plotpointellc/chatbot

{"id": "bwj3zRrodwQ", "prompt": "Idea: My friend's Instagram feed was nothing but my leftovers, so I served her something she couldn't\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My friend's Instagram feed was nothing but my leftovers. So, I served her something she couldn't digest. I had an Instagram stalker disguised as a friend named Ashley. And I don't mean that in the cute she admires your style kind of way. I mean it like if I posted about a job interview, she'd apply to the same company. If I shared a vulnerable post about anxiety, she'd suddenly have the exact same struggles with the exact same triggers. If I tagged myself volunteering at an animal shelter, she'd sign up for my shift and start playing with whatever pet I was focusing on. It started small, almost flattering. I posted my morning coffee spot and Ashley messaged asking where it was because it looked so cozy. The next week, she was there every morning at the same corner table ordering the same oat milk cortado. Then the copying escalated into something disturbing. I posted a thrift store haul featuring this amazing leather jacket. Two days later, Ashley had bought the exact same one from the seller I tagged. She started appearing at my gym right after I'd post workout selfies. She'd show up at my nail salon asking for my exact manicure. Somehow, she was always at the Saturday Farmers Market right when I arrived. Every outfit I posted got recreated down to the accessories within 48 hours. She'd even steal my captions word for word, just changing one small detail. My friends started joking about me having a twin, but it stopped being funny when she showed up with a boyfriend who looked exactly like my own boyfriend, Jake. Same beard, same height, same tech job. The worst part was when she started telling mutual friends that I was copying her. Some friends believed her and cut me off due to my toxicity. But the breaking point came through a text on my phone. Ashley had sent me a selfie from my mom's kitchen table with both of them smiling over coffee. 10 minutes later, my mom texted paragraphs about my supposed drinking problem and about cruel messages where I'd supposedly said she became pathetic after dad left. The text ended with, "Ashley showed me everything. Don't contact me until you get help." Mom was letting Ashley stay in my old room because she wanted to relive my trauma to better understand me. I called her three times, but it went straight to voicemail. Meanwhile, Ashley posted Instagram stories playing with my childhood dog at my mother's house like she belonged there. That was it. I snapped. If Ashley wanted to copy me, I'd give her something crazy to copy. I spent the next week researching Ashley's patterns and realized she copied everything within exactly 48 to 72 hours of my posts. I carefully crafted the perfect trap by creating an elaborate fake opportunity I knew she couldn't resist copying. First, I built a professional looking website for a prestigious influencer management agency. I even used stock photos and generic corporate language. Then, I created matching Instagram and LinkedIn pages that looked completely legitimate and started posting subtle posts about some exciting news in my life. Finally, when I was ready, I announced that I'd been recruited by this exclusive agency in LA requiring me to relocate in 3 weeks. I even posted fake email exchanges showing the generous relocation package and furnished apartment they were providing. I shared photos from a celebration dinner with friends where everyone toasted my success. Each post was carefully timed knowing Ashley was watching. This girl actually quit her stable marketing job and broke her lease early, paying the penalty without hesitation, while her family threw her a going away party, she flew to LA and posted herself at the airport. Then shared updates from her rental car as she drove around searching for the agency office that didn't exist. The address led to an empty building because everything was fake. And when the website I'd built suddenly showed under construction before disappearing entirely, she started to panic. The Instagram account vanished, too, and she couldn't reach anyone because there was no one to reach. 2 days after Ashley landed in LA, I hosted a small gathering at my apartment where I finally revealed everything. I showed everyone the fake website I'd built, the stock photos I'd used, and screenshots proving how she copied each of my announcements with her own versions posted exactly 2 days later. Someone decided to FaceTime Ashley while she was still stuck in LA. And when confronted with the evidence, she broke down completely, sobbing, "I only moved because you did." Ashley's parents had to wire money for her flight home, where she discovered her marketing job had already been filled and her apartment had been rented to someone else. At 28 years old, she moved back into her childhood bedroom and took a retail job at the mall, deleting all social media after the humiliation spread through our entire friend", "metadata": {"writer": "Neil", "views": 211140, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "1BDZsiVLow4", "prompt": "Idea: Why did your wife get 25 years?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "Why did your wife get 25 years for\nkeeping children safe? When little Emily\nwent missing from our neighborhood\nplayground last spring, my wife Allison\nfell to her knees right there on the\nsidewalk and started sobbing. She kept\nsaying, "Oh god, not Emily. Not that\nsweet baby." Someone took her. I had to\nphysically hold her up while we joined\nthe search party. Thankfully, we found\nEmily sleeping under a tree 36 hours\nlater. Allison pulled me aside in our\nkitchen that night and whispered through\ntears that anyone could have taken her.\nThat we got lucky this time. At first, I\nthought we were handling things normally\nlike everyone else. Allison created a\nFacebook group for the neighborhood\nwatch and started organizing these\nsafety workshops at school. She gave\npassionate stranger danger talks to\nrooms packed with worried parents. Other\nmoms started calling her a hero at\npickup, which honestly made me proud,\nbut it also felt a little intense. I\nspent my weekends helping her install\nRing cameras around our house. I went\ndoor to door passing out flyers for her\nbuddy system. Supporting her felt like\nprotecting our daughter Millie, and\nthat's all that mattered to me. Then one\nnight, I found her hunched over her\nlaptop making this concerning person\nspreadsheet. She had screenshots and\ndetailed notes about every delivery\ndriver and jogger. When I asked if this\nwas really necessary, she looked\nexhausted and said, "We need to know who\ndoesn't belong here." The changes\nstarted slowly when Allison organized\npatrol schedules and recruited\nstay-at-home parents to watch during\nschool hours. It wasn't until our\nlandscaper Carlos became her target that\nI realized something was seriously\nwrong. Carlos had worked in our\nneighborhood for 8 years, and suddenly\nhe was being reported 47 times in one\nweek just for eating lunch in his truck.\nI watched from our kitchen window as he\ncame to our driveway asking Allison why\nshe was destroying his reputation and\nshe immediately called 911 while backing\naway like he was dangerous. She told the\ndispatcher he was threatening her and I\nstood frozen knowing she was lying but\ntoo shocked to move. After Carlos lost\nsix clients including us, Allison turned\non Mr. Kumar who'd been our neighbor for\n15 years and given Millie birthday\npresents since she was born. She posted\nthat he stared too long at the\nplayground during his daily walks. She\ntook it a step further when she followed\na teenage boy home from the playground\nand posted his address online calling\nhim a potential threat. His terrified\nmother showed up at our door screaming\nabout a restraining order while Allison\nhit upstairs. When I finally confronted\nher that night, she looked at me with\ntears in her eyes and asked if I even\ncared about keeping Millie safe.\nEverything exploded when a house on our\nstreet sold to a single father with two\nyoung kids. Allison spent days\nresearching him online and discovered\nhis wife had died of cancer 2 years\nearlier. But by breakfast, she was\ntelling me no man recovers that quickly\nunless he wanted her gone. The next\nmorning, I drove to work thinking she\nseemed calmer until my neighbor texted\nabout a mob for me. My hands shook as I\nraced home, wondering who she was\naccusing now. When I got home, I burst\nthrough 30 parents to find Allison\nholding up a pink hair clip. She claimed\nshe'd found it in the widowerower's\nyard, but I recognized it immediately\nbecause I'd helped Millie put it in\nyesterday. My stomach dropped, realizing\nmy own wife had planted evidence on an\ninnocent man. She was sobbing to the\ncrowd that predators always target\nsingle parent neighborhoods while\nmothers gased and fathers clenched\nfists. This monster had my baby's hair\nclip," she wailed, waving it like proof\nof unspeakable crime. The crowd erupted\nin angry shouts and started moving\ntoward the widowerower's house at the\nend of the street. Allison led them with\nthe hair clip raised like a weapon while\nI ran alongside her begging her to stop.\nThrough his window, I could see him\nclutching his two children who were\nsobbing into his chest. A rock flew\nthrough the glass and shattered it while\npeople cheered. Someone appeared with a\ngas can from their garage and the crowd\nstarted chanting about protecting their\nbabies. "Allison, please." I grabbed her\narm. "Those are innocent children in\nthere. You're going to kill them." She\nshoved me away with wild eyes. So is\nMillie. He had her hair clip. I won't\nlet him hurt another child. Before I\ncould stop her, she grabbed the gas can\nand started dousing the front porch.\nYou're making a mistake. I screamed,\ntrying to tackle her, but two fathers\nheld me back. Let me go. She's lost her\nmind. Allison pulled out matches with\nshaking hands. "I'm saving our\nchildren," she cried. "This is what\nhappens to predators." She threw the lit\nmatch and flames erupted up the siding.\n"I'm protecting every child in America."\nI broke free and ran around back where I\nhelped the terrified father escaped with\nhis kids through the smoke. Police\nsirens wailed as Alison spotted me and\nshrieked, "You're helping him. You're\nchoosing a predator over your own\ndaughter." They arrested her while she\nscreamed that I was a traitor. The\npolice arrested Allison and 11 others\nthat night while she screamed that I was\na traitor. She ended up getting 25 years\nfor arson, inciting violence and\nharassment. The widowerower's family\nalso moved away, and their burned house\nstill stands empty. 6 months later, I\nbrought Millie to visit her mother at\nthe state facility. Allison smiled at us\nthrough the glass like nothing had\nhappened. And when I told her the\nneighborhood was still recovering, she\nleaned forward and whispered, "I'd do it\nagain."", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 47115, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "hL3uTPA4Vnc", "prompt": "Idea: What insane thing did you have to do to stay in your community?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What insane thing did you have to do to\nstay in your community? My town required\nall wives to compete in monthly beauty\npageantss where their husbands scored\nthem against each other and the ugliest\nwife had to leave town forever.\nApparently, ugly women brought down\nproperty values. And when Dennis and I\nfirst moved to the town, the real estate\nagent bragged about how it maintained\nexceptional aesthetic standards that\nkept home values high. She explained\nthat the community had strict guidelines\nabout resident quality that made it the\nmost desirable place to live in the\ncounty. Dennis was thrilled because he\nhad always been obsessed with status and\nappearances. The homeowners association\npacket included rules about everything\nfrom mailbox styles to acceptable dog\nbreeds. But buried in the fine print was\na section about spousal presentation\nstandards that I didn't pay much\nattention to. Dennis kept saying how\nproud he was to have a wife who would\nfit right in with the community's high\nstandards. But it turned out the\nresidents had developed a sick culture\nof judging women like livestock. The\nmonthly beauty pageantss were mandatory\nfor all married women. And husbands\nwould rate their wives on a scale of 1\nto 10 across categories like facial\nsymmetry and body proportions. We had to\nwear bikinis and walk on a makes a shift\nrunway while our husband sat in the\naudience with scorecards shouting out\nnumbers and making comments about our\nappearances. Town council members would\ncompile the scores and announce the\nrankings publicly with the lowest\nscoring wife receiving a formal notice\nthat she had 30 days to improve her\npresentation or face community\nrelocation. The mayor would always end\nthese ceremonies by saying, "Beautiful\nwives mean beautiful neighborhoods, and\nbeautiful neighborhoods mean valuable\nreal estate." I watched my friend\nSamantha get exiled after coming in last\nplace three months in a row and I'll\nnever forget the look of terror in her\neyes when they read her name. The next\nmonth, I started having panic attacks\nduring the competitions, and the stress\nmade me gain weight, which sent my\nscores plummeting. Dennis would wake me\nup at 5 in the morning to practice my\nrunway walk, critiquing every step while\nI stumbled around our living room in\nhigh heels. I became obsessed with\nchecking my reflection in every mirror,\nterrified that I was developing new\nflaws that would cost me points. When I\ncame in last place, Dennis didn't even\nlook upset, but just said coldly, "I\nwarned you what would happen if you\ncouldn't meet community standards." Now\nyou know what's next. Exile. I tried to\nfight the exile by appealing to the town\ncouncil, arguing that forcing wives to\nleave based on their appearance was\ndiscriminatory and probably illegal. I\nfelt hopeful when I found a lawyer who\nspecialized in civil rights cases, and\nwas willing to challenge the town's\nbeauty pageant system in court. The\nlawyer filed an emergency injunction to\nstop my exile and scheduled a hearing\nwhere I could present evidence about the\ntown's unconstitutional practices. But\nDennis couldn't wait for me to kicked\nout so he could find a higher scoring\nwife. And he and the town council\nweren't going to let me expose their\nsystem without a fight. They argued that\nI had signed a community standards\nagreement when we bought our house that\nmade the beauty pageantss legally\nbinding. Dennis testified that I had\nenthusiastically participated in the\npageantss for years and that I was only\ncomplaining now because I was bitter\nabout losing. The town council produced\nfake medical records suggesting that I\nwas suffering from delusional think\ncaused by cosmetic surgery addiction.\nAnd they got several husbands to testify\nthat I had been increasingly unstable.\nMy lawyer started doubting my case when\nfaced with all this manufactured\nevidence and the judge ruled that the\ntown's beauty standards were voluntary\ncommunity guidelines that I had agreed\nto follow. But then two days before my\nexile was invoked. There was another\npageant and the mayor's own wife ranked\nlast after gaining weight during cancer\ntreatment. The mayor was forced to\nchoose between exiling his s wife or\nadmitting the whole system was cruel and\narbitrary. When he tried to make excuses\nfor why his wife should be exempt, the\nother husbands turned on him and\ndemanded that he follow the same rules\nhe had imposed on everyone else. The\nresulting fight split the town council\napart with some members trying to\nprotect their own wives while others\ninsisted on maintaining the exile\nsystem. The chaos exposed how the beauty\npageantss had always been about power\nand control rather than property values.\nThe town council fell apart and the\npageantss were disbanded. Dennis was\ndevastated and tried to make things\nright with me. But I left town\nimmediately, this time on my own terms.\nNow I'm living in a normal town where\nwomen aren't judged like show dogs. But\nI still have anxiety attacks when I see\nbeauty pageantss on television.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 67295, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "Ko3wQKX2kFQ", "prompt": "Idea: My ex husband gaslit our children about me, so I lit him up in court.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My ex-husband gas lit our children about me, so I lit him up in court. Tom didn't just want a divorce. He wanted to erase me from our children's lives completely. He'd forget to tell me about Judy's school play until after it happened, show up an hour late for custody exchanges while telling the kids I was the one delaying, and referred to his apartment as their real home, while my place was someplace they were forced to visit. The manipulation started small after our separation, but escalated quickly. Tom enrolled Judy, our daughter, in Saturday dance classes during my weekend visitation, then told her I didn't care enough to watch her recital. When I called for our nightly bedtime stories, he'd claim Danny, our son, was in the shower or already asleep at 7 p.m. By month three, he was telling Judy that my promotion meant I chose money over being her mom and convinced Danny I moved 20 minutes away because I wanted a break from them. He signed Danny up for therapy after a school incident, but listed himself as the only parent, telling the therapist I was absent and unstable. When I discovered this 6 months later, the therapist already had pages of notes about my supposed abandonment. Tom bought the kids new iPads when they refused my calls and gany a puppy after he told me he didn't want overnight visits anymore. The worst part came when I overheard Judy at pickup telling her friend that daddy said I was trying to steal them away from their real family. Then one day, everything went too far during what started as a normal weekend with my kids. For the first time in months, Tom hadn't texted once during my visitation, and the kids seemed genuinely happy. Judy made me breakfast in bed on Saturday morning, and Danny even asked to stay an extra night. When I dropped them off Sunday evening, Danny hugged me goodbye without prompting. The very next morning, I was presenting quarterly reports when reception called to say I had visitors. Two CPS workers were waiting in the lobby with a police officer. Tom had reported me for neglect and child abuse, claiming I left the kids alone all weekend with no food, and that Danny had unexplained bruises on his arm. The social worker escorted me out of my office in front of all my co-workers for an emergency home inspection. They found my fully stocked fridge in the kids' bedroom, perfectly set up with toys and books, while my neighbors confirmed I had been home with the kids all weekend. The bruises on Danny were from the rough football practice Tom had enrolled him in. But while CPS investigated, Tom got an emergency order requiring supervised visits only, making me miss Judy's 9th birthday party. And even though CPS cleared me completely and noted that the allegations were retaliatory, the damage was already done. My children were terrified. That's what changed everything for me. I realized I needed to stop being his victim and start building my case. I hired a family law attorney who specialized in parental alienation and began documenting everything obsessively. I installed a call recording app that was legal in my state and started recording all interactions with Tom. I screenshotted every text and email while building a timeline that showed Tom contradicted himself constantly in writing. My attorney suggested checking the kids tablets where I discovered Tom had been forwarding my email to them but editing the content to make me sound cruel. I gathered proof of every child support payment and even found photos his girlfriend posted with my kids during times Tom claimed he was working. When I filed for an emergency custody hearing after a year of documentation, I brought 300 pages of evidence organized by date. Tom laughed when he was served and filed a counter motion claiming I was harassing him. He even posted on Facebook about dealing with a vindictive ex who couldn't accept reality. But in court, his confidence crumbled. The judge ordered Tom's work email subpoenaed and we discovered he had coordinated the false CPS report during my work hours on purpose. Then I played a recording from a custody exchange where Tom, not knowing I was recording all our interactions, pulled Judy aside and told her what to say about me to the counselor. I showed texts where he bragged to his girlfriend about destroying me and presented an email where he told his mother I would never see the kids again. They read Judy's statement that Daddy scared her when he talked about mommy. And Danny admitted on record that dad said loving mom meant betraying him. Tom completely lost control and screamed at the judge that I had turned everyone against him, requiring security to restrain him. The judge granted me full custody with Tom getting supervised visits only and ordered him to pay $30,000 in legal fees and damages. He even faced criminal charges for filing a false CPS report. And when he threatened the judge, he was arrested for contempt right there in the courtroom. The kids were confused, but relieved they could finally love mommy again. We slowly rebuilt our relationship. While Tom's criminal record prevented him from finding work, and he eventually got evicted, losing his supervised visits", "metadata": {"writer": "Neil", "views": 578706, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "aToB2Kjt_mM", "prompt": "Idea: When did you realize you were being groomed to replace someone?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did you realize you were being\ngroomed to replace someone? My mother\nexpected me to marry my deceased\nsister's husband on my 18th birthday\nbecause grief must stay in the family.\nAddison died eight months ago during\nchildbirth and left behind baby Rose and\nher husband Zach, who spent most nights\ndrinking himself unconscious on our\ncouch. Mom had been dropping hints since\nthe funeral, but I thought she was just\nprocessing grief in weird ways until she\nsat me down with photo albums. "Your\ngreat-grandmother married her sister's\nwidowerower," Mom explained. "It's how\nwe keep the family whole." I laughed,\nthinking it was a dark joke, but her\nface stayed serious as she explained how\nI'd been chosen since birth as the\nbackup plan. "The younger daughter\nalways served as insurance in our\nfamily." Mom's eyes went distant as she\ntouched her own wedding ring and\nwhispered that she'd been Aunt\nCaroline's replacement 30 years ago.\nShe'd already talked to Zach about it\nand he was grateful for the solution\nbecause Rose needed a mother who shared\nAddison's blood. The preparation started\nimmediately even though my birthday was\nfour months away. Mom moved into our\nhouse claiming she needed to help with\nmy training and brought boxes of\nAddison's things for me to study. She\nmade me watch hours of home videos to\nlearn Addison's laugh and the way she\ntilted her head when confused. I had to\npractice her signature until my hand\ncramped because I'd need to sign legal\ndocuments as her. Mom corrected me\nconstantly saying Addison would never\nhold a coffee cup that way or cross her\nlegs to the left. Zach started coming\nfor dinner every night with Rose and\ncalling me by Addison's name when mom\nwasn't looking. He'd apologize\nimmediately but then do it again 5\nminutes later like he couldn't help\nhimself. The baby screamed whenever I\nheld her because apparently I smelled\nwrong and mom would take her away\nclicking her tongue about how I needed\nto use Addison's perfume. She threw out\nall my clothes claiming Addison was\nallergic to synthetic fabrics and made\nme quit my job because Addison never\nworked outside the home. My friend\nstopped calling after mom told them I\nwas having a breakdown and needed space\nto heal. My boyfriend George found out\nwhen he showed up unexpectedly and saw\nme and Addison's clothes practicing her\nwalk in the mirror. He stood frozen in\nthe doorway while mom explained this was\nabout family duty and love. She made me\neat Addison's favorite foods even though\nthey made me sick and scheduled\nappointments to dye my hair to match\nAddison's exact shade. I'd catch myself\nresponding to Addison's name and\nforgetting my own birthday because mom\ninsisted we only celebrate Addison's\ndates now. The worst part was finding\nmyself humming Addison's favorite songs\nwithout realizing it like she was slowly\ntaking over my brain. The breaking point\ncame when I found wedding invitations in\nmom's desk drawer with Addison's name\nand Zach listed as the happy couple\ngetting married on my birthday. My hands\nshook as I read the calligraphy\nannouncing Addison's renewal of vows\nbecause death couldn't stop true love.\nThat night, I stood in front of the\nbathroom mirror practicing what I'd say\nand George held my hand as I dialed\nMom's number. "I'm not doing this," I\nsaid, and my voice cracked but stayed\nfirm. "I won't erase myself for anyone."\nMom went silent for so long, I thought\nshe'd hung up before the screaming\nstarted. You're destroying this family.\nShe shrieked while I heard glass\nbreaking in the background. She called\nher sisters who all had stories about\nsacrifice and duty. Dad video called\nfrom his business trip to say I was\nbeing selfish and to think about baby\nRose. Mom hired a private investigator\nto follow George and manufactured\nevidence he was dealing substances. She\ncalled my job pretending to be concerned\nabout my mental health and got me put on\nmandatory leave. Child services showed\nup asking questions about whether I was\nstable enough to be around Rose\nunsupervised. The first family court\njudge seemed sympathetic to mom's\ngrieving family story and suggested\nmediation might help us heal together. I\nalmost signed the papers when mom\nthreatened George would go to prison for\nthe planted substances. My aunts formed\na human chain blocking the courthouse\nexit, saying I couldn't leave until I\nagreed to honor Addison's memory. But\nZach testified that mom had been\ncoaching him on how to make me fall in\nlove with him. The judge ordered\npsychiatric evaluations, and mom's\nsisters finally admitted they'd been\nforced into similar arrangements. We\nwon, but I lost my entire family in the\nprocess. Mom still sends letters about\nhow I killed our family legacy. George\nand I moved three states away and\nchanged our phone numbers, but sometimes\nI wake up terrified she's found us\nagain. The wedding dress showed up on\nour doorstep last month with a note\nsaying, "Tradition always wins\neventually." And I burned it in the\nbackyard while George held", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 325138, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "gtxXZXifnJw", "prompt": "Idea: My boyfriend controlled what I could post while his feed was full of thirst traps,\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My boyfriend controlled what I could\npost while his feed was full of thirst\ntraps. So, I gave him exactly what he\nliked to see. My boyfriend had one rule\nabout my Instagram, no skin. And I don't\nmean that in a protective way. I mean,\nJake would preview every single photo\nbefore I posted it, scrolling through\nlike he was looking for evidence of a\ncrime. Tank tops showed too much collar\nbone. Sundresses showed too much leg.\nThat beach photo where I was laughing,\nmy mouth was too inviting. He'd hover\nover my phone with his finger on the\ndelete button, telling me guys would\nthink I was easy. That my body was for\nhis eyes only. Stupid me. I actually\nthought it was sweet, like he was\nguarding something precious that\nbelonged only to him. It started with my\nCancun trip. I posted a photo of me and\nmy girls at sunset, fully clothed, just\nour faces visible. Jake called screaming\nbecause we were glowing and that meant\nwe were drunk and advertising\navailability. Then my company headsh\nshot for LinkedIn. He made me retake it\nbecause my smile showed teeth and that\nwas flirty. By month three, he was\ntiming my gym sessions. If I took longer\nthan an hour, I was clearly flirting\nwith trainers. But still, I just thought\nhe was looking out for me. That's when\nhis Instagram told me what he never\nwould. I'd catch glimpses when we were\nscrolling together, his quick swipes\npast certain accounts, the way he'd\nsuddenly need the bathroom with his\nphone. One night, I woke up at 3:00 a.m.