain, I remembered a sensation more than anything else: a nervous excitement. I grasped at the feeling, trying to return to its source. I got an image – a glimpse really- of stars, twinkling in the gaps between leaves on twisting branches. Try as I might, that was as far as I got in my memory. I looked toward the window, and found it open yet again.\nThe day that followed was as uneventful as the day before, but I did not forget the strangeness of the morning as easily. I couldn’t dismiss the event as easily now that it had happened twice.\nOn the third morning, I woke up in a periwinkle dress, covered in blue flowers. I recalled starlight, and a smell like rain on leaves. The window, that I had shut the night before, was open.\nOn the fourth evening, the open window was no longer a surprise. I hadn’t bothered to close it at all. The dress was pink and the flowers purple. I had dreamt of moist earth, and a memory of a sound; a flute, I thought, or some other wind instrument.\nAnother four nights passed. Three new dresses graced me each morning. The hardwood floors in my room were covered in a rainbow of flower petals and my closet was half full with extravagant gowns. The flowers never seemed to wilt: even the first dress looked as fresh as it had when I first wore it.\nI was ready to fall asleep and wake up dressed in flowers by the ninth night, but something changed then. I didn’t fall asleep. I was wide awake when they came through my window.\nI heard the sound of rustling leaves first, then tapping on the window glass. I tossed off my blanket and got up, looking down to confirm that I was still wearing pajamas, before going to the window. There were three visitors outside, easily visible in the bright moonlight: a fox, a deer, and a bear. They all looked right at me, eyes bright.\nThe bear, who was the largest and fluffiest of the three, was on all fours. Something pale rested on his back, in stark contrast to the dark fur. It was a dress.\nThis one was a pale silver-blue; the color mimicked the moon's glow so well that it almost seemed made up of moonlight. The flowers on it were violet, blue, and white.\nThe fox began to pace around the bear's front paws, looking at me expectantly. The deer bobbed its head at me. I felt my heart begin to beat more quickly, but I didn't feel nervous or afraid (despite the very large bear outside my window). I was excited.\nI grabbed the sides of the window frame and pulled myself up and through. I hopped outside, feet landing lightly on cool grass.\nThe spring air was pleasantly cool.\nI stood hesitantly, until the deer gently nudged me toward the bear. The bear lowered his head reverently as I approached and grabbed the dress. I slipped out of my pajamas and into the gown, which fit as perfectly as all the others had.\nAs soon as I was dressed, my three visitors turned around and started walking toward the line of trees. I followed them into the forest.\nThe skirt reached to my ankles in front and trailed longer in the back. The fabric moved like mist over grass and roots, never getting caught or feeling like it dragged against the ground. Moonbeams pierced the canopy of leaves above us, painting the path silver.\nI didn't know what path we were following, but I walked with a sure step. I hadn't had a chance to explore these woods during the day, but the trail felt familiar. The smell of wet bark, the rustling leaves and the soft fabric of the dress caressing my skin, struck me with a feeling of déjà vu so strong it made my eyes water.\nThe memories of my dreams from the past eight nights came forth just beneath the surface of recollection: it felt like they were contained in a rising bubble, a mere touch away from bursting and releasing everything.\nThe bear, deer, and fox led me to a clearing among the trees. I passed underneath a pair of bent trees whose branches had entwined in such a way that they formed a wooden threshold. I stepped through it and arrived at a magical feast.\nThe moment I crossed the threshold, the bubble burst and my memories came flooding back.\nI was in a wide field covered in flowers. I recognized some of the flowers: they had adorned my dresses for the past nine days. The field was brightly lit. The trees on the field were spaced apart, so the moon and stars glowed here without much interruption, but that wasn’t the only reason it was so bright. Spheres made of glass hung on long strings attached to the trees’ branches. Inside each glass, a golden light twinkled: like a hundred miniature suns. \nThere were two long tables set on either side of the field. A banquet of fruit and cakes decorated the tables among flowers scattered on the golden mantels. There were fine glass goblets set on the table. Though no one stood by them, the goblets were all full with a shimmering liquid that I couldn’t have identified.\nThe breathtakingly beautiful display was fit for a royal feast. And yet, all of it paled in comparison to the one other person who stood in the field.\nHe stood directly across me, dressed in a coat and tails that appeared to me made of the same, airy fabric as my dress. No flowers decorated his suit, but the silvery blue fabric shimmered -practically glowed- as if it was covered in minuscule crystals that caught the light and reflected it back with every movement. His hair was long and silver, his face smooth and the features sharp. He was smiling, the way a little boy would smile if he had gotten away with something. Mischievous.\nMy heart thrummed like a hummingbird.\nI had been coming to this feast night after night. I had met that creature every night. I had danced with him, my feet bare and my dresses flowing around me as we twirled over the wildflowers. He had held my hand in his, had held me by the waist and whispered in my ear.\nHe stepped toward me. He stopped when he was close enough that I could see his eyes: like opals, iridescent hues twinkling. Just as he had every night before now, he held a hand toward me. I obliged by taking it and letting him place a feather-light kiss on fingers. His smile widened. And, just as he had every night, he asked me to dance. Again, I said yes.\nI never knew where it came from, but music filled the air. He led me in a dance I had never learned, but somehow I never missed a step. He spun me and pulled me close, my dress floating gracefully in a dance almost its own.\nHours could have gone by- I wasn’t counting. Not tonight, or any of the nights before it. I could have happily kept going, dancing until dawn, but we always stopped before morning came.\nHe let go of my waist, but held onto my hand, bringing it up to his lips for one more kiss. He looked at me, and I knew what he was going to ask. He would ask the same thing he asked every night.\n“Will you stay?”\nEvery night, I had answered the same thing. Every night, I had crossed the threshold that led back to my house. I would wake up with nothing but a dress, and a faded dream. Every night, I had told him ‘no’.\nTonight, I leaned forward and gave him a kiss. On the ninth night, I chose to stay." } ]