\nand he was deep in some fitness models\nfeed, double tapping photos of her in a\nthong doing squats. It's just fitness\ncontent, he said when I called him out.\nShe has good form. Stop being insecure.\nThe next week, I found him following\naccounts with names like Gym Bunnies and\nYoga Pants Daily. His entire explore\npage looked like a Victoria's secret\ncatalog had exploded. When I brought it\nup again, he actually laughed. It's just\nInstagram, babe. You're being dramatic.\nThey're not real people. Then a charge\npopped up while he was showing me\nsomething on his phone. Three different\nOnly fan subscriptions, 50 bucks a month\neach. When I confronted him, he didn't\neven try to deny it. It's not cheating.\nI'm just supporting content creators.\nThey're entrepreneurs, babe. But when\nI'd worn a sleeveless dress to my\ncousin's wedding, he'd made me bring a\ncardigan because my arms were too toned\nand might give people ideas. The\nhypocrisy was suffocating. Thursday was\nthe day it all blew up. I'd left work\nearly with a migraine. The kind that\nmakes you want to crawl into a dark cave\nand die. Used my key, walked into our\napartment, and heard it immediately. The\nunmistakable rhythm of our bed frame\nhitting the wall. breathy moans, skin on\nskin. I stood there frozen, migraine\nforgotten. When I pushed open the\nbedroom door, there was Jake with Mia\nfrom his gym. They scrambled for sheets,\nbut I'd already seen everything. His\nfirst words weren't, "I'm sorry." They\nweren't, "Let me explain." He looked me\ndead in the eye, still sweating, and\nsaid, "If you actually put effort into\nbeing sexy for me, if you gave me\nsomething to look at instead of dressing\nlike a nun, maybe I wouldn't need to\nfind it somewhere else." Mia actually\nnodded like this made sense. That's when\nsomething inside me crystallized into\nperfect clarity. I moved back with my\nparents that night. Jake immediately\nswitched to damage control mode. Flowers\non my car, texts about how he'd do\nbetter, voicemails saying I was the only\none who mattered. But sandwiched between\nevery sweet apology was something else.\nI'm sorry, babe, but you know no other\nguy will put up with your prudish\nattitude. Then five minutes later, I\nlove you, but you're too uptight for\nmost men. I'm just being honest. My\nfavorite was the 2 a.m. drunk text. Good\nluck finding someone who accepts that\nyou dress like a librarian. Each message\nconfirmed what I already knew. He\ngenuinely believed I was the problem.\nPerfect. He'd given me exactly what I\nneeded. I called my photographer friend\nSophie. I need you to make me look like\none of those Instagram models Jake loves\nso much, I said. She knew the whole\nstory and was more than ready. We shot\nat Golden Hour on the beach. Me and a\nmetallic gold bikini that cost more than\nJake's monthly only fans budget.\nTriangle top, Brazilian cut bottom, the\nkind of swimsuit his favorite accounts\nwore. Sophie captured everything. Water\ndrops on sun-kissed skin, that\nover-the-shoulder pose, the arch of my\nback as waves crashed behind me. I\nposted the full set on Friday at 800\np.m. peak Instagram hours. Caption: The\nnun grew wings. Jake's reaction was\nimmediate. The texts came flooding in.\nWhat the hell are you doing? Take those\ndown now. You look like a wire. My mom\nfollows you. I responded once. It's just\nInstagram. Don't be dramatic. By\nmidnight, he was at my parents house\npounding on the door so hard the frame\nshook. We need to talk about this\ndisrespect. My dad called the cops and\nJake spent the night in holding for\ntrespassing and disturbing the peace. I\nfiled for a restraining order the next\nmorning. He violated it within a week of\nbeing granted. Showing up at my yoga\nclass, screaming about his reputation.\nThis time he got 30 days in county. Hope\nthe guys in there look at him the way he\nlooked at those Instagram models.", "metadata": {"writer": "Lucis L", "views": 458619, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "KzXb4sfBaLQ", "prompt": "Idea: The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job. I was flying out for a union arbitration next week and instead of using my TSA pre-check, I wanted to go through regular security to see how agents really treated passengers when they didn't know a union lawyer was watching. Nothing could have prepared me for agent Franco at checkpoint 3, the one whose termination hearing I was supposed to defend tomorrow. The pre-check lane was mysteriously closed that morning. I joined the regular queue where an elderly woman struggled with her bins. After helping her get sorted, I placed my own items on the belt. Franco's expression changed when my medical bag triggered additional screening. He pulled it aside with his theatrical sigh. Everyone in three lanes knew I was going to be a problem. He deliberately made me wait while he cleared three other bags first. He took his sweet time examining a teenager's laptop. He joked with other agents about the game while I stood there. Franco finally got to my bag 20 minutes later. He picked up my CPAP machine like it was contaminated. He held my prescription documentation up to the light with exaggerated suspicion. "Sleep apnea is just fancy talk for snoring," he announced to his trainee. Then he noticed my scuffed shoes and wrinkled shirt from the early flight. "Probably can't even afford a real doctor," he muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. He turned my CPAP over and shook it next to his ear. "These things are just props for insurance fraud," he declared. Franco set down his clipboard and cracked his knuckles with a grin. "He dismantled my CPAP piece by piece. He claimed he needed to check for hidden compartments. He yanked the hose hard enough to strip the connector threads. My chest burned with suppressed rage. He poured the water chamber onto the floor to test for dissolved substances. The water splashed across my shoes while he watched with satisfaction. My hands started trembling as he made me wear the mask. He snapped photos with his checkpoint tablet while other passengers watched. "This is what drug smugglers do now," he announced to the growing crowd. He made me turn in a circle, wearing it like I was modeling. "The destruction turned deliberate when Franco found my medical documentation." He walked to the podium and fed it into their paper shredder. He maintained eye contact the entire time. "Oops, wrong slot," he said with a smile. My jaw clenched hard enough to crack a mer. He tore my prescription into confetti and scattered it in the trash. He ground my doctor's letter into the floor with his boot. The paper smeared under his heel as he twisted it. Other passengers recorded everything on their phones. A younger agent started to object, but Franco's glare silenced him immediately. "You got something to say, rookie?" Franco barked. I tried staying calm and kept my voice level. "Please, I need that equipment to breathe at night. This only made him bolder." He laughed and mimicked my voice in a whiny tone. He started photographing my driver's license with a checkpoint camera. He zoomed in on my address while calling another agent over. "Look at this address. Guy lives in the ghetto but carries expensive medical toys. He typed something into his computer with dramatic keystrokes." "Adding you to our special screening list," he said with m concern. Everything changed when he saw my barcard identifying me as an attorney. Franco's entire demeanor shifted to pure hostility. His face darkened and his jaw muscles twitched. He leaned close enough that I could smell stale coffee. He grabbed my collar and shoved me hard against the wall. Lawyers like you destroy good men's lives. He snarled. My spine hit the concrete with enough force to knock the wind out. Black spots danced in my vision. That's when I heard footsteps running toward us. The checkpoint supervisor rounded the corner and froze mid-stride. He saw me pinned against the wall. Jim. Jim Wheeler. His face drained of color. Franco's grip instantly loosened at his supervisor's voice. Franco glanced back with confusion. Vargas, I got this handled. Just a difficult passenger. Vargas was already pulling up something on his phone. His hands shook as he showed Franco the email thread. He's defending you tomorrow at your termination hearing. I straightened my jacket and looked Franco directly in the eye. Was defending you. Past tense. Franco's desperate begging meant nothing once the security footage sealed his fate. Federal agents reviewed evidence of him assaulting his own union lawyer. His uncle at headquarters couldn't touch federal ADA violations. Without union protection, other agents lined up to testify against him. Franco lost his badge, his pension, and his freedom. The assault charges stuck. Last I heard, he was pulling night shifts at a mall. He made $12 an hour. He googled my name obsessively and lived with one truth. He destroyed his own last chance with his bare hands.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 1057017, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "q7G51kTJCEw", "prompt": "Idea: 🕳️UNMUTE AND FALL INTO THE CHAOS VOID.\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What's the most disturbing thing your\nfamily tried to normalize? My mother\nforced me to breastfeed my grown-ass\nstepfather every morning because she\nsaid my milk was the only thing that\ncould keep his diabetes under control.\nMy stepfather Chaz moved in when I was\n15. And from day one, he was filthy,\nobnoxious, and never hesitated to lay a\nhand on my mother or me. He claimed he\nwas too sick to work because of his\ndiabetes, but somehow he was healthy\nenough to drink beer and yell at the\ntelevision for 16 hours a day. When I\nwas 19, I had a baby and my mother\nstarted making weird comments about how\nnutritious my breast milk looked and how\nit was liquid gold that shouldn't be\nwasted. 3 months after I gave birth, she\ntold me that Chaz's diabetes was getting\nworse. She researched alternative\ntreatments and discovered that breast\nmilk from young mothers could supposedly\nregulate blood sugar better than\ninsulin, but only if it was still warm\nfrom the body and not pumped. So, she\nexpected me to breastfeed Chaz every\nmorning to stabilize his blood sugar for\nthe day. I told my mother that this was\ninsane and that breast milk doesn't cure\ndiabetes, but she had printed out dozens\nof articles from conspiracy websites\nthat said otherwise. He's the only\nfather you've ever had, she said. Don't\nyou want to help him live long enough to\nsee his granddaughter grow up? If I\ndidn't do it, she said she'd kick me and\nmy baby out of the house in the middle\nof winter so I was trapped.\nBreastfeeding my stepfather was the most\ndegrading experience of my life. Every\nmorning, Chaz would lumber into the\nkitchen where I was forced to feed him\nwhile my mother watched to make sure I\nwas doing it right. Chaz would make\ndisgusting comments about my taste. Take\nyour time, he'd say with this creepy\nsmile. I need to make sure I'm getting\nall the nutrients. I will never forget\nhow his beard felt against my chest. And\nI spent so many hours sobbing and\napologizing to my baby that she had to\nnurse right where that man had been a\nfew hours before. My milk production\ndropped from the stress, which made my\nmother furious because she said I was\nsabotaging Chaz's help. She forced me to\nstop nursing my baby and only give her\nformula because Chaz needed it more and\nmy baby would scream and cling to me,\nbegging for milk I wasn't allowed to\ngive her. Then one, breastfeeding once a\nday wasn't enough for Chaz anymore. He\nstarted claiming he was having blood\nsugar emergencies and expect me to lift\nup my shirt for him to latch on demand.\nThe way he'd catch my mom's eye and\nsnicker made me realize that this had\nnever been about his health. They were\njust using his diabetes as an excuse to\ncontrol and humiliate me. I knew I had\nto find a way to get out. So, I started\nsecretly recording their conversations.\nOne day, I caught Chaz complaining to my\nmother about how I wasn't grateful\nenough for the opportunity to help him.\nShe should be thanking me for letting\nher feel useful. My mother laughed and\nsaid, "Who cares what she thinks? It's\nnot like she has a choice. If she's\ngoing to act like a cow, keep treating\nher like one." I contacted a domestic\nviolence hotline and played them the\nrecordings I had made. The counselor was\nhorrified and immediately connected me\nwith emergency housing for me and my\ndaughter. She explained that what my\nfamily was doing was medical and sexual\nabuse and that Chaz's diabetes was being\nused as a weapon to control me. Within\ntwo days, I was moved to a safe house\nwhere I could finally think clearly\nabout how insane my situation had\nbecome. I started nursing my daughter\nagain and really felt like there was a\nlight at the end of the tunnel. But my\nmother had a plan, too. She went to\nsocial services and told them through\nfake tears that she'd just discovered\nI'd been willingly breast breast breast\nbreast breast breast breast breast\nbreast breast breastfeeding Chaz in\nexchange for money and that I was\ndepriving my own baby of breast milk so\nI could give it all to a sick, confused\nold man. She painted me as a sexual\ndeviant who was exploiting both my\nstepfather and my infant daughter. The\ncourt ordered a psychiatric evaluation\nand threatened to give my mother custody\nof my baby. I hadn't thought things\ncould get any worse than being trapped\nin that house breastfeeding my\nstepfather. But now I was going to lose\nthe only person left who mattered to me.\nIf they took my baby, I was planning to\ntake my own life. I couldn't take it\nanymore and I knew I couldn't survive\nlosing her to the monsters who' stolen\nmy body from me. But I had one last\nidea. Once we got to court, I asked my\nmother one simple question. Where's the\nmoney? If I had been willingly\nbreastfeeding Chaz for payment, there\nshould have been evidence of money\nchanging hands. But when the courts\nlooked at my financial records, there\nwas nothing. No unexplained income, no\ncash deposits, no evidence of any\npayment whatsoever. And my financial\nrecords showed I had been desperately\nbroke the entire time, surviving on food\nstamps and WIC benefits. Since it was\nclear I hadn't benefited from this\narrangement at all. Mom's story\ncompletely fell apart. Both her and Chaz\nwere arrested for child abuse and\nconspiracy. And I was finally free to\nraise my daughter in peace. We're living\nin a group home now and doing okay, but\nI still have panic attacks sometimes\nwhen my daughter latches. imaging a\ngrown man on me instead.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 12905, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "KVO8crX2HZo", "prompt": "Idea: My manager thought I was just a worthless intern until the board meeting revealed I was the CEO.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My manager thought I was just a\nworthless intern until the board meeting\nrevealed I was the CEO. I had just been\nhired as the new CEO, but the board\nwanted me to start officially in three\nmonths. I decided to go undercover first\nby getting hired as a regular intern. I\nwanted to see how people really treated\neach other when they thought no one\nimportant was watching. My first day, I\nwalked into the office wearing my\ncheapest suit and carrying a beat up\nmessenger bag. Department manager\nWilliams took one look at me and figured\nI was just another desperate intern.\n"Hope you're ready to learn what real\nwork looks like," he said without\nshaking my hand. He dumped filing on my\ndesk and walked away. That became the\npattern. Williams started treating me\nlike his personal servant from day one.\nEvery morning he'd snap his fingers and\npoint at his empty mug, wanting coffee\nwith two sugars and one cream. When I\nasked about client meetings, he laughed\nand brushed me off. "In turns fetch\ncoffee, not make decisions," he'd tell\nme while other employees watched. "I\ncould feel my face getting hot, but kept\nmy mouth shut." The coffee ritual became\nhis daily power play. When I brought his\ncoffee back, he'd take a sip and make a\nface like I'd poisoned him. "Too much\nsugar," he'd say, even though I'd made\nit exactly how he asked. "Do it again.\nEach time I returned with a fresh cup,\nhe'd find something wrong with it,\nenjoying the spectacle of sending me\nback and forth. William saw that I\nwouldn't push back, and that's when he\ngot bolder about embarrassing me\npublicly. During team meetings, he'd\nwait until the room was quiet before\nattacking how I looked. "Did you fish\nthat suit out of a donation bin?" he'd\nsay while everyone stared at me. He'd\npoint out my cheap tie and discount\nshoes while the room laughed. "Maybe\nwhen you get a real job, you can afford\nclothes that fit." Once he realized the\nroom would laugh along, he started\ngetting creative with his insults. "I\nbet that suit has seen more job\ninterviews than actual jobs," he'd say\nduring our weekly meetings. "Are those\nshoes from the kids section?" "The room\nwould crack up while I sat there with my\njaw tight," Williams would lean back\nwith this satisfied look like a cat\nplaying with a mouse. But the appearance\njokes were just the beginning. Williams\nsaw how easily he could make me the\noffice joke and decided to target my\nintelligence and work next. When I\nturned in detailed reports about company\nproblems, he'd wave them off like\ngarbage in front of others. "This is\ncute, but you clearly don't understand\nhow real business works," he'd say,\nwhile telling me to stick to making\ncopies. He'd make comments about my\neducation and math skills publicly,\nalways with an audience. What made it\nworse was that he started presenting my\nexact ideas to executives as his own\nwork. He'd stand there confidently\nexplaining concepts I'd researched and\nwritten about, taking all the credit\nwhile I filed papers in the corner. I\nwatched him take my reports and\nliterally cross out my name, writing his\nown in front of me. "Thanks for the\nrough draft," he'd say with a smirk.\n"I'll clean it up." As time went on,\nWilliams was getting drunk on power and\nstarted attacking my personal life with\neven more cruelty. He'd whisper loud\nenough for me to hear that I probably\ncouldn't even afford lunch. During lunch\nmeetings, he'd make sure I wasn't\nincluded and would tell me to grab\nsomething from the vending machine\ninstead. Then he'd wonder out loud,\n"What kind of girl would date someone\nlike me?" The comments about my family\nhit different than the work stuff. He\nwas attacking who I was as a person, not\njust my job performance. I could feel my\nchest getting tight every time he\nbrought up my personal life, but I\nforced myself to stay calm. Williams\nnoticed my reactions and started pushing\nharder. "Did I hit a nerve? Are mommy\nand daddy disappointed in their little\nboy?" he'd say, watching for cracks in\nmy composure. The quarterly board\nmeeting started like usual. I sat in my\ncorner spot while executives came in\nlooking important. That's when the head\nof legal walked in and saw me. "What are\nyou doing sitting over there?" she\nasked, looking confused. "Shouldn't you\nbe at the head of the table?" Williams\nlooked puzzled until she continued.\n"Everyone, this is our CEO. He's been\nworking undercover to check out company\nculture." Williams' face went completely\nwhite. He looked like he was going to be\nsick. Williams' hands started shaking\nand he couldn't form words. "I had no\nidea," he stammered, his voice cracking.\n"Please, I'm so sorry. I was just trying\nto teach you the ropes. His face went\nred and sweaty. Please don't fire me. I\nhave a mortgage. Kids in college. I've\nbeen here for 12 years." He was\npractically begging. I'll do anything.\nI'll work for free. Your resignation\nletter can be on my desk tomorrow\nmorning, I said calmly. The supply chain\nfixes he'd made fun of saved us $12\nmillion.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 801800, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "1D1uWbY1seo", "prompt": "Idea: 🛑THE SOUND STARTED A GROUP CHAT WITHOUT ME.\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did your overprotective parents go way too far? My parents required hourly check-ins even though I was 25 because they said otherwise they'd assume I was dead. If I missed one check-in, they called the police. My parents were convinced the entire world was out to get me. They'd have me lie perfectly still on the living room floor while they took photos from different angles to help identify my body if needed. Mom kept a folder labeled when she dies with detailed instructions for finding me. Dad installed a police scanner in every room so they could hear about accidents in real time and understand their worries were legit. They'd make me call from inside bathroom stalls because that's where girls get murdered. When our neighbor's daughter died in a car accident, my parents attended the funeral and took notes on what the parents did wrong. Because we'll never be those naive parents who thought their child was safe. When I got accepted to college an hour away, my parents presented me with a new smartphone and laptop. These have special software so we can keep you safe, mom explained. The phone would automatically send them my location every 30 minutes. The laptop camera would take photos every hour to prove I was studying and not dead. They'd also created a check-in schedule. Text upon waking, call before each class, photo during lunch, FaceTime at dinner, and goodn night video before bed. They made me sign a life preservation contract agreeing to these terms. Moving out is the most dangerous thing you've ever done, Dad. This is the only way we'll let you go. I thought they'd relax after freshman year. I was wrong. My parents surveillance system was humiliating and exhausting. Every morning started with a proof of life selfie holding that day's newspaper. They'd call my boss if I was 5 minutes late to check in during lunch. Once I was in a movie and missed the 3 p.m. text, they called the police and drove an hour to bang on my apartment door while I was still at the movie. After that, they made me install cameras in my apartment that they could access remotely. They'd watch me cook dinner and text warnings about knife safety. They'd see me heading to bed and call to remind me about SIS statistics in adults. Dating was impossible. They'd demand background checks on anyone I saw more than twice. They hired a private investigator to follow my boyfriend because he rode a motorcycle and was therefore courting death. When I got the flu and slept through three check-ins, they broke down my door with a crowbar they kept in their car for emergencies. My landlord tried to evict me after the third break-in, but my parents threatened to sue him for endangering their daughter by having locks they couldn't access. They convinced him to give them a spare key for safety. So then I'd wake up to find them standing over my bed, checking my breathing. Mom quit her job to become a full-time monitor of my life. She'd spend hours watching my location. Dot move around the city, texting warnings about dangerous intersections and high crime areas, which according to her was everywhere. When I got promoted and had to fly to Dallas for training, my parents lost their shoti because if I was on a plane, they couldn't access me whenever they wanted. First, they tried to book seats on the same flight. When that failed, they drove to the airport and attempted to follow me through security without tickets. When TSA stopped them, mom collapsed, screaming that they were sending her baby to die. I turned off my phone, went to Dallas, and tasted freedom for the first time in my life. For 5 days, I didn't send a single check-in. No photos, no texts, no proof of life. I ate dinner without being watched. I slept without documenting my breathing. When I landed back home, I threw away the tracked phone and told my parents I was done being monitored like a prisoner. They said I was killing them with worry. I said that was their choice. My parents went completely off the wall after that. They reported me missing to police in five states. They sued my employer claiming I was being held against my will and fake medical emergencies to trick hospitals into calling me. Mom would call from different numbers crying that dad had a heart attack only for me to rush over and find them both healthy and demanding I move back home. They broke into my new apartment and installed hidden cameras. When I found them and had the locks changed, they convinced my elderly neighbor I was suicidal and got her to let them in for welfare checks. They'd leave notes everywhere, checked your breathing while you were recklessly sleeping on your own. But somehow that still wasn't enough for them. So they filed for conservatorship claiming I was mentally incompetent. And that was their biggest mistake. In court, they presented thousands of pages of evidence. Every check-in I'd ever sent, charts showing the times I'd gone dark and testimony from their therapist that losing contact triggered their trauma. They confidently told the judge that adults who don't text their parents hourly are either dead or disturbed. The judge reviewed their surveillance footage of me sleeping, their break-in reports, and their harassment of my employer. He not only denied the conservatorship, but granted me a restraining order and recommended they seek psychiatric help. They still drive by my apartment daily, counting the hours since they've seen proof of life.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 423385, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "Oai7F2cn9t4", "prompt": "Idea: My misogynistic coworker treated women like we only existed to serve him\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My misogynistic co-orker treated women like we only existed to serve him. So, I served him something that comes once a month. Derrick believed women were put on Earth to serve men in every possible way. And I don't mean casual sexism or outdated jokes. I mean he kept a spreadsheet tracking our menstrual cycles so he'd know which days we'd be emotional and irrational and told every new female hireer they were only there to improve the view. Eight years he'd been treating the office like his personal kingdom and I was about to show him what happened when you pushed the wrong woman too far. Eric started with small daily humiliations like interrupting women in meetings to say what she's trying to say is. Then repeating our exact words or watching us eat lunch and commenting salad again. Good girl watching that figure. The men laughed along while the other women taught me to ignore him completely since fighting back only gave him more fuel. But things escalated quickly. When Amanda presented her quarterly report after working on it for weeks, Dererick leaned back and interrupted, "Sweetheart, why don't you let one of the guys explain the numbers? Math is hard when you're pretty, but I bet you're good at other things." Amanda kept going, "Voice steady." While Dererick told his buddies, "This is what happens when companies hire for diversity quotas instead of talent." Definitely sucked her way into the position. Then, to top it all off, after her flawless presentation, he emailed the entire team congratulating her on being surprisingly confident for a woman. When we reported him to HR, we got radere's drinking buddy, who called it just his communication style, and suggested Amanda should be flattered by the attention. By my sixth month, Dererick ruined our company top off event by appointing himself as every woman's golf instructor, grabbing our hands to correct our form while pressing too close. When Jessica, who played division one golf in college, stepped up to swing, he actually grabbed her hips from behind. She shrugged him off and drove the ball 250 yards straight down the range, but Dererick just announced, "Lucky shot. Must be all that practice hitting things during your time of the month." He spent the rest of the day calling us car girls and demanding me fetch his drinks while Jessica quietly beat him by 40 points. I could handle Derrick's daily harassment. But when he started stealing women's homemade lunches and eating them at his desk while smirking at us, it became personal. That week, everything fell apart at once, leaving me crying at my desk from the stress of it all. And my mom, who had that supernatural ability to know when her daughter was drowning, drove an hour through rush hour traffic just to hold me. She spent 6 hours in my kitchen making my favorite hot pot roast. the one she'd made every Sunday when I was little when the world was safer and men like Derek only existed in cautionary tales. "This will help," she said, packing up the leftovers. "Sometimes you just need a taste of home. I brought that precious container to work the next day, looking forward to lunch like a lifeline." At 12:30, I walked into the break room and found Dererick eating my mother's hot roast, gravy on his chin, surrounded by his usual audience. This one must be on the rag, he announced, taking another huge bite. Her food tastes extra desperate today. You can always taste the hormones when they're bleeding. Make them better cooks, though, all emotional and trying to please. That's when I decided to destroy him. If he thought periods affected the food, I would show him exactly how right he was. I spent two weeks preparing, studying Derrick's patterns like a scientist. He was predictable as a clock. 12:15 to 12:30, only homemade food, targeting whoever he'd insulted most recently. I started planting seeds, having loud conversations about my monthly harvest, and how I've been adding iron rich supplements to my food, showing articles about natural cycling nutrition, keeping everything just vague enough. The trap was simple. Wednesday morning, I brought my best pasta and loudly told the women about my new diet that's been giving me so much energy, all natural, straight from the source. Dererick overheard and yelled from across the room about hippie and how we'd believe anything. I put my clearly labeled container in the fridge and waited. At 12:23, Derrick took the bait. I walked into the break room to find him eating my pasta, not even trying to hide it. Oh my god. I froze in the doorway. He laughed, twirling more pasta on his fork. Relax. Besides, you could stand to skip a meal. maybe fit into something other than those pants that scream I've given up, but that's that's my special. I started. He interrupted. I know. I heard you going on about your all naturatural and straight from the source He said, "What? You grow your own tomatoes?" He took another huge bite. Got to say, though, it's actually good. You women know your place in the kitchen at least. But Derek, you don't understand. I tried again. What's wrong? That time of the month? Is that why you're getting all worked up over some pasta? He smirked, still chewing. Actually, yes, I said quietly. It is that time of the month. And when I said straight from the source, I didn't mean a garden. I meant my menstrual cup. That's my period blood in the sauce. Watching his face transform was pure art. The horror dawn slowly, then all at once. He ran for the bathroom like his life depended on it, and the sounds that followed were symphony of justice with a digestive percussion section. Dererick vanished for a week, then returned eating lunch in his car, refusing to enter the break room or touch the communal fridge. 6 months later, he still takes the stairs to avoid walking past our lunch area, watching him hide from our space. I think of his words, "You can always taste the hormones." Turned out she was absolutely", "metadata": {"writer": "Lucis L", "views": 1346076, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "VV7P4WK6VzE", "prompt": "Idea: What ultimatum destroyed your relationship?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What ultimatum destroyed your relationship? My boyfriend's dying mother made us promise to conceive within 30 days so she could meet her grandchild before she died. When I said I wasn't ready, he held me down and said, "She doesn't have time for you to be ready." James and I had been together for 2 years when his mother got diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. She and I had never gotten along. She was creepy and controlling and had James wrapped around her finger. She'd always been obsessed with grandchildren and kept a nursery ready in her house. But when she was diagnosed, and the doctors gave her 10 months to live, she went totally psycho. She spent every visit showing us baby clothes she'd collected and crying about how she'd never hold her grandchild. James would sit there promising we'd give her grandbaby someday while I stayed quiet. His mother had this way of grabbing my stomach during hugs and whispering, "Still empty." That made my skin crawl. When she found out her prognosis was worse than expected, a part of me was relieved. I thought she'd have to let go of the baby thing now that there was no chance she'd live long enough to see me give birth. But the next time I saw her, she grabbed both our hands and made us swear on her life that we'd conceive immediately. I just need to live long enough to feel the baby kick," she said. "Otherwise, my soul will never rest. I just know I can hold out that long. Promise me you'll start trying tonight." James squeezed my hands so hard it hurt and said, "We promised." I tried to speak up, but his mother started sobbing about dying without her legacy. James glared at me with tears in his eyes. "We promise, Mom," he said again. "We'll start tonight." The drive home was silent until James pulled into a pharmacy. He bought ovulation tests, prenatal vitamins, and fertility supplements. "We're doing this," he said. I won't let her die thinking I failed her. I told him I wasn't ready for a baby. We lived in a studio apartment. I just started my career. He slammed his hand on the dashboard. "She's dying," he screamed. "You can't be selfish right now." He installed fertility apps on both our phones and started making me take my temperature every morning. He marked my ovulation windows on our calendar in red. His mother called every day asking if I was pregnant yet, and James would put her on speaker while she cried about running out of time. He started controlling what I ate and when I slept. Everything became about optimizing my fertility. When my period came, he punched a hole in our wall and said I'd killed his mother's last hope. He became someone I didn't recognize. As his mother's condition worsened, he quit his job to focus on getting me pregnant. When I suggested we could tell his mom I was pregnant just to give her peace, he said she'd know if I was lying. She had a sixth sense about bloodline continuation. One night, I woke up to find James standing over me with a syringe. He said it was just fertility hormones his mother's doctor had prescribed. I knocked it out of his hand and tried to leave. That's when he grabbed me and pinned me to the bed. She doesn't have time for you to be ready. He said, "If you loved me, you'd do this." I managed to knee him and escaped to the bathroom where I called 911. The police arrested James for domestic violence, and I got a restraining order and moved in with my sister. For 3 weeks, I felt safe. I started eating normally again and slept through the night without someone checking my temperature. I even went on birth control without anyone screaming about murdering dreams. James' mother called constantly, but I blocked her number. Then she died. James left a voicemail saying I'd killed her by taking away her will to live. He said she died believing her bloodline would end because of my selfishness, so I blocked him, too. But James wasn't done with me. He started calling all our mutual friends saying I'd murdered his mother by refusing to give her a grandchild. He even had her obituary say, "She died empty-handed because of one selfish monster that she'd treated like a daughter." He showed up at my sister's apartment complex, leaving baby dolls covered in fake blood at the door. One day he sent a package that I realized with horror was his mother's ashes with a note saying I should keep them since I killed her. He started dating another woman immediately and got her pregnant within 2 months. She began sending me ultrasound photos with messages like this could have been yours if you weren't so selfish. But 6 months later, the new girlfriend contacted me saying she was terrified. She'd found journals where James had documented his plans to impregnate multiple women to honor his mother. She realized she was only pregnant because he'd been supplying her with the same fertility medications he tried on me. We went to the police together with the evidence. They found James had been stalking several women from fertility support groups and had detailed plans for creating what he called a grandchild army for his deceased mother. James was arrested for reproductive coercion and assault. He's serving 5 years. His girlfriend kept a baby but has full custody and a lifetime restraining order. Meanwhile, I still have nightmares about his mother whispering still empty.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 514308, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "KVO8crX2HZo", "prompt": "Idea: My manager thought I was just a worthless intern until the board meeting revealed I was the CEO.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My manager thought I was just a\nworthless intern until the board meeting\nrevealed I was the CEO. I had just been\nhired as the new CEO, but the board\nwanted me to start officially in three\nmonths. I decided to go undercover first\nby getting hired as a regular intern. I\nwanted to see how people really treated\neach other when they thought no one\nimportant was watching. My first day, I\nwalked into the office wearing my\ncheapest suit and carrying a beat up\nmessenger bag. Department manager\nWilliams took one look at me and figured\nI was just another desperate intern.\n"Hope you're ready to learn what real\nwork looks like," he said without\nshaking my hand. He dumped filing on my\ndesk and walked away. That became the\npattern. Williams started treating me\nlike his personal servant from day one.\nEvery morning he'd snap his fingers and\npoint at his empty mug, wanting coffee\nwith two sugars and one cream. When I\nasked about client meetings, he laughed\nand brushed me off. "In turns fetch\ncoffee, not make decisions," he'd tell\nme while other employees watched. "I\ncould feel my face getting hot, but kept\nmy mouth shut." The coffee ritual became\nhis daily power play. When I brought his\ncoffee back, he'd take a sip and make a\nface like I'd poisoned him. "Too much\nsugar," he'd say, even though I'd made\nit exactly how he asked. "Do it again.\nEach time I returned with a fresh cup,\nhe'd find something wrong with it,\nenjoying the spectacle of sending me\nback and forth. William saw that I\nwouldn't push back, and that's when he\ngot bolder about embarrassing me\npublicly. During team meetings, he'd\nwait until the room was quiet before\nattacking how I looked. "Did you fish\nthat suit out of a donation bin?" he'd\nsay while everyone stared at me. He'd\npoint out my cheap tie and discount\nshoes while the room laughed. "Maybe\nwhen you get a real job, you can afford\nclothes that fit." Once he realized the\nroom would laugh along, he started\ngetting creative with his insults. "I\nbet that suit has seen more job\ninterviews than actual jobs," he'd say\nduring our weekly meetings. "Are those\nshoes from the kids section?" "The room\nwould crack up while I sat there with my\njaw tight," Williams would lean back\nwith this satisfied look like a cat\nplaying with a mouse. But the appearance\njokes were just the beginning. Williams\nsaw how easily he could make me the\noffice joke and decided to target my\nintelligence and work next. When I\nturned in detailed reports about company\nproblems, he'd wave them off like\ngarbage in front of others. "This is\ncute, but you clearly don't understand\nhow real business works," he'd say,\nwhile telling me to stick to making\ncopies. He'd make comments about my\neducation and math skills publicly,\nalways with an audience. What made it\nworse was that he started presenting my\nexact ideas to executives as his own\nwork. He'd stand there confidently\nexplaining concepts I'd researched and\nwritten about, taking all the credit\nwhile I filed papers in the corner. I\nwatched him take my reports and\nliterally cross out my name, writing his\nown in front of me. "Thanks for the\nrough draft," he'd say with a smirk.\n"I'll clean it up." As time went on,\nWilliams was getting drunk on power and\nstarted attacking my personal life with\neven more cruelty. He'd whisper loud\nenough for me to hear that I probably\ncouldn't even afford lunch. During lunch\nmeetings, he'd make sure I wasn't\nincluded and would tell me to grab\nsomething from the vending machine\ninstead. Then he'd wonder out loud,\n"What kind of girl would date someone\nlike me?" The comments about my family\nhit different than the work stuff. He\nwas attacking who I was as a person, not\njust my job performance. I could feel my\nchest getting tight every time he\nbrought up my personal life, but I\nforced myself to stay calm. Williams\nnoticed my reactions and started pushing\nharder. "Did I hit a nerve? Are mommy\nand daddy disappointed in their little\nboy?" he'd say, watching for cracks in\nmy composure. The quarterly board\nmeeting started like usual. I sat in my\ncorner spot while executives came in\nlooking important. That's when the head\nof legal walked in and saw me. "What are\nyou doing sitting over there?" she\nasked, looking confused. "Shouldn't you\nbe at the head of the table?" Williams\nlooked puzzled until she continued.\n"Everyone, this is our CEO. He's been\nworking undercover to check out company\nculture." Williams' face went completely\nwhite. He looked like he was going to be\nsick. Williams' hands started shaking\nand he couldn't form words. "I had no\nidea," he stammered, his voice cracking.\n"Please, I'm so sorry. I was just trying\nto teach you the ropes. His face went\nred and sweaty. Please don't fire me. I\nhave a mortgage. Kids in college. I've\nbeen here for 12 years." He was\npractically begging. I'll do anything.\nI'll work for free. Your resignation\nletter can be on my desk tomorrow\nmorning, I said calmly. The supply chain\nfixes he'd made fun of saved us $12\nmillion.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 801800, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "-Y0rsgfHVjY", "prompt": "Idea: My cousin said I was a loser until he realized I owned his company.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My cousin said I was a loser until he\nrealized I owned his company. I was\nsitting at my family's barbecue eating\nmy burger and minding my own business.\nMy relatives always saw me as the guy\nwho did computer stuff all day instead\nof having a real job. They had no idea I\nactually owned a software company that\nI'd built from nothing over the past 8\nyears. We specialized in productivity\ntools for large corporations and had\njust acquired a major firm 3 months ago.\nBrad settled into his usual routine,\nlooking me up and down with obvious\ndisgust. He gestured at my faded clothes\nwhile adjusting his expensive watch,\nlecturing me about how I needed to dress\nlike an adult instead of shopping at\nthrift stores. He said people would\nnever take me seriously looking like a\nteenager. My jaw clenched, but I stayed\nquiet. The family nodded along like he\nwas delivering profound wisdom. My aunt\nchimed in about how I couldn't live off\nmy parents forever while most people my\nage had real careers. She turned to Brad\nwith admiration, asking about his\npromotion. Brad's chest puffed out as he\nlaunched into his success story, then\npivoted to complaining about his new\nmanagement. The company had been\nacquired by some tech startup and the\nnew CEO was a complete joke. He called\nthe guy a 20some who probably learned\nbusiness from YouTube videos. My uncle\nleaned forward with interest as Brad\nexplained how the CEO never showed up to\nmeetings, probably too busy playing\nvideo games in his mom's basement to\nactually run a company. He looked\ndirectly at me with a knowing smirk. My\nface burned, but I kept my expression\nneutral. Brad continued warming to his\naudience, explaining how this CEO\nprobably made decisions based on Tik Tok\ntrends. He said, "These startup kids\nthought they were geniuses, but didn't\nunderstand real business, probably\nburning through investor money on fancy\ncoffee and ping- pong tables." My aunt\nlaughed about how at least Brad had\nactual skills, unlike these computer\nnerds who thought clicking buttons all\nday made them entrepreneurs. Brad\nexplained how the CEO probably couldn't\neven afford a real office, betting he\nwas running the whole company from some\ncramped apartment, eating ramen noodles\nand pretending he was Steve Jobs. I\ngritted my teeth as the attacks got more\npersonal. My uncle joined in about how\nthese tech bros were what was wrong with\nAmerica, thinking playing on the\ninternet was a real job. Brad leaned\nback smuggly, explaining how he'd been\ndoing the actual work while this CEO\ntook credit for everything. The guy\nprobably didn't even know how to read a\nfinancial statement, just another\nbasement dweller who got lucky. My hands\ntrembled slightly as I set down my\nburger. Brad noticed and smirked. He\nreached over and grabbed my burger,\ntaking a big bite while explaining how\nthis CEO was so incompetent, he probably\ncouldn't even run his own life, let\nalone a company. He chewed my food while\nspeculating that the guy had never even\nbeen on a real date, asking what woman\nwould want to be with some loser who\nplayed video games all day. The family\nerupted in laughter. My aunt wiped tears\nfrom her eyes as Brad continued his\nperformance. He kept talking about how\npathetic it would be to live in your\nparents' basement with no real job, no\ngirlfriend, no future, just sitting\nthere in pajamas thinking you were\nimportant. He tossed the rest of my\nburger in the trash, explaining how the\ncompany would probably fail within 6\nmonths because the leadership was so\nweak. He was already looking for a new\njob before this ran everything\ninto the ground. My chest burned as I\nwatched him wipe his hands on a napkin.\nHe pointed at me with a condescending\nsmile. This is why you need to get\nserious about your life before you end\nup like these fake entrepreneurs who\nthink they're hot stuff but actually\nknow nothing. I pulled out my phone and\nopened my email. I scrolled until I\nfound the acquisition announcement from\n3 months ago and turned the screen\ntoward Brad. His face went white as he\nread the email from me to all employees,\nwelcoming his former company to our\norganization. My signature sat at the\nbottom with my title as CEO and founder.\nWait, that's not possible, he whispered,\nhis voice cracking. I shrugged. I\nfounded the company 7 years ago. We\nacquired your firm in March. The\nbackyard went dead silent. Brad stared\nat the phone like it might explode.\nYou're telling me you're my boss? I\nnodded. Have been for 3 months. I've\nbeen reading your performance reviews.\nHis face cycled through five different\ncolors. He started stuttering apologies,\nbut I cut him off, telling him not to\nworry about it, and that he was actually\ndoing great work. My aunt's mouth hung\nopen, asking if I really owned a\ncompany. I explained that I owned the\ncompany that owned Brad's company, about\n200 employees now. Brad looked like he\nwanted to disappear.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 158288, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "M25_0JYQ2Fk", "prompt": "Idea: When did hugging trees turn into a criminal activity?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did hugging trees turn into a criminal activity? Carl told me about his childhood on our third date. How his parents called him worthless and ugly. The trees were my only friends, he said, describing how he'd escaped to the woods whenever kids threw rocks at him. He showed me a photo of himself as a skinny boy hugging an oak tree. He gave a soft smile. They never judged me. They just let me exist. I held his hand and said, "That's beautiful." He nodded. It saved me and I'll do anything to protect it. After that third date, I saw Carl's activism differently. His environmental work at college wasn't just a hobby, it was his calling. I fell even harder for him during volunteer days, watching him teach kids about the wonders of nature. He brought me out to study under the largest tree on the campus and pointed out the word guardian carved roughly into the bark. When I asked him about it, he explained, "This is where I hid freshman year whenever my anxiety hit. I called this tree guardian because of the way it protects me and others. I thought it was sweet how passionate he was. When he won the sustainability award for his hybrid hydroponics idea, he thanked the trees in his speech for raising him up when others wouldn't. The whole room ate it up. But then he started taking it too far. He started waking at 3:00 a.m. to water the neighbors trees. When I tried to get him inside, he pushed me away saying they were calling to him, that they were thirsty. I laughed it off, thinking he just wanted to help him out. But then I caught him skipping class to follow a lumber truck, screaming that they were taking the lives of innocents. It felt embarrassing having to drag him away from the confused workers." That honestly should have been my wake up call. My image of him completely shattered the day campus maintenance pruned the oak trees. I found him with his hands on the worker's throat, sobbing that he could hear the plants crying. The other workers called security and I physically had to pry him away while he wailed about how nature is our savior. Our life is not ours. The campus suspended him and sent him home to recover. I begged him to see a therapist, but he refused, saying, "You're either with the trees or against us. You better be with us because you don't want to find out what's going to happen to our enemy soon." His threat made the hairs on my arm stand up. I apologized and told him I was on his side while secretly feeling terrified of what he might do next. After his suspension, I insisted Carl move in so I could keep an eye on him. He spent his days guarding the neighborhood trees. He'd patrol at dawn, keeping a journal of potential threats. Lately, he'd been obsessing over our elderly neighbor, Mr. Sullivan, who kept complaining about his maple dropping branches and leaves on his car. That morning, when I heard the chainsaw start, I knew something terrible would happen. Carl's inhuman scream woke the entire block. I chased after him, but he was already beating Mr. Sullivan's face. He shoved me hard into the fence when I tried pulling him off. When he grabbed Mr. Sullivan's chainsaw that was still lying by the fresh stump. I tried wrestling it away, but he was stronger than I'd ever seen him. The roots were destroying my driveway. Mr. Sullivan gasped through bloody lifts. Branches kept falling on my car, but Carl's face stayed blank. "You need to become what you destroyed," he said. I ran for my phone, but Carl smashed it against the sidewalk, warning me not to interfere with justice. I watched horrified as he tied up Mr. Sullivan and started digging. I begged Carl to stop, promised we'd get help together, but he kept digging while humming a lullaby. When he forced Mr. Sullivan into the hole and started packing dirt around his body, I tried pulling the old man out, but Carl backhanded me across the face. He kept packing soil until only Mr. Sullivan's head remained above ground like some horrific human sapling. "You're the tree now," Carl said, filling his watering can. As he poured water over Mr. Sullivan's exposed head, the old man choked and gasped. The water pulled around Mr. Sullivan's chin, forcing him to tilt his head back to breathe. Carl refilled the can methodically. Shh. Seeds need quiet to grow, Carl whispered, pouring another stream directly into the old man's gasping mouth. Mr. Sullivan's body convulsed in the packed earth, but Carl just smiled, adusting the soil around his neck like tucking in a child. I ran barefoot to the neighbor's house, pounding on their door to call 911. I ran back to find Carl still pouring water over Mr. Sullivan's face, telling him the trees were welcoming him home. The maple forgives you. Carl whispered between pores, "But you need to understand its pain first." Mr. Sullivan's eyes rolled back as he struggled for air between the floods of water. Carl just kept refilling the can, humming that haunting lullabi, completely at peace with what he was doing until the police arrived. The cops had to tase Carl to get him off Mr. Sullivan. He kept screaming my name, calling me a traitor, saying the trees would never forgive me. Mr. Sullivan survived but nearly drowned in that dirt. Carl's locked up now, but sends letters saying the trees whispered the names of neighbors who trimmed their hedges, people who built decks, anyone who used pesticides. His last letter had detailed planting instructions for each of them with little drawings showing exactly how deep to bury", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 17943, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "zeAfajyFWmU", "prompt": "Idea: My husband's manager think I was just arm candy until he realized I was the one fixing his mistakes.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My husband's creepy manager thought I was just arm candy until he realized I was the engineer fixing his mistakes. When my husband asked me to come to the construction site meeting, I figured why not? I had time between client calls, so I grabbed my coffee and drove over. The project was this commercial building downtown that I had designed 2 years ago at my previous firm. My husband was the developer and they were having structural issues that needed sorting out. The head contractor, Leonard, was there to discuss the foundation problems. My husband introduced me as his wife and then got called away for an urgent phone call. The moment my husband left for his phone call, Leonard's entire demeanor changed. He stopped mid-sentence and turned his back to me completely, spreading the blueprints across the table as if I'd suddenly vanished. When I stepped closer to examine the plans, he shifted his body to block my view. These are technical documents, sweetheart. Why don't you wait in the car? My stomach tightened as I politely mentioned I had experience with construction blueprints. Leonard's eyes traveled from my manicured nails to my designer heels, snorting at my fitted blazer. He chuckled while marking up the plans with aggressive red penstrokes, muttering about cocktail parties. When I pointed out a potential issue with the foundation specifications, Leonard spoke slowly, like explaining to a child, using his finger to trace the blueprints in exaggerated motions. I mentioned my engineering degrees, and his face twisted into a smirk. He made air quotes around engineering degree while pulling out his phone, pretending to Google diploma mills. My jaw clenched as he suggested I probably confused Instagram influencing with actual engineering work. Two subcontractors arrived and Leonard's voice boomed across the site. He gestured at my designer handbag, announcing it cost more than a week's salary for his workers. The men exchanged uncomfortable glances as Leonard launched into stories about his ex-wife who pretended to work but really just spent his money on yoga classes. He pointed at my wedding ring and whistled. Must be nice having a husband who lets you play dress up as a professional. My face burned as he kept comparing me to every trophy wife he'd ever met. Leonard puffed out his chest and started pacing like he was giving a TED talk. Diversity hires companies forced to put unqualified people in positions they didn't earn. He grabbed my portfolio and flipped through it dismissively, holding pages up to the light as if checking for forgeries. He tossed it aside carelessly, letting papers scatter across the dirty floor. His voice echoed off concrete walls as he ranted about participation trophies and gender quotas ruining the industry. When I reached for the structural drawings, Leonard snatched them away and tore one slightly, letting the piece down. I tried explaining the loadbearing wall placement, but he grabbed my pencil mid-sentence and snapped it with a sharp crack. He crumpled my calculation sheet and stomped on it before tossing it in the trash. The broken pencil pieces clattered on concrete as he kicked them aside, grinding the eraser into pink dust. My hands started shaking as he began grabbing every paper I touched, either crumpling them or holding them above his head. He even moved my coffee cup across the room, telling workers I might spill it on important documents. Leonard cornered me against the table, coffee breath mixing with stale cigarettes from his work shirt. He looked me up and down deliberately, his tongue running across his bottom lip, his hand moved to my lower back as he leaned over to grab papers, calluses rough through my silk blouse. He pulled out his phone and started typing with one hand while the other stayed planted on my back, fingers tracing small circles. I'm messaging our industry group chat right now. 300 contractors about to learn your name, and not in a good way. My hands trembled as he showed me the screen. Another fake engineer alert with my name. His breath was hot against my ear as he whispered, "I'd be lucky to design a birdhouse after this." The table edge dug into my hip as he pressed closer, trapping me between his body and the furniture. That's when the safety inspector showed up with urgent concerns about the structural integrity. And my husband returned from his phone call. Leonard immediately started panicking and said, "We need to get the engineer who designed this mess down here right now." My husband looked at me and smiled. She's standing right here. Leonard's face went completely white as I calmly pulled out my business card and professional engineer license. Leonard literally started stammering apologies while I walked him through exactly how to fix the structural issues he'd been complaining about. Turned out his concerns were him misreading my blueprints. Within an hour, I had identified the real problems and provided solutions. Word got around the construction community quickly about what happened. Leonard lost two major contracts when clients heard about his behavior.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 145061, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "roLUV0M1Xe0", "prompt": "Idea: How did your family mess you up for life?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "How did your family mess you up for life? My father demanded that I eat nothing but raw meat because he was convinced that cooking food was poisoning the natural strength that separates our family from the weak vegetable eating masses who have forgotten their predatory nature. My father had been a competitive bodybuilder who became obsessed with primal living after reading underground fitness blogs about ancestral nutrition. When I was about eight, he started eating increasingly bloody steaks at dinner, chewing with his mouth open and making disgusting slurping sounds while staring at us. Dad would lick the blood off his plate and moan with pleasure, saying things like, "This is what real strength tastes like." He began bringing home whole animal carcasses and butcher them in our kitchen while lecturing us about how cooking was destroying our predatory instincts. He started growling at us when we used the stove and would sniff our food before we ate it, claiming he could smell the weakness in cooked meat. I still remember the day dad dragged me into the garage where a whole deer carcass was hanging from the ceiling. He handed me a knife and said, "Time to stop being a weak little boy and start becoming a predator." He forced me to watch him tear into the raw flesh with his bare hands, blood dripping down his chin while he chewed. Cooking is what separates the apex predators from the prey animals, and I didn't raise prey. He snarled between bites. He explained eating only raw meat would purge the weakness from my system, starting with the deer heart he shoved in my face. I was disgusted and refused to eat the raw meat, which made dad absolutely furious. He locked me in my room and began sliding plates of bloody meat under my door, telling me I couldn't come out until I embraced my carnivorous nature. The smell was nauseating and I would throw up just looking at the raw flesh. But dad insisted this was just my body rejecting years of cooked food poison. He removed all other food from the house and monitored me constantly to make sure I wasn't secretly cooking anything. I started losing weight rapidly because I would rather starve than eat raw meat. And dad celebrated this as proof that my body was purging toxins. The breaking point came when I got so hungry that I tried to sneak into the kitchen at night and dad caught me trying to cook an egg. He grabbed me by the throat and screamed, "You're choosing to be a weak little plant eater instead of the apex predator I'm trying to create." Then he took a handful of raw hamburger meat and shoved it all the way down my throat. I was not going to cave to dad's awful demands. So, I started secretly eating cooked food at school and telling teachers I needed to stay late for extra help so I could access the cafeteria. For almost a whole month, I managed to get one real meal per day by lying about academic struggles and eating normal food. When dad wasn't monitoring me, I felt human again, and my energy returned immediately, proving that dad's theories were complete I started researching foodborne illnesses and realized that dad was poisoning me with bacteria and parasites. The constant fear that dad would find out made me paranoid and jumpy. But having real food in my system gave me the strength to think clearly about a long-term plan. But before I could figure out a way to escape for good, Dad discovered my secret eating when he followed me to school and saw me eating a hot lunch in the cafeteria through the window. He dragged me out of school screaming that I had betrayed our family's evolutionary destiny. He chained me to a chair in our basement where he could force feed me raw meat while lecturing me about genetic superiority. He hired a disgraced nutritionist who had lost his license for promoting dangerous diet theories. And this man moved into our house to monitor my food intake around the clock. The nutritionist convinced dad that I needed isolation from all outside contact because cooked food addicts will try to sabotage your son's transformation. He said, "Once his body accepts the raw meat, he'll be stronger than any human who's ever lived." They began forcing raw chicken and fish down my throat multiple times per day. But then it finally happened. The constant raw meat consumption gave me food so severe that it made me collapse and start convulsing on the basement floor. While dad and the nutritionist watched in horror, Dad finally realized that his raw meat obsession was actually killing me and panicked, calling 911 while screaming, "My son is dying from toxin withdrawal." When paramedics arrived, they immediately recognized the signs of severe food born illness and called the health department after seeing our raw meat storage setup. The nutritionist was arrested and dad lost custody permanently. I'm 16 now and living with relatives, finally eating normal food. But I have severe stomach issues that I'll live with for the rest of my life because of what dad did to", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 31201, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "W13T6WtmFRA", "prompt": "Idea: My girlfriend spent eight months pretending to be someone's soulmate for entertainment,\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My girlfriend spent eight months\npretending to be someone's soulmate for\nentertainment. So, I spent her birthday\npretending to be someone who cared.\nSarah had a way of making you feel like\nyou'd won the lottery just by being with\nher. Four months in, and I was\ncompletely hooked. This beautiful\npsychology major who could make a trip\nto the grocery store feel like the best\ndate ever. She'd laugh at all my stupid\njokes, surprise me with my favorite\ncoffee, and make every day feel like an\nadventure worth having. But, I should\nhave realized anyone who seemed that\nperfect was just better at hiding the\nrot than the rest of us. The truth came\nout at dinner with her college friends,\nsome upscale place downtown where they\nwere already three drinks deep, swapping\nwar stories from sophomore year. Then,\nher friend with the pixie cut started\ngiggling. Oh my god, remember the Emma\nthing? Sarah's whole face changed. She\nlit up like someone had just mentioned\nher favorite movie. Holy crap, I haven't\nthought about that in forever. She\nleaned forward and suddenly I was\nlooking at a stranger. So there was this\ngirl Emma in our dorm, super quiet,\noverweight, basically lived in her room\nplaying World of Warcraft or whatever.\nAt this point, the whole table was\nalready laughing and I felt my smile\nfreeze on my face. Sarah was getting\ninto it now, hands moving like she was\ntelling the funniest story in the world.\nI was so bored that semester and Emma\nwas just there. So I made this fake\nprofile, Jake Morrison, and found photos\nof some goth gamer dude with tattoos,\nwhich was exactly her type. She\nexplained how she'd spent eight months\nbuilding this fake relationship,\nmessaging Emma every single day as Jake,\nmorning texts to make her smile, late\nnight conversations when her anxiety\nkept her awake, constant reassurance\nthat she was beautiful and worthy of\nlove. Emma had believed every word,\npouring her heart out in return with\npoetry about her dead mother and\nconfessions about being 20 years old and\nnever even holding hands with a guy. The\nbest part, Sarah said, wiping tears from\nher eyes was when Jake convinced her to\nbuy lingerie. This girl who wore the\nsame hoodie every day actually went to\nVictoria's Secret and she sent photos.\nThe table exploded with laughter. Sarah\nwaited for them to quiet down just\nenough to deliver her punch line. Then I\nset up the meeting. Told her to get a\nhotel room at the Marriott downtown.\nSaid Jake wanted their first time to be\nspecial. I had to know what happened\nnext even though my stomach was already\nturning. Sarah shrugged like it was\nnothing. She waited there for like 7\nhours. Kept texting Jake that she was\nscared he'd gotten in an accident. I\nfinally told her the truth around\nmidnight. One of her friends, the\nredhead, jumped in eagerly. She tried to\nunalive herself 2 days later. Pills. The\nRA found her during room checks. The\ntable went quiet for exactly 2 seconds.\nThen Sarah said, "She should thank me."\nI gave her more attention than any real\nguy would have. That's when I realized I\ndidn't win the lottery. I was dating a\nmonster. I could have walked out that\nnight and never looked back. But that\nfelt too clean for someone who tortured\na girl for entertainment. Sarah loved\nher perfect romantic moments. Great. Her\n23rd birthday was in 3 weeks and she'd\nbeen dropping hints about wanting\nsomething magical and kept showing me\nInstagram posts of elaborate surprises.\nPerfect. The morning of her birthday, I\nwoke her with breakfast in bed and told\nher I'd planned an all day treasure hunt\nleading to a special dinner. She\npractically squealled. I knew you'd do\nsomething amazing. She'd already booked\na professional makeup and hair\nappointment and bought a new dress\nspecifically for her big day. The first\nclue sent her to a fancy hotel downtown\nwhere I'd supposedly left a gift with\nthe concierge. She spent over an hour\nthere texting me increasingly frantic\nmessages. Next, a jewelry store across\ntown where she had to ask for the\nspecial package. More confused texts.\nThey don't know what I'm talking about.\nIs this right? By the third stop, a\npacked amusement park in 90°ree heat.\nShe was falling apart. I can't find\nwhatever I'm looking for. My makeup is\nruined. My feet are bleeding. Please\njust tell me where to meet you. That's\nwhen I texted back. I'm so sorry, baby.\nI made this way too complicated. I\nneeded to keep you busy all day to set\nup your real surprise. Just come to\nLeernan at 8:00 p.m. and tell the\nhostess birthday princess. Can't wait to\nsee you. She completely bought it. Her\ntexts went from angry to excited in\nseconds. OMG, I knew something was up.\nSee you soon. At 8:15, the call started.\nFirst, confused. They don't know what\nI'm talking about. Then, frantic. Are\nyou sure it's Lea Dan? The hostess is\nlooking at me like I'm crazy. By 8:30,\nshe was sobbing. Where are you?\nEveryone's staring. It's my birthday.\nThat's when I sent the final text. Now\nyou know how Emma felt waiting for\nsomeone who was never coming. Happy\nbirthday. We're done. She showed up at\nmy apartment at midnight, hysterical,\nmakeup destroyed, hair flat, that\nexpensive white dress, wrinkled and\nstained. You humiliated me. She screamed\nthrough the door. I didn't even answer,\njust let her scream until the neighbors\ncalled the police. Word about Emma\nspread through campus like wildfire. I\nran into Sarah's old roommate months\nlater, who told me Sarah was in therapy\nnow. Not to work on hers, but because\nshe genuinely couldn't understand why\nher entire world had abandoned her. She\napparently spent every session insisting\nshe was the victim of a conspiracy, that\nI'd brainwashed everyone against her,\nand even suggested Emma had planned the\nwhole thing to ruin her life.", "metadata": {"writer": "Lucis L", "views": 334939, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "LQK3bh4Jaqc", "prompt": "Idea: An entitled Disney adult thought he ruled Magic Kingdom, so I got him permanently banned forever.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "An entitled Disney adult thought he ruled Magic Kingdom, so I got him permanently banned from the happiest place on Earth. Working Space Mountain is pure magic when you see kids' faces light up like they're really flying through space. But then you get the Disney adults who shove past five-year-olds to meet princesses and treat the parks like their personal playground. They hog every photo spot for their Instagram stories while families wait behind them, then take 20-minute conversations with Mickey while little kids miss their turn. They genuinely believe they deserve special treatment because they've invested more than families who saved for years for one magical trip. Yeah, Disney adults can be annoying, but Brad took it to another level entirely. When I first started working here, the other cast members warned me about the Braden family. It started small with Brad asking if we could squeeze in his fastpass 5 minutes early, then escalated to demanding refunds when the ride stopped for 30 seconds. And by month three, he was trying to lift his two short nephews over the height barrier while insisting I was ruining a child's dream. Rules were suggestions to Brad, and he always had excuses ready about why they shouldn't apply to him since he spent thousands on annual passes. By my sixth month, I'd gotten used to their exhausting behavior until one particularly hellish Tuesday with 90-minute weights and 103°ree heat. The Brads and family was boarding, matching shirts damp with sweat, when I noticed Madison gulping from a purple water bottle that looked exactly like mine. My stomach dropped, but I kept checking harnesses, telling myself it couldn't be mine. Maybe lots of people had purple hydro flasks, even though my hands were shaking as the ride launched. For the longest 3 minutes of my life, I kept glancing at my operator booth corner where I always kept my bottle safe. Empty. This wasn't just any water bottle. It was covered in fading stickers from the long road trip mom and I took the summer before she got sick. Two weeks of terrible diner food and singing off Key to Classic Rock, stopping at every tourist trap to add another sticker together. Seattle Space Needle, Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls. Each one carefully placed while we planned our next adventure. Now she's gone. And this beaten up bottle holds our last perfect summer together. When the ride returned and I saw the faded Niagara Falls sticker on the bottle in Madison's hands, I knew my social anxiety screamed at me to let it go. But this was mom's memory. So, I forced myself to approach them at the exit. Excuse me, sir. That purple water bottle your daughter has is actually mine from my operator booth. Brad didn't even look up from his phone where he was checking photo past pictures. No name on it, so now it's Madison's. Finders keepers. When I explained it was from my personal workspace, he laughed and said something about how family spending thousands deserved more than cast members who just press buttons all day. Karen touched his arm and turned to me with that fake sweet voice. Honey, just let it go. It's not very Disney of you to make a scene over something so silly. I stood there defeated. I watched Madison take another long drink from the bottle covered in stickers from my last road trip with mom. When we drove the United States West Coast in her old Honda, singing terrible duets and carefully placing each sticker like they were precious gems. Two weeks where she felt healthy enough to eat gas station donuts and chase sunsets before the diagnosis that would take her 6 months later. These entitled strangers were passing around the last good memory I had like it was nothing. And that's when I noticed the sharp pain in my mouth where I had bit my lip during my rushed lunch break. The metallic taste of blood mixed with my fury. That's when the plan formed. I let them walk away and gave them 5 minutes to really enjoy their theft before finding them posing for photos near the exit where Disney's cameras document everything. Sir, I approached with my best concerned cast member expression. I really need to tell you something about that water bottle. I pulled my lower lip down to show the angry red canker sore from my lunch mishap. I have oral herpes. Diagnosed yesterday. Extremely contagious. That's why I needed it back so urgently. The transformation was instant. Karen's face went white as she grabbed Madison who'd been nursing the bottle since she got on that ride. While Brad's smuggness morphed into rage. You gave my daughter herpes? He shoved me hard into the photo kiosk while screaming that I was a diseased freak who did this on purpose. His whole Disney Perfect family image crumbling as he completely lost control. Hundreds of guests scattered as Brad completely lost control, screaming every curse word he knew while shaking me by the shoulders as Karen wailed about their contaminated child. Security arrived within seconds, trying to calm him down and pull him off me. And that's when Brad made the fatal mistake of swinging at a unformed guard. Turns out Disney has zero tolerance for cast member assault. Automatic lifetime ban from all properties worldwide. No appeals, no exceptions. No amount of money can buy your way back in. Brad's face would be in their database forever. Flagged at every gate from Orlando to Tokyo. I got my water bottle back. Still sticky from Madison's hands with a new dent where Brad threw it. Another scar to join the scratches and fading stickers. And I could almost hear mom's wicked laugh at me making up that herby story on the spot, proud of her shy daughter finally standing up for herself. Disney gave me five paid days off, which I spent at mom's favorite beach where we used to watch sunsets together. Mom always said the universe had a wicked sense of humor. and sipping from my beat up bottle during my shifts.", "metadata": {"writer": "Lucis L", "views": 327843, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "9ruMhDrkPIE", "prompt": "Idea: What made you never touch a game again?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you never touch a game again?\nI taught my little brother, Maui, how to\nplay Counter-Strike the day our parents\nbought him his own computer for his 13th\nbirthday. He'd wait by the door every\nday for me to get home, desperate to\nescape the empty house while our parents\nwork double shifts. For a kid who ate\nlunch alone and never got invited to\nparties, gaming was everything. After we\nwon our first local tournament, Maui\nhugged me with tears in his eyes and\nsaid, "We're going to make it together,\nright? Promise me." At first, Maui's\ndedication made me proud. Over summer\nbreak, he'd disappear straight into his\nroom, emerging only for bathroom breaks.\nMom would ruffle his hair when she\nbrought him dinner plates, saying, "My\nlittle pro gamer." Then one afternoon, I\nknocked to ask if he wanted pizza and\ngot no answer. I peeked in and saw him\nhunched over, headset on, surrounded by\ncool blue Gatorade bottles filled with\ndark yellow liquid. My stomach turned.\nDude, you Maui shrugged. Whatever.\nBathroom breaks cost me ranked matches.\nAll the Korean pros do this. He pulled\nup the leaderboard. See, I'm ahead of\nyou. I nodded, fully convinced this\nmeant he was serious about our dream and\nplaced the pizza on an empty corner of\nthe floor. When I moved out for my IT\njob, I left thinking he'd be fine. He\nhad gaming. He had our parents. He'd be\nokay. I visited the house at the end of\nsummer break and expected to come home\nto a happy family. Instead, I witnessed\nsomething much darker. The first thing\nthat hit me was the sweet sick smell of\nsweat when I opened his door. Moldy\npizza boxes stacked like Jenga blocks.\nFruit flies circled around like a\nwasteland wonderland. and Maui clearly\nhadn't showered in weeks. In fact, I\nswore he wore the same shirt I saw just\nbefore I had left. Mom approached me\nwith tears staining her face. "He's a\nmonster." Later that night, Mom finally\nsnapped and pulled his power cord during\na ranked match. I heard the crash from\ndownstairs as Maui's fist went through\nhis monitor. "You just cost me my\npromotion," he screamed, and I ran up to\nfind mom pressed against the hallway\nwall, clutching the power cord while\nMaui towered over her, his whole body\nshaking with rage. After that incident,\nhe installed deadbolts in his room. I\ntried confronting him about it, but he\nbarely opened the door a crack. When I\ntried to push it open to air out the\ntoxic room, he body slammed it shut from\ninside, my fingers barely escaping. "You\ndon't visit enough to have opinions. I'm\nabout to go pro." Just like we planned,\nremember? Or did you forget about our\ndream, too? He hissed through the crack.\nI left after that, but guilt ate me. So,\n2 weeks later, I packed up my old gaming\nperipherals and returned, thinking maybe\nI could get the entire family to play\ntogether and fix things. When I entered\nthe house, everything felt wrong. No\nlights or home-cooked meals, just\nsilence, except for the rapid clicking\nof mechanical keys and Maui's laughter\ndrifting from upstairs. Mom, dad, I\ncalled out. Nothing. I found Maui in our\nparents bedroom. His entire setup moved\nthere. Monitors glowed in the darkness.\n"Why are you in here?" I asked. He\ndidn't turn around. "My room's under\nrenovation. Don't go in there." His\nvoice was flat. Mechanical. "Where's mom\nand dad?" he shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe\nthey abandoned me just like you." I\nfrowned, heartbroken by his cold\nreplies. At the same time, something in\nmy gut screamed suspicion. While he was\nbusy ranking up, I slipped down the hall\nto his old room. The smell this time was\noverwhelming. The dirty, rotting smell\nnow mixed with Lysol and bleach, like\nsomeone was trying to mask it\nunsuccessfully. I pushed inside and\nfroze. At the corner of the room, I\nspotted mom and dad's bodies bloated and\ndiscolored. I fell to my knees and threw\nup. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't\nthink. Then I heard breathing behind me.\nI told you not to go in there. Maui\nstood in the doorway holding his\ncorabit, the collectible knife I bought\nhim for Christmas. They kept trying to\ntake my computer during a tournament.\nCan you believe that? His eyes were\nempty. They said I was sick. They tried\nto send me away. He stepped forward and\nI scrambled backward, knocking over\nempty bottles. I bolted past him,\nrunning for the nearest exit. He caught\nmy shirt and we crashed into the parents\nroom where his setup was. I grabbed his\nmonitor to steady myself and it toppled,\ntaking his tower with it. No. Maui\ndropped the knife and dove for his\ncomputer like it was a dying child. My\nrank, my matches. You destroyed\neverything. He cradled the exposed\nmotherboard, rocking back and forth.\nSparks flew from a loose power supply\ncable. The wire touched his wet hands\nand his body went rigid. I called 911\nwith shaking hands, staring at my little\nbrother's body, twitching on the floor,\nsurrounded by the broken pieces of his\nobsession. The paramedics and police\narrived and wrapped the house in yellow\ntape. They recovered my parents' bodies\nand said they'd been lifeless for a\nweek. Maui survived the electrocution,\nbut suffered permanent nerve damage in\nhis hands. He's in a psychiatric\nfacility now, unable to hold a mouse\nproperly, but still writes me letters\nabout getting back to gaming, saying,\n"Once my hands heal, we'll finally go\npro together. Brothers forever, right?", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 2947742, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "CJ6kjtDAtmc", "prompt": "Idea: My Bully Used Me to Guarantee His Grade, So I Guaranteed His Failure.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My bully used me to guarantee his grade, so I guaranteed his failure. Jose was our star basketball player who turned me into his personal homework service since seventh grade. Every morning, he'd copy my work I spent entire nights on. Every test, he'd lean over to steal my answers. And every afternoon, he'd shove me into lockers to remind me what happened to snitches. Teachers loved him for bringing home trophies so they looked the other way whenever he made my life hell. It started with small stuff that seemed manageable. He'd kick my chair during class to mess up my writing and knock my books off my desk. Classic bully moves teachers never noticed because he timed them perfectly. But eventually, he'd figured out he could use me for more than entertainment. He'd steal my calculator before math tests and return it without the batteries, laughing when I struggled to solve problems. During group projects, he'd put his name first on work I'd done alone, then tell the teacher I was trying to take credit for his ideas when I protested. Things escalated when he started cornering me in empty hallways to practice his basketball moves, which basically meant shoving me into lockers in front of his friends. He'd wait outside my last class to grab my backpack and dump everything into a mud puddle, stomping on my homework while his friends filmed it for their group chat. The worst part was when he found my journal in my backpack and read parts aloud in the cafeteria, including the entry about my parents divorce, making the whole basketball team laugh at how pathetic my family was. Then came the breaking point in April when our history teacher assigned final projects worth 50% of our grade. We had to write 15-page research papers on historical figures and their impact on modern society. And I'd already started researching Marie Cury because science was my escape from everything else. Jose waited until after class when the hallways had cleared, then cornered me and told me to write his project on Alexander the Great for him. When I tried to explain that I needed time for my own project, he leaned in close enough that I could smell the sports drink on his breath and added the threat that changed everything. Just ignore your project and focus on mine unless you want every single day to get a lot worse. That night, I sat at my computer staring at the blank document titled Alexander the Great, and something inside me finally snapped. If he wanted a paper he'd never read, never check, never think about again, then I'd give him exactly what he deserved. Over the next week, I crafted the most impressively wrong research paper in academic history, making Alexander the Great, the inventor of democracy, the discoverer of America, and the first person to use algebra in modern mathematics. I created an entire fake bibliography with historians named Dr. Frederick Falsman and Professor Maria Mattupen, citing books like Secret Ancient Files and Alexander's Secret Diary. The beautiful part was making it sound academic by using scholarly words and formatting every fake citation perfectly so it looked impressive as long as you didn't actually read carefully. 2 days before the deadline, I handed Jose the 15 pages of academic fiction, watching as he flipped through it just long enough to see the length and citations before shoving it in his backpack. I then spent 48 hours frantically writing my real paper on Marie Cury, surviving on energy, drinks, and determination, producing something that wasn't my best work, but contained actual facts about actual scientific contributions with actual sources that actually existed. The papers came back a week later in the most satisfying moment of my entire school career. The history teacher stood at the front of the class holding Jose's paper like it was contaminated. Her voice dripping with barely controlled fury as she announced, "In 20 years of teaching, this is the worst thing I've ever encountered." She read everything aloud while the class went from confused silence to suppressed giggles and then to outright laughter when she reached the part about Alexander inventing pizza. Jose's face transformed from confusion to panic to rage as he realized what had happened. But he couldn't say anything without admitting he'd forced me to write it. And even though he glared right at me like he wanted to end me, it was too late. The fallout was so brutal that I almost regretted it. He got suspended from both the school as well as the basketball team and his scholarships disappeared overnight while teachers started double-checking his previous work. Jose never asked anyone for help again and couldn't even look at me for the rest of the year which suited me perfectly.", "metadata": {"writer": "Neil", "views": 183856, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "mzHz6DKMjwg", "prompt": "Idea: I let doctors report my parents for neglect after they spent eleven years calling my illness fake.\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "I let doctors report my parents for neglect after they spent 11 years calling my illness fake. Some kids had imaginary friends, but I had an imaginary illness. According to my parents, the pattern started when I was 6 years old and began spending every other week at my dad's house after the divorce. Sunday nights, I arrived healthy and by Monday morning, my body would revolt with a violence that made no sense. My body would attack itself in stages. First, my joints locked up like rusted hinges, then welts erupted across my neck, and finally, I'd be dry heaving foam while my dad watched. He'd drop a fresh plate next to me, the smell making me gag harder. Pathetic act, he'd say, "You'll choke down every crumb even if I have to hold your mouth open myself." At my mom's house, everything was different because I could eat her organic vegetables and grilled chicken without any problems, which only made her more convinced my illness was psychological. She'd watch me during meals and announce her verdict like a judge. You're perfectly fine here. It's all in your head. The first doctor we saw agreed with her assessment and called it psychosmatic, which became her favorite word to throw around whenever I mentioned feeling sick. When I begged for a second opinion, she'd grab my shoulders and shake me. Stop this attention-seeking behavior right now. You're not sick. You're manipulative. She refused more doctors and backed dad up completely despite hating him. I was trapped between two parents who agreed on exactly one thing. I was a faker who needed to stop the act. My dad's kitchen was a monument to processed food. Everything came from a box or a drive-through window. And when I tried bringing carrots from mom's house, he found them in my backpack and threw them in the trash. "You're not too good for my food," he said while slamming the lid. "Your mother's health nut bullet ends at my doorstep." By 15, I'd become my own doctor since no one else would listen. I'd mapped out exactly which foods hurt me through years of silent suffering. Bread triggered joint pain. Pasta brought brain fog and pizza was Russian roulette with my digestive system. I learned to navigate a world that could poison me while everyone thought I was lying. I became that girl who always had an excuse and turned down birthday cake with a nervous laugh, protecting myself the only way I knew how. I lost my first friend group freshman year because they decided I was faking for attention and it shattered me. Starting over, I found new friends who met every Friday night in Maya's basement for game night where we play everything from Mario Kart to Cards Against Humanity. And for the first time in years, I felt accepted. Maya became my best friend within weeks. And I finally believed I'd found people who wouldn't abandon me until she pulled me aside after game night with that look I recognized too well. We need to talk about next Friday, she said. It's not really game night. We're worried about you and how you never eat anything. That's when I realized they think I have an eating disorder. If my parents wanted to pretend I was healthy, then I'd give them healthy, even if it killed me. I showed up the Friday, pretending I had no idea about the intervention. Oh my god, you guys got pizza? I'm starving. I plop down and grabbed a slice before anyone could start their rehearsed speeches. The coffee table was loaded with snacks, and 10 pairs of concerned eyes watched me fold the pizza in half and take a huge bite. Is this someone's birthday? I asked through a mouthful of cheese, already reaching for cookies. Mia started giggling nervously while her mom's worried expression melted into confusion. By my second slice, someone muttered, "Well, this is awkward." And the whole room burst into relieved laughter. 20 minutes later, my body extracted its revenge. Pain hit like molten metal in my stomach, and my skin burned like I'd rolled in fiberglass. I barely made it to the bathroom before violently ejecting everything while someone screamed for help. Maya's mom took one look at my swollen face and the hives spreading up my neck and made the decision that changed everything. Hospital. Now the emergency room became a blur of blood draws and IV fluids. What I understood were the words that filtered through. Severe reaction, autoimmune response, celiac disease. My parents arrived like a thunderstorm. My dad's voice booming across the ER. Nothing was wrong with her until you people interfered. My mom stood with crossed arms insisting I never got sick at her house. The doctor pulled up my test results and explained that I had celiac disease and my intestines showed significant damage from years of gluten exposure. Doctors will diagnose anything for a paycheck. My dad snarled. She's playing all of you. The social worker who appeared an hour later asked careful questions while Mia's mom held my hand. The documentation painted an undeniable picture of medical neglect. And when she quietly stated she couldn't release me to my parents, they exploded with threats about lawsuits and ruined careers. Security escorted them out while I curled into the hospital bed, finally understanding I was never going home again. CPS found my mom's aranged sister who lived 45 minutes away and got us in contact. Turns out Aunt Sarah had celiac disease, too. And understood exactly what I've been going through. She took me in without hesitation and drives me to school every morning 45 minutes so I can stay with my friends. My parents sent one final email. You're dead to us for all the you've caused. Sarah got me a new number by my request. Changed my phone number without looking back. The friends who almost killed me stuck around and Maya's mom still sends safe recipes. They accused me of performing my illness when the real performance was them pretending to be parents.", "metadata": {"writer": "Lucis L", "views": 977546, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "fEicUOhwy9U", "prompt": "Idea: My ex best friend copied my entire personality for years until I gave her something original\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My ex- best friend copied my entire\npersonality for years until I gave her\nsomething original to copy. I've had a\nhuman mirror since freshman year of\ncollege, my ex- best friend, Delaney.\nAnd I don't mean that in the flattering,\nwe're so alike kind of way. I mean it\nlike if I changed my major, she'd be in\nthe adviser's office the next day. If I\ndyed my hair green, she'd show up to\nclass with the exact same shade. If I\nstarted yoga, she'd appear at my studio\nwith a better mat, newer gear, and\nalready knowing the instructor's name\nlike they were old friends. We met\nfreshman year, living in the same dorm,\nand bonding over late night study\nsessions and shared pizza. She seemed\ncool, maybe a little eager to fit in,\nbut who wasn't back then? I remember\nthinking it was sweet when she asked\nwhere I got my favorite sweater and\nshowed up wearing the same one. But by\njunior year, it got unsettling. I\nswitched from business to marketing.\nDelaney announced her switch 2 weeks\nlater. I started dating this guy named\nJustin and she suddenly developed an\ninterest in his roommate. She started\nusing my catchphrases, my hand gestures,\nordering my exact Starbucks drink. The\nworst part was how she'd gaslight me\nabout it. Great minds think alike. She'd\nlaugh when someone pointed out we were\nbasically twins. Meanwhile, she was\nliterally becoming me piece by piece.\nAfter graduation, she started dating\nJustin, my ex Justin. She took him to\nour restaurant, ordered our appetizer,\neven used the nickname I'd given him.\nShe showed up to our friend group's\nreunion wearing my perfume, styling her\nhair like mine, telling my stories about\nmy grandmother as if they were hers.\nPeople actually started calling her by\nmy name sometimes. The final straw came\nwhen she posted on Instagram about\ngetting into Colombia for her masters.\nThe caption was word for word the\npersonal statement I'd written about my\ngrandmother's death and how it inspired\nme to pursue marketing. My grandmother\nwho raised me, my grandmother, who died\nholding my hand and telling me I was\ndestined for great things. Delaney had\nmet her once. When I confronted her, she\ntilted her head and said, "It's not like\nyou own words. We've been through\nsimilar things." That's when I knew\nshe'd never stop. Not until she'd\ncompletely absorbed everything that made\nme who I was. So, I made a plan. I'd\nnoticed her pattern. She always waited\nexactly 2 to 3 weeks before copying\nwhatever I did, like clockwork. So, I\nstarted dropping hints about getting a\nmeaningful tattoo. I posted inspiration\npics on my stories of the worst designs\nimaginable, but acted like they were\nprofound. There was a butterfly emerging\nfrom barbed wire that was\ntransformative, a misspelled quote in\ncursive that spoke to my soul and tribal\npatterns that meant absolutely nothing.\nI researched the absolute worst reviewed\ntattoo artist in town and found some guy\nwho worked from his garage and had\nreviews warning people to stay away. I\nposted about booking with him and gushed\nabout his raw talent and how he\nunderstood my vision like no one else\ncould. Delaney hearted every post. So\nbeautiful, she'd comment. Can't wait to\nsee the final result. I wore temporary\ntattoos for weeks and showed them off at\nevery gathering like they were real. The\nmassive design on my forearm said,\n"Strength throw adversity." With clip\nart butterflies and random tribal swirls\nthat looked like something from a bad\n'90s flash sheet. I told everyone it\nrepresented my journey, my growth, my\nauthentic self, and I even staged photos\nat that sketchy tattoo parlor to make it\nbelievable. 2 weeks later, right on\nschedule, Delaney posted about her\ntattoo appointment with the caption,\n"Finally taking the plunge," and thanked\nme for inspiring her to be brave. She\nwent to the same sketchy garage artist\nI'd pretended to use because she thought\nhis raw talent was worth the risk.\nThroughout the day, she posted stories\nof the process, showing the stencil on\nher arm and telling everyone how\nmeaningful this moment was for her. Her\nmeltdown 3 hours later was spectacular\nwhen someone commented that she'd\nmisspelled strength and through and\nadversity. She tried to delete it all,\nbut screenshots were already circulating\nthrough our friend group. She posted\nfive different stories trying to explain\nit was an artistic choice before finally\ngoing dark and disappearing from social\nmedia. Our mutual friends started\ntexting me the screenshots, asking if\nI'd seen what happened to Delany's new\ntattoo. She blocked me on everything\nafter realizing I'd only ever had\ntemporary tattoos and started telling\npeople I tricked her and manipulated\nher. She called me toxic, but she\ncouldn't explain why without admitting\nshe'd been copying me all along.", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 559006, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "9ruMhDrkPIE", "prompt": "Idea: What made you never touch a game again?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you never touch a game again?\nI taught my little brother, Maui, how to\nplay Counter-Strike the day our parents\nbought him his own computer for his 13th\nbirthday. He'd wait by the door every\nday for me to get home, desperate to\nescape the empty house while our parents\nwork double shifts. For a kid who ate\nlunch alone and never got invited to\nparties, gaming was everything. After we\nwon our first local tournament, Maui\nhugged me with tears in his eyes and\nsaid, "We're going to make it together,\nright? Promise me." At first, Maui's\ndedication made me proud. Over summer\nbreak, he'd disappear straight into his\nroom, emerging only for bathroom breaks.\nMom would ruffle his hair when she\nbrought him dinner plates, saying, "My\nlittle pro gamer." Then one afternoon, I\nknocked to ask if he wanted pizza and\ngot no answer. I peeked in and saw him\nhunched over, headset on, surrounded by\ncool blue Gatorade bottles filled with\ndark yellow liquid. My stomach turned.\nDude, you Maui shrugged. Whatever.\nBathroom breaks cost me ranked matches.\nAll the Korean pros do this. He pulled\nup the leaderboard. See, I'm ahead of\nyou. I nodded, fully convinced this\nmeant he was serious about our dream and\nplaced the pizza on an empty corner of\nthe floor. When I moved out for my IT\njob, I left thinking he'd be fine. He\nhad gaming. He had our parents. He'd be\nokay. I visited the house at the end of\nsummer break and expected to come home\nto a happy family. Instead, I witnessed\nsomething much darker. The first thing\nthat hit me was the sweet sick smell of\nsweat when I opened his door. Moldy\npizza boxes stacked like Jenga blocks.\nFruit flies circled around like a\nwasteland wonderland. and Maui clearly\nhadn't showered in weeks. In fact, I\nswore he wore the same shirt I saw just\nbefore I had left. Mom approached me\nwith tears staining her face. "He's a\nmonster." Later that night, Mom finally\nsnapped and pulled his power cord during\na ranked match. I heard the crash from\ndownstairs as Maui's fist went through\nhis monitor. "You just cost me my\npromotion," he screamed, and I ran up to\nfind mom pressed against the hallway\nwall, clutching the power cord while\nMaui towered over her, his whole body\nshaking with rage. After that incident,\nhe installed deadbolts in his room. I\ntried confronting him about it, but he\nbarely opened the door a crack. When I\ntried to push it open to air out the\ntoxic room, he body slammed it shut from\ninside, my fingers barely escaping. "You\ndon't visit enough to have opinions. I'm\nabout to go pro." Just like we planned,\nremember? Or did you forget about our\ndream, too? He hissed through the crack.\nI left after that, but guilt ate me. So,\n2 weeks later, I packed up my old gaming\nperipherals and returned, thinking maybe\nI could get the entire family to play\ntogether and fix things. When I entered\nthe house, everything felt wrong. No\nlights or home-cooked meals, just\nsilence, except for the rapid clicking\nof mechanical keys and Maui's laughter\ndrifting from upstairs. Mom, dad, I\ncalled out. Nothing. I found Maui in our\nparents bedroom. His entire setup moved\nthere. Monitors glowed in the darkness.\n"Why are you in here?" I asked. He\ndidn't turn around. "My room's under\nrenovation. Don't go in there." His\nvoice was flat. Mechanical. "Where's mom\nand dad?" he shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe\nthey abandoned me just like you." I\nfrowned, heartbroken by his cold\nreplies. At the same time, something in\nmy gut screamed suspicion. While he was\nbusy ranking up, I slipped down the hall\nto his old room. The smell this time was\noverwhelming. The dirty, rotting smell\nnow mixed with Lysol and bleach, like\nsomeone was trying to mask it\nunsuccessfully. I pushed inside and\nfroze. At the corner of the room, I\nspotted mom and dad's bodies bloated and\ndiscolored. I fell to my knees and threw\nup. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't\nthink. Then I heard breathing behind me.\nI told you not to go in there. Maui\nstood in the doorway holding his\ncorabit, the collectible knife I bought\nhim for Christmas. They kept trying to\ntake my computer during a tournament.\nCan you believe that? His eyes were\nempty. They said I was sick. They tried\nto send me away. He stepped forward and\nI scrambled backward, knocking over\nempty bottles. I bolted past him,\nrunning for the nearest exit. He caught\nmy shirt and we crashed into the parents\nroom where his setup was. I grabbed his\nmonitor to steady myself and it toppled,\ntaking his tower with it. No. Maui\ndropped the knife and dove for his\ncomputer like it was a dying child. My\nrank, my matches. You destroyed\neverything. He cradled the exposed\nmotherboard, rocking back and forth.\nSparks flew from a loose power supply\ncable. The wire touched his wet hands\nand his body went rigid. I called 911\nwith shaking hands, staring at my little\nbrother's body, twitching on the floor,\nsurrounded by the broken pieces of his\nobsession. The paramedics and police\narrived and wrapped the house in yellow\ntape. They recovered my parents' bodies\nand said they'd been lifeless for a\nweek. Maui survived the electrocution,\nbut suffered permanent nerve damage in\nhis hands. He's in a psychiatric\nfacility now, unable to hold a mouse\nproperly, but still writes me letters\nabout getting back to gaming, saying,\n"Once my hands heal, we'll finally go\npro together. Brothers forever, right?", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 2947742, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "d8VfCDD0Ma4", "prompt": "Idea: What was the most toxic thing about your friend group?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What was the most toxic thing about your friend group? My friend group only let one of us date per month. And when I met someone off schedule, they held me down and cut off chunks of my hair, screaming, "It's Kira's month, you selfish bitch." I met all my friends freshman year of college when we were all crying in the bathroom over boys and the same freshman mixer. One girl, Tanya, gathered us up and made us swear we'd never let men come between us. She'd make us do these ritualistic bonding ceremonies where we'd burn photos of our exes and mix the ashes into friendship bracelets we had to wear. By sophomore year, she had us sleeping in her room every weekend to strengthen our sisterhood and would call us 20 times in a row if anyone missed a night, even though Tanya was a lot. I stayed in the group because I genuinely loved the other girls and putting up with her was worth it at first. But then junior year, Tanya presented the dating calendar at what she called a friendship intervention. She'd noticed we were all getting attention from guys and said it was threatening our bond. Only one girl dates per month, while the others stay pure for the sisterhood, she announced. She'd assigned us each specific month and made us sign contracts in our own blood, which she kept in a locked box. The rules were insane. During your month, you had to go on dates to represent the group, but the other girls got to approve every guy first. During off months, we had to wear deliberately ugly clothes and couldn't even make eye contact with men. She said it would keep us from competing and betraying each other. The dating calendar turned us into prisoners. Tanya made us install tracking apps so she could monitor where we went during off months. If you were somewhere a man might be, you'd get interrogated. She'd smell our hair to check if we'd use nice shampoo when it wasn't our turn. During your assigned month, the other girls would prepare you like some virgin sacrifice. They'd do your hair and nails while Tanya lectured about representing the sisterhood properly. But the dates themselves were nightmares. The non-dating girls would follow you to restaurants and sit at nearby tables taking notes. They'd text you constant instructions about what to say and how to act. After each date, you had to provide a full report, including what you ate, and every topic discussed. If a guy texted you during someone else's month, you had to let Tanya respond pretending to be you, with something cruel enough to make him never contact you again. And then there was the physical enforcement. If you looked too pretty during an off month, the girls would hold you down while Tanya ruined your appearance. She pulled out Mandy's eyelashes with craft scissors. She made Terry eat until she threw up because she'd lost weight during an off month and looked too tempting. We were so scared of her we'd sabotage ourselves. I watched Kira scratch her own face with her nails before leaving the dorm because she knew Tanya would do worse if she looked pretty during my month. Then I met Dirk at the library during Kira's month when I was supposed to be studying with ugly hair and baggy clothes. He didn't care that I looked terrible and asked about the book I was reading. For 3 weeks, I lived a double life, meeting him in secret while wearing my ugliest clothes to throw Tanya off. I felt like a convict plotting escape. When he asked why I only met him at weird times, I almost told him everything, but knew he'd think I was insane. Then Tanya extended Kira's month because she wasn't maximizing her romantic potential. I couldn't take another month of deliberately looking hideous and sneaking around. At our weekly meeting, I announced I'd been seeing someone. The room went cold. Tanya stood up slowly and asked if I understood what I just confessed. I said I was done with the calendar and the contracts and the insanity. Tanya completely lost her mind when I refused to stop seeing dirt. She convinced the others I was possessed by duck addiction and needed an intervention. They ambushed me in my dorm room and held me down while Tanya cut off chunks of my hair with craft scissors. "You want to steal Kira's month? You'll be too ugly for any month," she screamed. They poured honey in what was left of my hair and took photos while I sobbed. When that didn't break me, they escalated. They'd follow Durk and tell him I had STDs. They'd show up at his classes with printed screenshots of fake texts where I supposedly called him ugly. Mandy pretended to be me and sent his mom a Facebook message saying I was pregnant and needed money for an abortion. They filed false Title 9 complaints saying I was sexually harassing them. Tanya tried to get me expelled by planting pills in my backpack and calling campus security. But then campus police investigated the planted pills and found Tanya's fingerprints all over the bag. During questioning, they discovered her locked box full of blood contracts and surveillance photos of dozens of girls. Turns out we weren't her first sisterhood. She'd been kicked out of two previous colleges for similar behavior. The other girls broke down and admitted everything, including the assault with scissors. Tanya was arrested for stalking and assault while screaming about protecting the sisterhood.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 40656, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "tqXOk1iPztY", "prompt": "Idea: What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year? My twin brother Matus and I had been fighting to survive ever since dad left three years ago. The same week mom got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The medical bills crushed us. Some days we come home from school to find the electricity cut off again. Matias would study by candle light, desperate to keep his grades perfect. It was the only thing left he could control. Then on the day the school announced a new validictorian scholarship, Matus looked at me like he'd found a new spark, vowing, "I'll get us out low. I'll do it for mom." Throughout high school, Matus always came out on top. Then during senior year, our teacher announced that Vienna had transferred to our school with a higher GPA. Nobody clapped. I felt Matus slouched down like someone punched him until the class started cheering him on. It's only 0.03 difference. You got this, Matt. That night, he stayed up creating spreadsheets, tracking every assignment's point value, calculating what scores he'd need. When our AP teacher saw it, she bragged about it to other students. Within days, I noticed Matas had Vienna's entire schedule written in his planner. "Healthy competition," he explained when I asked. Even mom encouraged him to skip meals to study, saying, "My fighter." The day he got a 98 on our calculus test, he literally cried in the hallway. Everyone assured him it was still amazing. When first quarter rankings showed Vienna's name on top, Matus didn't come home for 2 days. After Christmas break, my brother became someone I barely recognized. He started spreading rumors about her cheating on SATs, then turn around and comfort her when people gave her dirty looks. I know you'd never cheat. Things only got worse. Her assignments went missing. I watched Matias find it behind the cafeteria dumpster 2 days later, making sure others saw. Vienna, you really should be more careful, he'd say, handing it back with pages torn out. She just stared at the ruined paper with an expression like she knew exactly who'd taken it. After school, I saw Matias shove Vienna against the lockers and snatch her textbook. He disappeared into the boy's bathroom and walked out with a smirk. Vienna stared at the door while I offered, "I'll get it for you." I opened the door and spotted the textbook hanging from a urinal, completely soaked in urine. I felt sick. Vienna held my arm and said, "Don't. I'll just buy a new one." Matias's face went dark. Must be nice. Some of us can't even afford electricity. He spat. Later at home, I confronted him. You're losing. He grabbed my shoulders and screamed. Every A she gets is another month of chemo mom can't afford. You know this. For the first time, I felt afraid of the person he had to become just to keep us afloat. During the second term, Matus stopped bothering her and put all his attention into studying for the AP calculus final, the test that would determine the validictorian. I sat two rows behind Matus, watching his whole body vibrate with anxiety. He finished with 40 minutes left, practically running to submit for the bonus first to submit points. But as he walked past Vienna's desk, his face visibly crumbled. I leaned forward and squinted my eyes to see what he was looking at and noticed Vienna's completed work on the bonus impossible questions that my teacher put for fun. I held my breath and glanced back at my brother just as he breathed, "How dare you?" Then I watched my twin grab Vienna's right hand and slam it against the metal desk edge. The crack echoed. Vienna screamed, "You're killing my mother. Every point you steal is another day she suffers." He snatched the graphing calculator on her desk and started hammering her fingers one by one like vegetables on a chopping board. The wet crushing sounds kept us in our seats, but the sight of blood spraying across her arm, across his face, and desk had us screaming for help. Vienna sobbed, trying to pull away, but he had her wrist locked. He continued pounding her fingers to dust while spitting. "You can't write without fingers. Mom needs this scholarship." Her pinky had bent completely sideways before I found the courage to lunge at him. "Mia, stop!" He shoved me into the desks and held the calculator over my head like he wanted to hurt me, too. "You want mom to die, too?" Three guards burst in and pinned him down. Even then, he tried to reach for Vienna's blood soaked test. Tell them I'm a hero. I cried out at the horrible sight of my brother and shook my head at him. Stop it, Matt. It's over. As they dragged him away, he screamed, "I did it for mom. I'm not the villain here." The guards dragged him away after restraining him. Our teacher picked up Vienna, who had passed out from the pain, and took her to the nurse's office for immediate care. The rest of us hugged the corners of the room, sobbing and traumatized, until another teacher walked into Clare's out and sent us home early. No one from our class attended graduation. Not when one student was injured and another charged with felony assault. They removed the scholarship from the school's program and used the money to pay for Vienna's hospital bills. We lost the house and mom ended up passing away weeks later. When I visit him, he shows me letters he writes to validictorians across the state, explaining they need to know they're stealing from families like ours. Last week, he told me excitedly, "When I get out, I'll work at a tutoring center.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 639768, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "xr1RYo7sIgg", "prompt": "Idea: When did the cat lady ACTUALLY turn out crazy?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did the cat lady actually turn out crazy? The morning my wife Mallerie delivered our daughter Samantha. There was only silence. I watched my wife hold our stillborn baby for four hours, humming lullabies to a child who'd never hear them. When the nurses finally convinced her to let go, Mallerie looked at me with empty eyes and said, "She was so cold." The doctor explained that complications meant we'd never have another. For weeks, Mallerie didn't leave Samantha's nursery. Then one morning, I found her cradling newborn kittens she'd found under our porch. "They need a mother," she whispered. And for the first time since the hospital, she smiled. Things started looking up since then. The kittens kept us busy and brought back love into the house. Mallerie would wake every two hours for feedings, humming the same lullabies we practiced for Samantha. You're a natural," I said, admiring how she glowed while caring for the adorable little beasts. Before I knew it, Mallerie was bringing home more cats from the shelter, even taking in ones with missing limbs and imperfections. The vet called her a saint. Soon, word spread. People left kittens on our porch like some kind of shrine. Mallerie never said no. I'd come home to find her surrounded by these tiny creatures, calling herself Mama as she fed them. She used the baby monitor and transformed the yellow nursery into a kitten room. The house was chaotic, but her smile made the mess worth it. I started feeling uncomfortable when Mallerie gave the cats variations of our deceased daughter's name, Sam. Sammy Samantha Marie. She created birth certificates with her last name for every cat. She tried to enroll them in the local daycare, arguing they needed socialization with other children. I felt relieved when the daycare turned her away, but instead of understanding, she stood outside pickup times, shouting like a madman, telling parents they were supporting discrimination. The saddest moment for me was when our friends began avoiding us, admitting she was whispering to that orange cat for 20 minutes at dinner, then meowing when it meowed back. You need to throw those cats out. At first, I thought they were exaggerating until one night, I found scratch marks and bites on her chest where she tried breastfeeding the cats. Mallerie, this is nuts. Our house is a mess, and you're scaring all our friends away. Honey, they're just cats, not kids. She hissed at me, her face wrinkling into a disgusted expression. There are children, and if you want to get rid of them, you'll have to get rid of me first. She marched out of our bedroom and moved all her things into the nursery, sleeping on the floor, surrounded by the children. I laid awake that night wondering when I'd started losing her. My gut twisted the first time Mallerie called our neighbor's 5-year-old daughter Samantha instead of Bailey when she came to pet the cats. While she didn't seem to mind, it worried me. Bailey giggled when Mallerie called her Samantha. But I felt sick. My deepest fears came to life when one afternoon I dozed off on the couch while Bailey played upstairs with Mallerie and the cats. I woke to a sound that made my blood freeze. Not Bailey's usual giggles or even her wines when a cat scratched her, but pure terror. Every parental instinct in my body fired at once. I ran upstairs and pushed open the nursery door. The afternoon sun lit up the room, highlighting a scene straight from my nightmares. I stared in disbelief as Mallerie pinned Bailey on the changing table with her own shirt pulled up. She forced Bailey's head against her chest, trying to make her nurse while cats crawled over both of them. When Mallerie noticed me, she cackled. "Our kids are growing so fast. When I jumped to protect Bailey, Mallerie went feral. She slashed at me with a metal feeding syringe, catching my cheek and drawing blood." I jumped forward and wrestled her onto the bed, trying to keep her from reaching Bailey again. As I held her down, a burning smell filled the room like melted plastic and burnt skin. I turned and saw the hot glue gun on the table, still plugged in and dripping. Then I looked at Bailey and understood where the smell was coming from. Bailey sobbed while picking at the gray and orange fur that had been hot glued to her body. Blood soaked through the fur. When Mallerie caught me staring, she grinned. "She's both my Samantha and my kitten. She's perfect, just needs more fur." I shook Mallerie angrily, tears from my eyes dropping onto her face. She's five. My voice broke while I begged her to come to her senses. Our child is gone and nothing can replace her. You need to stop it, Mallerie, please. Just then, the front door slammed. Bailey, time to come home. Her footsteps pounded up the stairs. She appeared in the doorway and her face went from confusion to absolute horror. I screamed at her to call 911 while I held Mallerie down. She pulled out her phone, calling while removing Bailey from the room. The police arrived quickly and carried Mallerie out in restraints while she screamed, "Don't touch my children. Give me my Samantha." Mallerie got locked away in a remote facility far from home. I paid for Bailey's burn treatment in skin grafts where the fur had been glued and put all the cats up for adoption. I put the house up for sale to move away from everything. Until then, I've spent weekends checking on my wife. Last visit, she asked, "Are you feeding the children?" Oh, you'll never believe who I found here. Samantha. And she's all grown", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 118554, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "tH8DJvAXl8U", "prompt": "Idea: He Followed Me Everywhere I Went, So I Made Sure He'd Never Follow Anyone Again.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "He followed me everywhere I went, so I made sure he'd never follow anyone again. You ever hear about those stories where a crazy stalker won't hesitate to kill someone if it meant getting his crush's attention? It sounds romantic on paper, but is terrifying in real life. Sergio was just that, a stalker who sent me 10 messages every hour, even when I ghosted him, who blasted romantic songs through a speaker outside my house, who told everyone that I was his soulmate. The first red flag should have been when Sergio showed up out of nowhere at my cafe and stared at my face for 2 hours straight. He came in every Tuesday and Thursday at exactly 3 p.m. when my shift started, asking for drink recommendations, even though he never bought anything. I thought he was just lonely until I saw him at my gym on Saturday morning pretending to struggle with dumbbells while watching me through the mirrors. It escalated quickly as he started appearing everywhere I went. He'd call my work asking for his girlfriend and followed all my friends on Instagram, commenting on every post that had my face. He'd leave flowers at my door with photos of me taken from across the street. When I blocked his number, he used apps to generate new ones and called me 20 times a day. The police said he hadn't done anything illegal, and the detective even asked if I'd let him on. After he showed up at my parents house, saying, "I just wanted to meet my future family. I quit my job overnight and drove three states away to where my cousin lived just so I could escape that maniac." For 6 months, I lived peacefully in that small town, working at a local diner under a fake name. I'd started to feel safe again and made new friends who didn't know anything about my past. But then one morning, I walked into work and there he was sitting at the counter with that same sick smile spread across his face. I finally found you. You can't just disappear on me like that. My hands shook as I tied my apron while Sergio explained how he rented the apartment across from mine and already told my boss we were engaged. He showed me screenshots on his phone of everything I'd done in town for the past 2 weeks, proving he'd been watching without me knowing. The thing that made me snap was when he mentioned babysitting my cousin's kids, how he befriended her whole family by claiming to be my boyfriend, trying to work things out after a fight, fine. If he wanted to be a part of my life so badly, then I'd use exactly that to destroy him. I spent the next week carefully planning his downfall. First, I studied his demeanor and discovered he documented everything about me, but revealed nothing about himself and used fake names everywhere, which meant he'd done this before. I researched remote Alaskan towns and wilderness lodges, creating an elaborate fantasy job opportunity. I even printed fake emails about interviews and threw them in the garbage, knowing he went through my trash. I practiced conversations about the move, making sure other my diner customers would overhear and gossip about it. Everything had to be believable enough that he wouldn't question it, but remote enough that he'd be truly stranded. To my surprise, he took the bait immediately and quit his job while telling everyone we were moving to Alaska together as a couple. I played along. I booked bus tickets to Seattle and both our names, but only used mine. then created an elaborate trail by withdrawing cash at specific ATMs and towns heading north. I posted on social media about the beautiful Washington scenery and shared fake excitement about interviewing at lodges near Anchorage. At a Seattle coffee shop, I made sure to say loudly on the phone, "Yes, I'll be in Anchorage by tomorrow." My boyfriend Sergio is so excited about the fresh start. While he followed these breadcrumbs to Seattle and then caught a flight to Alaska, I was actually driving south to Mexico where my cousin had arranged a cash job at her friend's restaurant. Sergio ended up in a remote Alaskan town in the dead of winter with no job and no connections, searching for a woman who was never there. He spent weeks going to every lodge and business asking about me, growing increasingly desperate as his money ran out. The locals became suspicious of this outsider using a fake name and asking about a woman nobody had seen, especially when he couldn't provide consistent details about our supposed relationship. I later learned through my cousin that Sergio had been arrested after he was caught trying to access public records in Alaska, still trying to find where I truly was. Police didn't just arrest him. They connected him to multiple stalking cases across five states.", "metadata": {"writer": "Neil", "views": 108592, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "PlsxsaoVX8c", "prompt": "Idea: How did your family frame you for a crime?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "How did your family frame you for a crime? My father required me to seduce and marry elderly men in nursing homes every few months so we could inherit their money when they die. Because old people are going to die anyway, might as well make them useful. My father had been running inheritance scams for years before I was born, but he realized that having a young, attractive daughter would make his schemes much more effective. He homeschooled me specifically to keep me isolated from anyone who might interfere with his plans and moved us constantly so I could never form relationships or get help from outside sources. Dad controlled every aspect of my life, including my appearance, my wardrobe, and even my speech patterns, because he said I was his most valuable business asset. He kept all my identification documents locked away and reminded me daily that I had no legal existence without him since he'd never officially registered my birth. My mother had died having me, so he said I had to pay him back for taking her. Dad had already used me in smaller cons throughout my childhood, teaching me to manipulate lonely older people for money. And he made it clear that refusing to participate would result in him abandoning me with no way to survive on my own. When I was 16, dad suddenly announced that I was ready for advanced operations and dragged me to an upscale nursing home where he pointed out a frail elderly man in a wheelchair. "That's going to be your new husband," he whispered. He demanded I approach the confused old man while he coached me through an earpiece. "You're going to make that old man fall in love with you. Marry him and then help him die peacefully so we can inherit his fortune." Dad hissed as the man smiled at me with genuine warmth. When I froze in horror, Dad snarled, "You think you're too good to make easy money off some dying geyser?" I was horrified and refused to participate in dad's scheme, which made him absolutely furious because he claimed I was throwing away millions of dollars out of selfishness. He locked me in our basement and began with holding food to weaken my resistance, dragging me to the nursing home three times a week, where I was forced to sit with Harold, the elderly man who genuinely believed I was interested in him romantically. Harold would light up every time I walked into his room, telling me stories about his late wife and showing me old photographs that broke my heart. Dad would watch from the hallway and signal me to move closer. Old Harold's hand or laugh at his jokes while the poor man had no idea he was being manipulated. Harold started asking the nurses about me constantly and began giving me small gifts from his room, including his late wife's jewelry that he wanted me to have because you remind me of her when she was young. And then to my horror, Harold tearfully proposed to me with his deceased wife's engagement ring. Believing our connection was real, Dad immediately said yes on my behalf. He grabbed my face afterward and screamed, "That scenile old fool just handed us a fortune, and you're acting like it's a tragedy." When I said I couldn't marry him, Dad said something that made my blood run cold. Don't worry, you won't have to put up with him for much longer. I couldn't let dad force me to marry and potentially kill an innocent old man. So, I started planning my escape from his control. I secretly stole money from dad's wallet and hid it in my room so I could run away before the wedding. For 2 weeks, I pretended to go along with his plan while secretly researching how to get legal identification and find help for abuse victims. I felt a glimmer of hope for the first time in years, knowing that I might be able to escape before dad made me into a murderer. I even tried leaving coded messages with nursing home staff about my situation, hoping someone would realize I was being forced into this marriage against my will. But dad discovered the money hidden in my room and went nuclear. He told Harold we had to move out the wedding immediately because I was sick and needed health insurance. And Harold immediately said he'd do anything for me. Dad held a knife to my ribs during the entire ceremony and whispered, "If you don't say I do, I'll gut you right here in front of everyone." After the ceremony, he moved Harold out of the nursing room and into our house so his devoted knew why could care for him. He hired a corrupt nurse who helped him increase the man's medication to dangerous levels while forcing me to watch. He said, "This is what happens when you try to run away from family business. Now you're an accessory to murder." Within days, Harold was dead. It was the most awful day of my life. I couldn't believe what my father had done to this innocent old man who trusted us both. Dad immediately began the inheritance process while threatening to frame me for his death if I ever tried to leave. But then something amazing happened. Dad had picked Harold because he had no close family, but he did have an aranged nephew who showed up unexpectedly to contest the will and immediately recognized that something was wrong with our marriage. When he confronted me privately, I broke down and confessed everything about dad's scheme and how I had been forced to participate. I told him what my father had done to Harold made me sick and begged him to help me. The nephew went straight to the police who launched an investigation that revealed dad's entire inheritance scam operation. Dad tried to convince authorities that I had been the mastermind and he was just an innocent father manipulated by his criminal daughter. But the evidence showed years of abuse and coercion. He was arrested for elder abuse, fraud, and murder. I'm 21 now and living under a new identity.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 147040, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "M25_0JYQ2Fk", "prompt": "Idea: When did hugging trees turn into a criminal activity?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did hugging trees turn into a criminal activity? Carl told me about his childhood on our third date. How his parents called him worthless and ugly. The trees were my only friends, he said, describing how he'd escaped to the woods whenever kids threw rocks at him. He showed me a photo of himself as a skinny boy hugging an oak tree. He gave a soft smile. They never judged me. They just let me exist. I held his hand and said, "That's beautiful." He nodded. It saved me and I'll do anything to protect it. After that third date, I saw Carl's activism differently. His environmental work at college wasn't just a hobby, it was his calling. I fell even harder for him during volunteer days, watching him teach kids about the wonders of nature. He brought me out to study under the largest tree on the campus and pointed out the word guardian carved roughly into the bark. When I asked him about it, he explained, "This is where I hid freshman year whenever my anxiety hit. I called this tree guardian because of the way it protects me and others. I thought it was sweet how passionate he was. When he won the sustainability award for his hybrid hydroponics idea, he thanked the trees in his speech for raising him up when others wouldn't. The whole room ate it up. But then he started taking it too far. He started waking at 3:00 a.m. to water the neighbors trees. When I tried to get him inside, he pushed me away saying they were calling to him, that they were thirsty. I laughed it off, thinking he just wanted to help him out. But then I caught him skipping class to follow a lumber truck, screaming that they were taking the lives of innocents. It felt embarrassing having to drag him away from the confused workers." That honestly should have been my wake up call. My image of him completely shattered the day campus maintenance pruned the oak trees. I found him with his hands on the worker's throat, sobbing that he could hear the plants crying. The other workers called security and I physically had to pry him away while he wailed about how nature is our savior. Our life is not ours. The campus suspended him and sent him home to recover. I begged him to see a therapist, but he refused, saying, "You're either with the trees or against us. You better be with us because you don't want to find out what's going to happen to our enemy soon." His threat made the hairs on my arm stand up. I apologized and told him I was on his side while secretly feeling terrified of what he might do next. After his suspension, I insisted Carl move in so I could keep an eye on him. He spent his days guarding the neighborhood trees. He'd patrol at dawn, keeping a journal of potential threats. Lately, he'd been obsessing over our elderly neighbor, Mr. Sullivan, who kept complaining about his maple dropping branches and leaves on his car. That morning, when I heard the chainsaw start, I knew something terrible would happen. Carl's inhuman scream woke the entire block. I chased after him, but he was already beating Mr. Sullivan's face. He shoved me hard into the fence when I tried pulling him off. When he grabbed Mr. Sullivan's chainsaw that was still lying by the fresh stump. I tried wrestling it away, but he was stronger than I'd ever seen him. The roots were destroying my driveway. Mr. Sullivan gasped through bloody lifts. Branches kept falling on my car, but Carl's face stayed blank. "You need to become what you destroyed," he said. I ran for my phone, but Carl smashed it against the sidewalk, warning me not to interfere with justice. I watched horrified as he tied up Mr. Sullivan and started digging. I begged Carl to stop, promised we'd get help together, but he kept digging while humming a lullaby. When he forced Mr. Sullivan into the hole and started packing dirt around his body, I tried pulling the old man out, but Carl backhanded me across the face. He kept packing soil until only Mr. Sullivan's head remained above ground like some horrific human sapling. "You're the tree now," Carl said, filling his watering can. As he poured water over Mr. Sullivan's exposed head, the old man choked and gasped. The water pulled around Mr. Sullivan's chin, forcing him to tilt his head back to breathe. Carl refilled the can methodically. Shh. Seeds need quiet to grow, Carl whispered, pouring another stream directly into the old man's gasping mouth. Mr. Sullivan's body convulsed in the packed earth, but Carl just smiled, adusting the soil around his neck like tucking in a child. I ran barefoot to the neighbor's house, pounding on their door to call 911. I ran back to find Carl still pouring water over Mr. Sullivan's face, telling him the trees were welcoming him home. The maple forgives you. Carl whispered between pores, "But you need to understand its pain first." Mr. Sullivan's eyes rolled back as he struggled for air between the floods of water. Carl just kept refilling the can, humming that haunting lullabi, completely at peace with what he was doing until the police arrived. The cops had to tase Carl to get him off Mr. Sullivan. He kept screaming my name, calling me a traitor, saying the trees would never forgive me. Mr. Sullivan survived but nearly drowned in that dirt. Carl's locked up now, but sends letters saying the trees whispered the names of neighbors who trimmed their hedges, people who built decks, anyone who used pesticides. His last letter had detailed planting instructions for each of them with little drawings showing exactly how deep to bury", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 17943, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "YoHVm5DVM7Q", "prompt": "Idea: My business partner put lead in my daughter's drinks for money, so I introduced him to people\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My business partner put lead in my\ndaughter's drinks for money, so I\nintroduced him to people who collect\ndebts in blood. You ever have a business\npartner who starts out like family but\nturns into your worst nightmare? That\nwas Derek. We met at a construction site\n10 years ago. He was the kind of guy who\ncould charm clients with a handshake and\nclose deals over beer. Numbers were his\nthing and building was mine. We started\nour company in his garage, but that\nchanged when the money got real. First,\nit was small things. Expenses that\ndidn't add up. Then I caught him at the\ncasino when he said he was meeting\nclients. It became a pattern. Every loss\nmade him bet bigger. Every confrontation\nmade him lie smoother. Just one bad\nnight, he'd say. Then I'd find another\ncash withdrawal. His ex-wife called\ncrying about missed child support.\nmentioned something about old gambling\ndebts to dangerous people. I covered for\nhim. That's what partners do, right?\nWhen I finally threatened an audit after\nfinding 200,000 missing, Dererick\npanicked. That's when Emma got sick.\nEmma was my 8-year-old daughter. She'd\nvisit the office after school. Dererick\nstarted bringing her special smoothies.\nSaid he made them at home with protein\npowder. Emma loved them. Drank one every\nday for 3 months. Then came the\nheadaches, nose beds. When she collapsed\nat school, the hospital found lead\npoisoning. Chronic exposure. I\nconfronted Dererick about the missing\nmoney. Mentioned Emma's kidney damage.\nHe actually smiled. Shame about Emma.\nKids are resilient, right? I asked about\nthe smoothies. His face went cold. You\nwere going to ruin me with that audit. A\nsick kid means you'd sell cheap. I mixed\nlead paint dust in her drinks. Those\ncups are long gone. Good luck proving\nanything. That was the moment something\nsnapped. The police needed evidence.\nDererick had already destroyed\neverything. Filed to force a company\nsale while I drowned in medical bills. I\nsold everything watching my daughter\nsuffer while Dererick bought a boat. I\nspent three months planning. Sold the\nhouse publicly while keeping cash\nhidden. Let Derrick think grief broke\nme. Agreed to sell my company half for\npennies. Meanwhile, I studied him like a\nblueprint. Found his old bookie Tommy\nthrough contractor connections. Dererick\nowed $80,000 from before we partnered.\nTommy worked for Victor's crew, the kind\nwho collected fingers as late fees. I\nhired a forensic accountant with a house\nmoney. Had him document every stolen\ndollar. Learned Derrick's patterns.\nTuesday poker games where he was getting\ndeeper in debt. New office he worked\nfrom alone. The boat he kept at the\nmarina. His custody hearings every\nmonth. I never contacted Victor\ndirectly. Never made threats. Just made\nsure information traveled through the\nright channels. Phase one started with\nthe IRS. Had my accountant flag just\nenough transactions to trigger an audit.\nNot criminal yet, just pressure. Derrick\nstarted sweating, drinking more,\ngambling more to cope. Phase two was\nTommy. I made sure Dererick's name came\nup at the right poker game. Mentioned to\nanother player how Dererick was bragging\nabout stiffing Victor's crew now that he\nhad money. Word travels fast in those\ncircles. Tommy heard within a week.\nPhase three was beautiful. Victor's guys\nvisited Dererick's office on a Tuesday.\nI watched from the coffee shop as three\nmen entered. First came shouting, then\ncrashing furniture. 20 minutes of\nscreaming. Then Dererick stumbled out,\nclutching broken fingers to his chest,\nblood on his shirt. He saw me through\nthe coffee shop window. Our eyes met. He\nknew. His mouth opened, but no words\ncame. Just this look of recognition, of\nunderstanding. He knew exactly who'd\nsent them. Victor's guys took his boat\ntitle as partial payment. Said they'd be\nback for the rest. Dererick couldn't\nwork with broken hands. Couldn't sign\ncontracts. Couldn't even hold a phone.\nClients left within two weeks. He begged\nfor extensions. Offered his car, his\nwatch. They wanted cash. Phase four was\nthe collapse. The IRS freeze hit right\nas Dererick needed money most. Couldn't\npay employees. They walked out mid-\nproject. Business folded in 3 weeks.\nBank foreclosed on his house when he\nmissed payments. Ex-wife got full\ncustody when he showed up to court with\nbroken fingers and no income. No lawyer\nwould take him without a retainer. He\ntried representing himself. Judge wasn't\nimpressed. Phase five was prison. My\nforensic accountant's full report went\nto the state prosecutor. Financial\nfraud, embezzlement, tax evasion. 15\nyears minimum. Dererick's old gambling\ncrew visited him one last time before\ntrial. Made sure he knew prison wouldn't\nprotect him from old debts. Guards found\nhim crying in his cell. I bought our\ncompany name at auction. Used it to\nstart over. Emma's getting better\nslowly. Still draws blueprints, though\nher hands shake now. Dererick writes\nletters from prison. Says I ruined his\nlife. still thinks he's the victim.\nStill doesn't understand. He poisoned an\n8-year-old for gambling money. Now he's\ngot 20 years to think about that bet.", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 139697, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "kEwiUwx0XzI", "prompt": "Idea: The Korean nail salon mocked me in their language not knowing I understood every word\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "The Korean nail salon mocked me in their\nlanguage, not knowing I understood every\nword. The Korean nail salon mocked me in\ntheir language, not knowing I understood\nevery word. I'd been going to the same\nKorean nail salon every two weeks for a\nyear. Minjang always did my nails with\nthat practice smile that never reached\nher eyes. "Welcome back, honey," she'd\nsay, already pulling out my usual basic\npolish. She'd chat in English while\nfiling, then switched to rapid Korean\nwith her co-workers. "What Minjong\ndidn't know? I understood every word. My\nmother taught me Korean from birth, but\nI look exactly like my black father.\nPeople see me and never guess I speak\ntheir language." After years of shocked\nreactions, sometimes it's easier to just\nsmile and nod. I was settling in when\nMing Jung turned to the new girl and\ncommented in Korean about my fingers\ngetting chubbier like little sausages,\nshe said. The new girl giggled and\nglanced at me, my jaw tightened. Another\ntechnician joined in, observing how I\nmade the chair look small. They laughed\ntogether while M Jung suggested charging\nme extra for equipment stress. She\npressed harder than necessary while\npushing back my cuticles. I didn't\nflinch. Then they started comparing me\nto other customers and taking photos of\nmy hands. M Jung announced I was\ndefinitely their worst dressed regular.\nShe pointed out dark spots on my\nknuckles to new employees. She explained\nin Korean it was for the group chat\nbecause the others would die laughing at\nhow ashy I was. After taking photos, she\nmade a show of using excessive hand\nsanitizer. She pumped it three times and\nrubbed her hands dramatically. The other\nsnickered while one pretended to open\nwindows for fresh air. Another waved a\nmagazine like a fan near my direction.\nThe mockery shifted when they saw my\nanxiety medication in my purse. Minjang\nannounced triumphantly in Korean that I\nwas on crazy pills. She said it\nexplained everything about me being both\ncrazy and ugly. She spoke louder now\nwhile making circular motions near her\ntemple. The whole salon erupted in\nlaughter. Other customers looked over\nbut didn't understand. Another\ntechnician added that no man would\nwillingly touch hands like mine. Minjang\nagreed I probably hadn't been touched in\nyears. That's why she seemed so\ndesperate for contact during manicures.\nThey made vulgar gestures behind my back\nreflected in the mirror. One mimicked\ngroping motions while another pretended\nto vomit. As the appointment went on,\nthey weren't even pretending I was human\nanymore. M Jung started referring to me\nas it when talking to other customers.\nShe'd tell them she had to finish with\nthis thing first. A Korean customer\nnodded sympathetically. The manager\nsuggested charging me a contamination\nfee. Minjang would announce she felt\ndirty after touching it while scrubbing\nher hands. She used the rough side of\nthe file on my natural nails. She\nstarted using old files and chipped\ntools on me. The new polish bottles she\nused for others stayed closed for me.\nThe worst part came when Minjang noticed\nmy mother's ring. She announced that\npathetic ring I always clutched was\nprobably from a dollar store. Another\ntechnician suggested I'd stolen it from\nsomeone who died. Someone added, "My\nmother probably abandoned me for being\nso ugly." They created an entire story\nabout my imaginary deadbeat family. Each\nedition was cruer than the last. The\nworst part was when they started making\nfun of my mother's death. Minjong\npractically shouted in Korean across the\nsalon about one less generation of\nugliness in the world. Her co-orker\nadded that the mother probably killed\nherself after seeing what she created.\nOther employees stopped their work to\nlaugh. Ming Jung laughed so hard she had\nto stop doing my nails. Tears streamed\ndown her face from laughing. Death was a\nrelief from having that as a daughter.\nMy phone rang at that moment. The\nuniversity's number flashed on screen. I\nlooked at the caller ID and decided this\nwas it. "Yes, this is Professor Prescott\nfrom the Korean studies department." I\nanswered in perfect Korean. The salon\nwent completely silent. Someone dropped\na bottle of polish that shattered on the\nfloor. Pink polish spread across the\nwhite tiles like spilled blood. I looked\ndirectly at Minjong, whose face had\ndrained of color. Still in Korean, I\nexplained my mother died alone because\npeople like them made her feel too\nKorean for America, too American for\nKorea. I let the words hang in the air.\nMinj's hands shook violently. The new\ngirl covered her mouth. Another\ntechnician backed away. I placed exact\nchange on the counter. No tip. Keep the\ntips. They were my mother's way of\nteaching me kindness doesn't require\nreciprocation, but I'm done funding your\ncruelty.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 437001, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "_bUhxfwtjOk", "prompt": "Idea: The rich kid said I'd end up cleaning toilets for people like him, not knowing his dad worked\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "A rich kid said I'd end up cleaning\ntoilets for people like him, not knowing\nhis dad worked for my mom. I was the\nquiet kid in eighth grade whose mom\nalways said to keep a low profile at\nschool. She dropped me off a block away\nevery morning before heading to her\noffice, and I knew not to mention that\nshe meant the executive suite of the\nbiggest company in town. Bruce's dad\nworked there, too. Always bragging about\nbeing a regional sales manager. Bruce\nhad no idea my mom was the one who\nsigned his dad's paychecks, though, and\nbecause of that, Bruce made me the\ntarget of his bullying. Everything\nstarted on a Tuesday morning in early\nOctober when Bruce knocked my books out\nof my hands in the main hallway. While I\nknelt down to gather my scattered\npapers, he stood there laughing with his\nfriends. Later that same day, when I\nheld the door open for him after lunch,\nhe shoved past and told everyone I was\nprobably hoping for a tip like a\ndoorman. By Thursday of that week, he\nhad progressed to stealing my lunch\nmoney during second period and\nannouncing loudly that I was too poor to\nafford food anyway. Friday afternoon\nbrought another escalation when he\nshoved me into a locker after PE and\nmade comments about my clothes smelling\nlike thrift store while the entire\nhallway erupted in laughter. The\nfollowing week brought even worse\ntreatment. Every time I raised my hand\nduring English class on Monday, he\ninterrupted to call me stupid and wrong.\nWhen test results came back on Wednesday\nand I had earned an A, he grabbed my\npaper right off my desk and ripped it\ninto pieces while telling everyone the\nteacher probably felt too sorry for me\nto give me the F I really deserved.\nDuring lunch periods throughout that\nweek, his harassment evolved from simply\nknocking over my tray to something more\nhumiliating. He would grab my sandwich\nfrom my reused grocery bag, take a\ndramatic bite, and spit it out while\ndeclaring it was welfare food and\nmystery meat before throwing everything\nin the trash. On a particularly bad\nThursday, I tried a different approach\nand offered him my chips, thinking maybe\nkindness would work. He knocked them out\nof my hand and ground them into the\ncafeteria floor with his heel while\nexplaining that he didn't want to catch\nwhatever diseases poor people carry. The\nentire cafeteria watched in silence as\nhe made me clean up the mess with my\nbare hands. Physical education class\nbecame my daily nightmare after that. He\nwould wait until I was changing clothes,\nthen grab everything I owned and throw\nit all in the shower, leaving me\nstanding there in my underwear. While I\ntried to retrieve my soaked clothes, he\nwould loudly describe to the entire\nlocker room how skinny and malnourished\nI looked from eating dollar store food.\nThe harassment reached new levels the\nday he found my phone with its cracked\nscreen in early November. He picked it\nup and called it ancient junk, then\nexplained that his dad had told him poor\npeople always have broken phones because\nthey can't take care of anything. He\nthrew it on the ground and stomped on it\nrepeatedly until the screen went\ncompletely black and the phone wouldn't\nturn on anymore. When I wore the same\njacket three days in a row because my\nother one was still drying from being\nthrown in the shower, he started a rumor\nthat I only owned one set of clothes. He\nwould make gagging sounds whenever I\nwalked past in the hallways and hold his\nnose while telling everyone I hadn't\nchanged my underwear in a week. Career\nday arrived in mid- November, and Bruce\nhad spent the entire week telling\neveryone how his dad was going to\npresent about being successful in\nbusiness. The morning of the\npresentations, he cornered me in the\nbathroom and pushed my head toward the\ntoilet while his friends held the door\nshut. He kept my face inches from the\nwater and told me I better get used to\ncleaning toilets for rich people like\nhim. His dad went first during the\npresentations, strutting around the\nclassroom talking about sales figures\nand leadership while mentioning three\ntimes that he worked for the most\nsuccessful company in the state. Then\nthe classroom door opened and my mom\nwalked in. Bruce's dad stopped\nmid-sentence when he saw her, and his\nconfident expression transformed into\npure terror within seconds. His hands\nshook so badly that he dropped all his\npresentation notes while sweat soaked\nthrough his cheap shirt. My mom calmly\ntold Johnson to finish up and said they\nwould discuss his quarterly review\nafterward. Bruce's smirk disappeared\ninstantly as his face turned white as\npaper, and when someone whispered who\nshe was, he stared at me with his mouth\nhanging open in horror. His whole body\nstarted trembling as he finally\nunderstood that he had spent months\ntormenting his dad's boss's kid. After\nclass ended, Bruce tried to stammer out\nan apology, but couldn't even form\ncomplete words. His dad had to formally\napologize to my mom while Bruce stood\nthere looking like he might throw up at\nany moment. Within a week, Bruce had\ntransferred to a private school across\ntown, and his dad got demoted to a\ndifferent branch in another", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 369091, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "l1PsHtsvC20", "prompt": "Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you wish Twilight had never\nbeen written? For as long as I could\nremember, my friend Tina had been\ninsecure about being pale. The boys at\nschool constantly teased her, saying she\nlooked sickly and called her Casper. She\nwore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather\nto avoid getting bullied. I felt\nterrible watching her suffer. But the\nweek she discovered Twilight, everything\nchanged. She walked into class with bare\narms for the first time in years,\nquoting from the book, "My skin's like\nmarble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was\nshocked except me. I was just happy\nshe'd found something that made her feel\npowerful instead of pathetic. At first,\nTina's vampire things seemed like\ntypical teenage fandom. She'd come over\nwith the books, reading her favorite\npassages out loud and giggling. Edward\nCullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter\nwith sunscreen so both of our skins\nwould look like thousands of tiny\ndiamonds embedded, just like in the\nseries. Our parents thought it was\nsweet. When Tina started wearing those\namber contacts to school, even the\ncounselor was supportive, saying\nwhatever helps her confidence. The boys\nwho used to call her Casper now moved\nout of her way in the halls, looking\ncompletely intimidated by her\nconfidence. Her parents bought her the\nwhole book collection for Christmas and\nthe Blu-ray disc of the first movie for\nher birthday. We were all thrilled at\nhow much she thrived. Things got out of\nhand after spring break. Tina pulled me\naside and opened her mouth. Her canines\nhad been filed into points like actual\nfangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over\nthem proudly. Cool, huh? They're\npermanent. I'll show you something else\nafter school. At her house, Tina dragged\nme to the kitchen and drained blood from\nraw meat into a glass. She drank it down\nwhile I watched in horror. Want some?\nShe asked, holding the glass for my\nface. I threw up in the sink while she\nlaughed. Yeah, I was like that too at\nfirst, but it's actually not that bad.\nBefore she could pressure me again, her\nmom marched in fuming red and waving a\ncredit card statement. "$3,000. Are you\nserious, Tina? That card was for\nemergencies only." Tina shrugged and\nlied calmly. "It's just teeth\nwhitening." Her mom grabbed her face,\nforcing her mouth open. She saw the\nfangs and froze. Tina pulled back,\nglaring. "Do you want me to be bullied\nagain?" After a long silence, Tina\nhugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I\njust wanted to be beautiful like the\nvampires in Twilight." Once her mom\nwalked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's\nwrist and said sternly, "You're going\ntoo far. This isn't right." She frowned\nand told me to leave, completely\nunwilling to hear me out. After\neverything that happened, I avoided Tina\nat school. But on Friday, she walked\nover after class, begging to be friends\nagain. "Please, like old times, I've\nbeen avoiding her for weeks, so I\ncaved." Later that day, while we were\nwatching a clips in my room, she\nsuddenly stood up during her favorite\nscene and said, "Don't pause it. I just\nneed the bathroom." But instead of\nmaking a left, she turned down the hall\ntoward my 8-year-old brother's room. I\ngot up and followed, pushing the door\nopen to see what was going on. The\ndinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the\nworst thing I've ever seen. Tina had\nJustin pinned to his race car bed, her\nmouth clamped on his neck, not playing.\nFeeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound\nfilled the room. I stood there\nparalyzed, watching while the blood ran\nfrom under her lips, soaking his Pokemon\npajamas, pooling on his face themed\nsheets. Justin's eyes were huge with\nterror, tears streaming as his small\nhands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She\nwhispered between swallows. The burn\nmeans it's working. You're so lucky. I\nscreamed for help and stumbled in to\nswitch on the lights. Tina's head jerked\nup. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts\nreflected like a predator's eyes. Don't\ninterrupt, she hissed. I can taste his\ninnocence. It's exactly like the book\nsaid. Sweet and addicting. Justin made\nthis horrible choking sound. I grabbed\nher hair, yanking hard, but she was\nimpossibly strong. He just needs to die\nfirst, then he'll wake up perfect. My\nparents crashed through the door,\nyelling curse words when they saw the\nsight. Dad ripped her off while she\nfought like something possessed. You're\nruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood\nspraying from her mouth. Mom pressed\ntowels to Justin's neck while sobbing\nhysterically. The white cloth turned red\ninstantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina\ntried to lunge past D. Let me finish.\nHe's already half turned. Can't you\nsmell how his blood's changing? Dad\npinned her down while she thrashed. His\nthoughts are in my head now, she moaned,\nlicking the blood from her lips. He's\nscared, but he understands. He wants to\nlive forever as my Edward. Dad held her\ndown until the EMTs arrived. When they\ngot careless, she bit one of them too,\nscreaming about spreading the gift. They\nhad to sedate her twice before taking\nher away. They took Tina to the state\npsychiatric hospital. Justin needed\nstitches and one liter of transfusions.\nHe eventually stabilized but left the\nhospital traumatized. Two years have\npassed since then, but he still sleeps\nwith every light on. The puncture scars\non his neck look exactly like fang marks\nhaunting our family. I visited Tina once\na year later. She smiled with those\npointy teeth and whispered, "Has my\nEdward? Has he taken his first victim?"\nWhen I said he wasn't a vampire, she\nlaughed. The change takes years for\nchildren. Tell him wait.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 2644943, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "l1PsHtsvC20", "prompt": "Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you wish Twilight had never\nbeen written? For as long as I could\nremember, my friend Tina had been\ninsecure about being pale. The boys at\nschool constantly teased her, saying she\nlooked sickly and called her Casper. She\nwore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather\nto avoid getting bullied. I felt\nterrible watching her suffer. But the\nweek she discovered Twilight, everything\nchanged. She walked into class with bare\narms for the first time in years,\nquoting from the book, "My skin's like\nmarble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was\nshocked except me. I was just happy\nshe'd found something that made her feel\npowerful instead of pathetic. At first,\nTina's vampire things seemed like\ntypical teenage fandom. She'd come over\nwith the books, reading her favorite\npassages out loud and giggling. Edward\nCullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter\nwith sunscreen so both of our skins\nwould look like thousands of tiny\ndiamonds embedded, just like in the\nseries. Our parents thought it was\nsweet. When Tina started wearing those\namber contacts to school, even the\ncounselor was supportive, saying\nwhatever helps her confidence. The boys\nwho used to call her Casper now moved\nout of her way in the halls, looking\ncompletely intimidated by her\nconfidence. Her parents bought her the\nwhole book collection for Christmas and\nthe Blu-ray disc of the first movie for\nher birthday. We were all thrilled at\nhow much she thrived. Things got out of\nhand after spring break. Tina pulled me\naside and opened her mouth. Her canines\nhad been filed into points like actual\nfangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over\nthem proudly. Cool, huh? They're\npermanent. I'll show you something else\nafter school. At her house, Tina dragged\nme to the kitchen and drained blood from\nraw meat into a glass. She drank it down\nwhile I watched in horror. Want some?\nShe asked, holding the glass for my\nface. I threw up in the sink while she\nlaughed. Yeah, I was like that too at\nfirst, but it's actually not that bad.\nBefore she could pressure me again, her\nmom marched in fuming red and waving a\ncredit card statement. "$3,000. Are you\nserious, Tina? That card was for\nemergencies only." Tina shrugged and\nlied calmly. "It's just teeth\nwhitening." Her mom grabbed her face,\nforcing her mouth open. She saw the\nfangs and froze. Tina pulled back,\nglaring. "Do you want me to be bullied\nagain?" After a long silence, Tina\nhugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I\njust wanted to be beautiful like the\nvampires in Twilight." Once her mom\nwalked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's\nwrist and said sternly, "You're going\ntoo far. This isn't right." She frowned\nand told me to leave, completely\nunwilling to hear me out. After\neverything that happened, I avoided Tina\nat school. But on Friday, she walked\nover after class, begging to be friends\nagain. "Please, like old times, I've\nbeen avoiding her for weeks, so I\ncaved." Later that day, while we were\nwatching a clips in my room, she\nsuddenly stood up during her favorite\nscene and said, "Don't pause it. I just\nneed the bathroom." But instead of\nmaking a left, she turned down the hall\ntoward my 8-year-old brother's room. I\ngot up and followed, pushing the door\nopen to see what was going on. The\ndinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the\nworst thing I've ever seen. Tina had\nJustin pinned to his race car bed, her\nmouth clamped on his neck, not playing.\nFeeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound\nfilled the room. I stood there\nparalyzed, watching while the blood ran\nfrom under her lips, soaking his Pokemon\npajamas, pooling on his face themed\nsheets. Justin's eyes were huge with\nterror, tears streaming as his small\nhands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She\nwhispered between swallows. The burn\nmeans it's working. You're so lucky. I\nscreamed for help and stumbled in to\nswitch on the lights. Tina's head jerked\nup. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts\nreflected like a predator's eyes. Don't\ninterrupt, she hissed. I can taste his\ninnocence. It's exactly like the book\nsaid. Sweet and addicting. Justin made\nthis horrible choking sound. I grabbed\nher hair, yanking hard, but she was\nimpossibly strong. He just needs to die\nfirst, then he'll wake up perfect. My\nparents crashed through the door,\nyelling curse words when they saw the\nsight. Dad ripped her off while she\nfought like something possessed. You're\nruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood\nspraying from her mouth. Mom pressed\ntowels to Justin's neck while sobbing\nhysterically. The white cloth turned red\ninstantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina\ntried to lunge past D. Let me finish.\nHe's already half turned. Can't you\nsmell how his blood's changing? Dad\npinned her down while she thrashed. His\nthoughts are in my head now, she moaned,\nlicking the blood from her lips. He's\nscared, but he understands. He wants to\nlive forever as my Edward. Dad held her\ndown until the EMTs arrived. When they\ngot careless, she bit one of them too,\nscreaming about spreading the gift. They\nhad to sedate her twice before taking\nher away. They took Tina to the state\npsychiatric hospital. Justin needed\nstitches and one liter of transfusions.\nHe eventually stabilized but left the\nhospital traumatized. Two years have\npassed since then, but he still sleeps\nwith every light on. The puncture scars\non his neck look exactly like fang marks\nhaunting our family. I visited Tina once\na year later. She smiled with those\npointy teeth and whispered, "Has my\nEdward? Has he taken his first victim?"\nWhen I said he wasn't a vampire, she\nlaughed. The change takes years for\nchildren. Tell him wait.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 2644943, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "VooHVVhD6ZQ", "prompt": "Idea: What would you do if your husband forced you to train your own replacement?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What would you do if your husband forced\nyou to train your own replacement? My\nhusband demanded that I teach his\n19-year-old mistress how to cook his\nfavorite meals and clean our house\nproperly because good wives prepare for\nwhen they get too old to be desirable.\nHe found me years before waiting tables\nat 22 when he was 41 with three divorces\nbehind him. His trust fund was large\nenough to make him believe women were\njust household appliances you upgraded\nevery decade. He pursued me with jewelry\nand promises while telling stories about\nhis ex-wives who weren't as emotionally\nmature as I was. But what he really\nmeant was they failed to understand that\nto him marriage meant complete\nsurrender. I can't pretend I didn't see\nthe red flags, but I was on my own\ntrying to make ends meet while I cared\nfor my disabled mother. Neil was\ncharming, rich, and promised me the\nworld, and I was desperate. But being\nmarried to Neil was hell. He controlled\nmy every move and constantly reminded me\nthat I was replaceable. The day after my\n30th birthday, Neil brought home Cassidy\nfrom the coffee shop near his office. He\nannounced she would be living in our\nguest room while I taught her how to be\na proper wife. You're going to train her\nin everything from my breakfast\npreferences to the way I like my\nshoulders massage after golf. Good wives\nprepare their replacements before they\nbecome too old to perform their duties\nproperly. He handed me a three- ring\nbinder containing detailed lesson plans\nwhile casually mentioning that he'd stop\npaying for my mother's care if I failed\nto complete Cassid's training. Every\nmorning, I woke Cassidy at 5 while Neil\nwatched from his leather chair with a\nclipboard. He scored our performances by\ntracking how quickly we smiled and\nwhether we maintained the proper pitch\nof submission in our voices. I taught\nher that his eggs needed exactly 4\nminutes and 15 seconds. She had to\npractice pouring his coffee from exactly\n18 in above the cup because he believed\nit improved the aeration. During the\nsecond week when I accidentally broke a\nyolk while cooking, Neil made me eat the\nraw eggs while explaining to Cassidy\nthat wasteful wives were worse than\nincompetent ones. She watched me choke\ndown three raw eggs while tears ran down\nmy face. And I think that's when she\nfinally understood this wasn't a normal\nhousekeeping apprenticeship. After 3\nmonths training, I woke up one morning\nand just couldn't do it anymore. I\nrefused to get out of bed for the\ntraining session. Neil dragged me\ndownstairs by my hair while Cassidy\nscreamed at him to stop. I was tired of\ntraining my own replacement like a dog\nteaching a puppy tricks before being put\ndown. I told him I was done with his\nsick game and if he wanted Cassidy\ntrained so badly, he could do it\nhimself. The silence that followed was\nworse than screaming would have been.\nNeil responded by cutting off my access\nto everything. Credit cards canceled,\ncell phone disconnected, car keys taken\nfrom my purse while I slept. He had my\nmother moved to a cheaper facility an\nhour away and told me she'd be moved\nagain every time I disobeyed somewhere\nfarther and with worse care. He made me\nstand in the corner of the kitchen for\nhours reciting everything that was wrong\nwith me while Cassidy begged him to let\nme rest. When I finally collapsed, he\ninformed us both that tomorrow's lesson\nwould cover the proper way for a wife to\napologize for her defiance. You're going\nto demonstrate complete submission in\nfront of Cassidy or your mother will\nfind out exactly what kind of worthless\ndaughter she raised. But Cassidy had\nbeen learning more than just Neil's\nbreakfast preferences. It turned out\nshe'd documented all our training with\nher phone hidden in her pocket. That\nnight, while Neil slept off his bourbon,\nshe called her older sister who worked\nat a women's shelter and played her\nthree months of recordings. Her sister\narrived at dawn with two counselors and\na lawyer who specialized in domestic\ncaptivity cases. They had paperwork\nshowing Neil had been sued by two\nprevious wives for similar treatment and\nthat the contracts I'd signed were\ninvalid under duress. His lawyer advised\nhim to settle quietly unless he wanted\nthose recordings laid in open court\nwhere his business partners could hear\nthem. The settlement included continued\ncare for my mother and enough money for\nboth me and Cassidy to start over.\nThough Neil made sure to drag it out for\nmonths while his lawyer tried to break\nme. I run a flower shop now in a town\nthree states away where I can pretend to\nbe normal. The freedom to leave my house\nwhenever I want still feels strange\nafter 2 years. I test every egg yolk\nwith a spoon even though nobody's\nwatching. Last month, Cassidy found me\nthrough social media to tell me she was\nengaged. She described her wonderful man\nwho insisted she quit her graduate\nprogram because academics were making\nher too argumentative. She sent photos\nof her new kitchen where she practices\ncooking his favorite meals. He times her\nwith the same kind of clipboard Neil\nused to carry. I listened to her explain\nhow much he loved her while my heart\nbroke for both of us. We'd escaped Neil,\nbut we'd never really escaped what he\ntaught us about our worth.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 15113, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "JyYzMfTEeTo", "prompt": "Idea: How did your community try to destroy you?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "How did your community try to destroy\nyou? In my religious community, women\nwere expected to give birth in the\ncenter of the congregation, while every\nmember watched and voted on whether you\nwere worthy to keep your child. Pastor\nElijah controlled our isolated compound\nand genuinely believed watching women\nsuffer was his divine calling. This\ncreep had convinced 300 families that\nwitnessing every birth was their sacred\nduty. And he'd spent years perfecting\nhis twisted voting system. He'd\ninstalled stadium seating around the\nbirthing platform so everyone could get\na clear view. And he handed out\nscorecards before each birth like we\nwere judging a competition. My own\nmother had given birth to my younger\nsister on that platform when I was 12,\nand I still remember her sobbing with\nrelief that the congregation voted in\nher favor. When I got pregnant at 19,\nElijah announced that my birth would be\nscheduled and everyone should prepare\nfor another spiritual evaluation. He\nexplained that the congregation would\nwatch my labor and vote on whether I had\nresisted demonic influence. Elijah said\nmothers who screamed too much were\nletting Satan speak through them and\nthose women would have their babies\ntaken away. He told everyone that my\npain would reveal my soul's condition\nand their votes would determine whether\nI deserve to be a mother. Three families\nhad already volunteered to adopt my\nchild if I failed the test. Living\npregnant in the community felt like\nbeing a condemned prisoner waiting for\nexecution. Elijah made me attend\npreparation classes where he showed\nvideos of previous births and critiqued\nperformances. Other pregnant women and I\nwould sit in horrified silence as he\npaused footage to point out when mothers\nshowed insufficient faith. The worst\nthing I've ever seen was when my friend\nJessica gave birth a month before me.\nThe community voted that she wasn't\nworthy because she'd worn indecent\nclothing while she was pregnant. She\nscreamed and sobbed for her baby to come\nback to her as Pastor Elijah handed her\nnewborn daughter to the adoptive family.\nJessica had fought so hard they'd had to\nhold her down and she kept reaching for\nher baby while crying. She's mine. She's\nmine. Please don't take her from me.\nElijah told her that her desperation\nproved Satan had won her soul and\nJessica was dragged out while her\ndaughter was carried away by strangers.\nShe disappeared the next day and\neveryone said she'd taken her own life\nin shame. I couldn't get that image of\nher empty arms out of my head, and every\nnight I'd lie awake terrified that I'd\nbe next. Every time I felt my baby move\ninside me, I wanted to scream. I loved\nher so much, and I'd never even met her.\nAnd I didn't know if I'd even be allowed\nto. I decided I was holding on to my\nbaby, no matter the cost. When I went\ninto labor, I locked myself in my\nbedroom because I believed I could give\nbirth alone and escape before anyone\ndiscovered us. For 6 hours, I labored in\nsecret, biting pillows to stay quiet\nwhile praying no one would find me. I\nimagined running away with my baby and\nstarting a new life somewhere this evil\ncommunity couldn't touch us. But Pastor\nElijah had been monitoring all pregnant\nwomen. And when he realized I was\nmissing, he broke down my door with half\nthe congregation behind him. You think\nyou can steal God's show from his\npeople? He screamed at me while I was\nstill contracting. Pastor Elijah was\nabsolutely enraged that I had tried to\navoid the holy trial and declared my\nresistance proved I was corrupted by\ndemonic forces. The congregation carried\nme to the chapel while I was still in\nactive labor. And Elijah told everyone\nmy defiance meant they should vote with\nextra scrutiny. Several families who had\nbeen neutral now seemed convinced I was\nspiritually compromised and I could see\nthem preparing to vote against me with\ntheir red cards ready. Elijah stood over\nme during the final stages of labor and\nstarted the official voting process\nbefore my daughter was even born. Even\nthrough the pain, I looked him dead in\nthe eye and said, "You're about to find\nout what a real mother looks like when\nshe's protecting her child." That's when\nhe lost it completely and started\nscreaming, "She's possessed. Vote her\nout. The demons are speaking through her\nmouth." Just then, the chapel doors\nburst open and Jessica walked in with\nsix police officers, demanding to know\nwhere her baby was. While all of us\nthought she was dead, she'd instead\nescaped the compound months earlier and\nspent weeks convincing authorities that\nElijah was running a cult that stole\nchildren. "Remember me?" she shouted at\nthe congregation. "I'm the woman whose\nbaby you voted to steal, and now I'm\nhere to return the favor." The police\nimmediately shut down the birth ritual\nand arrested Elijah, while child\nprotective services removed every child\nfrom families who had won them through\nvoting. Jessica was reunited with her\nbaby, and I got to keep mine. But I lost\nmy parents and siblings who blamed me\nfor bringing outside attention along\nwith the only home I'd ever known. I'm\ncompletely now alone with my daughter,\nworking two jobs while dealing with\nsevere trauma from giving birth in front\nof hundreds of strangers. But at least I\nknow my baby is mine.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 407619, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "l1PsHtsvC20", "prompt": "Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you wish Twilight had never\nbeen written? For as long as I could\nremember, my friend Tina had been\ninsecure about being pale. The boys at\nschool constantly teased her, saying she\nlooked sickly and called her Casper. She\nwore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather\nto avoid getting bullied. I felt\nterrible watching her suffer. But the\nweek she discovered Twilight, everything\nchanged. She walked into class with bare\narms for the first time in years,\nquoting from the book, "My skin's like\nmarble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was\nshocked except me. I was just happy\nshe'd found something that made her feel\npowerful instead of pathetic. At first,\nTina's vampire things seemed like\ntypical teenage fandom. She'd come over\nwith the books, reading her favorite\npassages out loud and giggling. Edward\nCullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter\nwith sunscreen so both of our skins\nwould look like thousands of tiny\ndiamonds embedded, just like in the\nseries. Our parents thought it was\nsweet. When Tina started wearing those\namber contacts to school, even the\ncounselor was supportive, saying\nwhatever helps her confidence. The boys\nwho used to call her Casper now moved\nout of her way in the halls, looking\ncompletely intimidated by her\nconfidence. Her parents bought her the\nwhole book collection for Christmas and\nthe Blu-ray disc of the first movie for\nher birthday. We were all thrilled at\nhow much she thrived. Things got out of\nhand after spring break. Tina pulled me\naside and opened her mouth. Her canines\nhad been filed into points like actual\nfangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over\nthem proudly. Cool, huh? They're\npermanent. I'll show you something else\nafter school. At her house, Tina dragged\nme to the kitchen and drained blood from\nraw meat into a glass. She drank it down\nwhile I watched in horror. Want some?\nShe asked, holding the glass for my\nface. I threw up in the sink while she\nlaughed. Yeah, I was like that too at\nfirst, but it's actually not that bad.\nBefore she could pressure me again, her\nmom marched in fuming red and waving a\ncredit card statement. "$3,000. Are you\nserious, Tina? That card was for\nemergencies only." Tina shrugged and\nlied calmly. "It's just teeth\nwhitening." Her mom grabbed her face,\nforcing her mouth open. She saw the\nfangs and froze. Tina pulled back,\nglaring. "Do you want me to be bullied\nagain?" After a long silence, Tina\nhugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I\njust wanted to be beautiful like the\nvampires in Twilight." Once her mom\nwalked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's\nwrist and said sternly, "You're going\ntoo far. This isn't right." She frowned\nand told me to leave, completely\nunwilling to hear me out. After\neverything that happened, I avoided Tina\nat school. But on Friday, she walked\nover after class, begging to be friends\nagain. "Please, like old times, I've\nbeen avoiding her for weeks, so I\ncaved." Later that day, while we were\nwatching a clips in my room, she\nsuddenly stood up during her favorite\nscene and said, "Don't pause it. I just\nneed the bathroom." But instead of\nmaking a left, she turned down the hall\ntoward my 8-year-old brother's room. I\ngot up and followed, pushing the door\nopen to see what was going on. The\ndinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the\nworst thing I've ever seen. Tina had\nJustin pinned to his race car bed, her\nmouth clamped on his neck, not playing.\nFeeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound\nfilled the room. I stood there\nparalyzed, watching while the blood ran\nfrom under her lips, soaking his Pokemon\npajamas, pooling on his face themed\nsheets. Justin's eyes were huge with\nterror, tears streaming as his small\nhands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She\nwhispered between swallows. The burn\nmeans it's working. You're so lucky. I\nscreamed for help and stumbled in to\nswitch on the lights. Tina's head jerked\nup. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts\nreflected like a predator's eyes. Don't\ninterrupt, she hissed. I can taste his\ninnocence. It's exactly like the book\nsaid. Sweet and addicting. Justin made\nthis horrible choking sound. I grabbed\nher hair, yanking hard, but she was\nimpossibly strong. He just needs to die\nfirst, then he'll wake up perfect. My\nparents crashed through the door,\nyelling curse words when they saw the\nsight. Dad ripped her off while she\nfought like something possessed. You're\nruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood\nspraying from her mouth. Mom pressed\ntowels to Justin's neck while sobbing\nhysterically. The white cloth turned red\ninstantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina\ntried to lunge past D. Let me finish.\nHe's already half turned. Can't you\nsmell how his blood's changing? Dad\npinned her down while she thrashed. His\nthoughts are in my head now, she moaned,\nlicking the blood from her lips. He's\nscared, but he understands. He wants to\nlive forever as my Edward. Dad held her\ndown until the EMTs arrived. When they\ngot careless, she bit one of them too,\nscreaming about spreading the gift. They\nhad to sedate her twice before taking\nher away. They took Tina to the state\npsychiatric hospital. Justin needed\nstitches and one liter of transfusions.\nHe eventually stabilized but left the\nhospital traumatized. Two years have\npassed since then, but he still sleeps\nwith every light on. The puncture scars\non his neck look exactly like fang marks\nhaunting our family. I visited Tina once\na year later. She smiled with those\npointy teeth and whispered, "Has my\nEdward? Has he taken his first victim?"\nWhen I said he wasn't a vampire, she\nlaughed. The change takes years for\nchildren. Tell him wait.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 2644943, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "8qVHBsmI4gA", "prompt": "Idea: My aunt turned every family funeral into her personal show, so I gave her the spotlight she craved.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My aunt turned every family funeral into\nher personal show, so I gave her the\nspotlight she craved. My aunt Caroline\nhas been a professional grief vampire\nsince the day she realized tears got\nattention. She would turn every family\ntragedy into her personal stage\nperformance, knowing she could milk\nsympathy from anyone watching, and she\nwould abuse that power. It started at\ngrandpa's funeral 10 years ago. Caroline\nshowed up in a Victorian morning dress\nand fainted dramatically during the\neulogy. Paramedics had to carry her out\nwhile she wailed about losing the only\nfather figure who understood her. The\nwhole service stopped for 20 minutes.\nWhen cousin Lisa miscarried, Caroline\nposted about her own sympathetic\npregnancy pains on Facebook before Lisa\ncould even tell her parents. She started\na prayer chain for her own emotional\ntrauma and asked for meal donations to\nhelp her cope, but nothing compared to\nwhat she did when my father died. Dad\nhad a sudden heart attack at 58. Within\n2 hours of getting the call, Caroline\nhad posted glamour shots of herself\ncrying on Instagram with captions about\nbeing shattered beyond repair. She\ncreated a Facebook group to support her\nthrough the loss before our family could\neven make funeral arrangements. She\nhired a professional photographer to\ndocument her grief journey, and I later\nlearned she'd also booked a videographer\nfor the funeral itself. She started\noutlining her book about dad's death and\nher journey as a grieving sister. The\nviewing was when everything changed.\nCaroline arrived in a full Victorian\nmorning outfit, complete with a black\nveil and lace gloves. She set up her own\nreceiving line separate from her family\nso people could come for her\nspecifically. When my mother walked in\nto see her dead husband, Caroline\nscreamed and threw herself across dad's\ncasket. She knocked over three flower\narrangements and sent photo crashing to\nthe floor. My mother collapsed, sobbing\nas she tried to gather the scattered\npictures. I helped her pick them up and\nfound one of dad holding me as a\nnewborn. In the background, Caroline\nglared at us with pure jealousy. That's\nwhen I heard her tell her photographer\nto make sure he was getting all of this.\nThe raw emotion will be perfect for my\ngrief vlog. I'm thinking 12 chapters for\nthe book. That was it. Something cold\nand calculating clicked into place\ninside me. She wanted to perform. I'd\nmake sure she gave the performance of a\nlifetime. That night, I studied Caroline\nlike preparing for war. She always\nescalated at the actual funeral because\nthat was her grand finale with the\nbiggest audience. Through Facebook, I\nlearned about the videographer and her\nplan to sing a special tribute. While\ngoing through dad's papers, I found\nsomething perfect. Caroline owed him\n$50,000 from her failed essential oils\nbusiness. She never paid back a scent.\nThen, I remember dad always saved\nimportant voicemails as evidence for\nfamily disputes. I found his old phone\nin his desk drawer and scrolled through\nthem until I found gold. One from six\nmonths ago had dad saying, "Caroline,\nI'm disappointed you tried to use my\ncancer scare for attention on social\nmedia and you still owe me $50,000." I\ncalled my cousin who worked as a theater\ntech and explained what I needed. He had\nwatched Caroline ruin multiple family\nevents with her dramatics and\nimmediately agreed to help. He said he'd\nhide a receiver in the podium during\nsetup the next morning and all I'd need\nwas a remote in my pocket. The funeral\narrived and Caroline outd. She wore an\neven more elaborate morning dress with\npearls and opera gloves. She pushed past\nimmediate family to claim the front row\nand had her videographer set up in the\naisle. During the pastor's opening\nprayer, she fainted right on schedule.\nWhen it came time for eulogies, I stood\nup and announced that aunt Caroline had\nprepared something special to share\nabout her unique bond with my father. I\nhanded her the microphone and she\npractically glowed as she took center\nstage. Caroline launched into her\nrehearsed speech about their unbreakable\nsibling connection and how dad's death\nhad torn her soul in half. She was\nbuilding to her crescendo when I pressed\nthe remote. Her own words from the\nviewing echoed through the sanctuary,\nthe part about the grief vlog and her 12\nchapter book. The congregation stirred\nand whispered. Caroline's face went\nwhite, but I wasn't done. Dad's\nvoicemail played next through the church\nspeakers. The church erupted. Caroline\nscreamed that it was fake, that I'd set\nher up, that everyone was jealous of her\ngrief. Her own videographer kept filming\nas she had a real meltdown, cursing at\nthe family and claiming we'd never\nunderstood her bond with dad. She\nstormed out shrieking about ungrateful\nrelatives. 6 months later, Caroline\nstill posts daily about being a\nmisunderstood mourner. She claims the\naudio was fabricated and that grief made\nher vulnerable to family manipulation.\nShe's been trying to get grief\ncounseling groups to let her speak about\ntoxic family dynamics during loss. Last\nweek, she crashed our neighbors memorial\nservice, claiming she needed to practice\nprocessing grief in healthy ways. She\nwanted the spotlight. And now she'll\nalways be remembered as the aunt who\ncouldn't let her brother rest in peace.", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 54770, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "1BDZsiVLow4", "prompt": "Idea: Why did your wife get 25 years?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "Why did your wife get 25 years for\nkeeping children safe? When little Emily\nwent missing from our neighborhood\nplayground last spring, my wife Allison\nfell to her knees right there on the\nsidewalk and started sobbing. She kept\nsaying, "Oh god, not Emily. Not that\nsweet baby." Someone took her. I had to\nphysically hold her up while we joined\nthe search party. Thankfully, we found\nEmily sleeping under a tree 36 hours\nlater. Allison pulled me aside in our\nkitchen that night and whispered through\ntears that anyone could have taken her.\nThat we got lucky this time. At first, I\nthought we were handling things normally\nlike everyone else. Allison created a\nFacebook group for the neighborhood\nwatch and started organizing these\nsafety workshops at school. She gave\npassionate stranger danger talks to\nrooms packed with worried parents. Other\nmoms started calling her a hero at\npickup, which honestly made me proud,\nbut it also felt a little intense. I\nspent my weekends helping her install\nRing cameras around our house. I went\ndoor to door passing out flyers for her\nbuddy system. Supporting her felt like\nprotecting our daughter Millie, and\nthat's all that mattered to me. Then one\nnight, I found her hunched over her\nlaptop making this concerning person\nspreadsheet. She had screenshots and\ndetailed notes about every delivery\ndriver and jogger. When I asked if this\nwas really necessary, she looked\nexhausted and said, "We need to know who\ndoesn't belong here." The changes\nstarted slowly when Allison organized\npatrol schedules and recruited\nstay-at-home parents to watch during\nschool hours. It wasn't until our\nlandscaper Carlos became her target that\nI realized something was seriously\nwrong. Carlos had worked in our\nneighborhood for 8 years, and suddenly\nhe was being reported 47 times in one\nweek just for eating lunch in his truck.\nI watched from our kitchen window as he\ncame to our driveway asking Allison why\nshe was destroying his reputation and\nshe immediately called 911 while backing\naway like he was dangerous. She told the\ndispatcher he was threatening her and I\nstood frozen knowing she was lying but\ntoo shocked to move. After Carlos lost\nsix clients including us, Allison turned\non Mr. Kumar who'd been our neighbor for\n15 years and given Millie birthday\npresents since she was born. She posted\nthat he stared too long at the\nplayground during his daily walks. She\ntook it a step further when she followed\na teenage boy home from the playground\nand posted his address online calling\nhim a potential threat. His terrified\nmother showed up at our door screaming\nabout a restraining order while Allison\nhit upstairs. When I finally confronted\nher that night, she looked at me with\ntears in her eyes and asked if I even\ncared about keeping Millie safe.\nEverything exploded when a house on our\nstreet sold to a single father with two\nyoung kids. Allison spent days\nresearching him online and discovered\nhis wife had died of cancer 2 years\nearlier. But by breakfast, she was\ntelling me no man recovers that quickly\nunless he wanted her gone. The next\nmorning, I drove to work thinking she\nseemed calmer until my neighbor texted\nabout a mob for me. My hands shook as I\nraced home, wondering who she was\naccusing now. When I got home, I burst\nthrough 30 parents to find Allison\nholding up a pink hair clip. She claimed\nshe'd found it in the widowerower's\nyard, but I recognized it immediately\nbecause I'd helped Millie put it in\nyesterday. My stomach dropped, realizing\nmy own wife had planted evidence on an\ninnocent man. She was sobbing to the\ncrowd that predators always target\nsingle parent neighborhoods while\nmothers gased and fathers clenched\nfists. This monster had my baby's hair\nclip," she wailed, waving it like proof\nof unspeakable crime. The crowd erupted\nin angry shouts and started moving\ntoward the widowerower's house at the\nend of the street. Allison led them with\nthe hair clip raised like a weapon while\nI ran alongside her begging her to stop.\nThrough his window, I could see him\nclutching his two children who were\nsobbing into his chest. A rock flew\nthrough the glass and shattered it while\npeople cheered. Someone appeared with a\ngas can from their garage and the crowd\nstarted chanting about protecting their\nbabies. "Allison, please." I grabbed her\narm. "Those are innocent children in\nthere. You're going to kill them." She\nshoved me away with wild eyes. So is\nMillie. He had her hair clip. I won't\nlet him hurt another child. Before I\ncould stop her, she grabbed the gas can\nand started dousing the front porch.\nYou're making a mistake. I screamed,\ntrying to tackle her, but two fathers\nheld me back. Let me go. She's lost her\nmind. Allison pulled out matches with\nshaking hands. "I'm saving our\nchildren," she cried. "This is what\nhappens to predators." She threw the lit\nmatch and flames erupted up the siding.\n"I'm protecting every child in America."\nI broke free and ran around back where I\nhelped the terrified father escaped with\nhis kids through the smoke. Police\nsirens wailed as Alison spotted me and\nshrieked, "You're helping him. You're\nchoosing a predator over your own\ndaughter." They arrested her while she\nscreamed that I was a traitor. The\npolice arrested Allison and 11 others\nthat night while she screamed that I was\na traitor. She ended up getting 25 years\nfor arson, inciting violence and\nharassment. The widowerower's family\nalso moved away, and their burned house\nstill stands empty. 6 months later, I\nbrought Millie to visit her mother at\nthe state facility. Allison smiled at us\nthrough the glass like nothing had\nhappened. And when I told her the\nneighborhood was still recovering, she\nleaned forward and whispered, "I'd do it\nagain."", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 47115, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "BbZs3tgrNnU", "prompt": "Idea: What’s the worst name anyone ever called you?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What's the worst name anyone ever called\nyou? The one my parents put on my birth\ncertificate. And when I tried to change\nit, they threatened to destroy my entire\nlife. My adoptive parents, Garrett and\nVivian, had always been obsessed with\nstatus and money, and that was true long\nbefore they got me. Vivian, would\nliterally tell me that they'd shopped\naround for the perfect child, rejecting\nbabies who weren't exotic enough to make\nthem look charitable, an orphan fit for\nAngelina Jolie, she said. They wanted\nsomeone whose story would make them seem\nlike humanitarian heroes while also\ngiving them a conversation piece for\ndinner parties. When they adopted me\nfrom Nepal when I was one, they knew\nthey wanted to give me a name of someone\nrich, successful, and aspirational. So,\nwith that in mind, they named me Donald\nJ. Trump Jr. When I was a kid in the\nearly 2000s, being named Donald Trump\nJr. wasn't that bad. I had to explain\nsometimes that no, I a scrawny brown kid\nwas not actually related to the orange\nyelling guy on the apprentice. But that\nwas most people's only association with\nDonald Trump. Teachers would do double\ntakes when they called attendance and\nkids would ask if I was rich, but mostly\nit was just an awkward conversation\nstarter that I'd gotten used to\nnavigating. My parents would beam with\npride whenever someone recognized the\nname, telling people that they'd chosen\nit because they wanted me to have the\nmindset of a winner. But then he ran for\npresident and everything changed\ncompletely. That was when I really\nbecame aware of what Trump's actual\nviews were and how he felt about people\nwho looked like me. I remember sitting\non my couch horrified listening to one\nof his early speeches while my dad\ncheered along. My parents celebrated the\nday he won with a party bigger than the\nones they'd thrown for any of my\nbirthdays. They acted like they'd\npersonally discovered Trump and kept\nsaying things like, "We knew he was\npresidential material before anyone else\ndid." But what made it truly sickening\nwas how they started using my name as\ntheir personal entertainment. It made me\nintroduce myself as Donald J. Trump Jr.\neverywhere we went with special emphasis\non the junior part, expecting everyone\nto hail them like heroes when really\nmost people just looked at me with\neither pity or disgust. Isn't that just\nthe most patriotic thing you've ever\nheard, Vivian would say to their shocked\nfaces. They made me wear Trump\nmerchandise to school every single day,\nincluding a custom MAGA hat that said,\n"Future president." When teachers would\ncall on Donald in class, other students\nwould burst out laughing or start\nchanting, "Build the wall." And when I\ntold my parents they thought that was\nabsolutely fantastic. They'd make me\ncall local businesses to make\nreservations under Donald Trump Jr. And\nif the person on the other end didn't\nimmediately start acting like they were\ntalking to royalty, they'd snatch the\nphone and start insisting they show\nrespect to the boy, who was basically\nthe son of our leader. The worst part\nwas when classmates would come up to me\nand say things like, "Hey, Trump, when\nare you deporting yourself?" or "Does\nyour dad know you're not white?" My\nparents would coach me to respond with,\n"He's not talking about the good ones\nlike me." But even saying it made me\nwant to throw up. When I turned 16, I\nfinally worked up the courage to ask my\nparents if I could change my name. I've\nbeen planning this conversation for\nmonths, and I decided to suggest taking\nmy dad's name with Junior at the end,\nthinking that it would feel less like a\nslap in the face that way. It's not that\nI wanted to be named after Garrett, but\nit was better than the hell I was in.\nNow, for just a moment, when I said I\nwanted to honor the man who raised me, I\nsaw Garrett's face soften, and I thought\nmaybe, just maybe, they'd understand how\ndifficult this had been for me. I felt\nthis incredible wave of relief, thinking\nthat they might actually care more about\nmy happiness than their weird obsession\nwith status. But that moment of hope was\nshattered instantly. Garrett started\nscreaming about how ungrateful I was,\nhow they'd saved me from a life of\npoverty and disease, how I was spitting\nin the face of the greatest president in\nAmerican history. Thiven started\nshrieking that I was just another\nungrateful immigrant who doesn't deserve\nto be here, and that they should have\nleft me in that shole country to rot.\nThen they dropped a bomb on my life.\nThey told me that my adoption had been\narranged under the table because they\ndidn't want the government stealing any\nmore of their money and that I wasn't\nactually a legal citizen. And that if I\ndidn't stop being so ungrateful, they'd\ncall ICE and have me deported back to\nNepal. Garrett grabbed me by the shirt\nand snarled. That's what the real Donald\nTrump would do to a upy brat like you.\nFinding out I wasn't documented\nterrified me. But it also gave me an\nidea. I secretly reached out to a\nnonprofit organization that helps people\nwho didn't realize they weren't here\nlegally, and they connected me with\nlawyers who helped me navigate the\nprocess of becoming a citizen. It took\nalmost 2 years, but they helped me get\nmy documentation sorted out. The day I\nturned 18, I legally changed my name and\nwent completely no contact with Garrett\nand Vivian. I have a new name now, and\nthe people in my life don't know about\nmy past. that I still startle whenever I\nhear someone say Trump's", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 13467, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "U1HY3WhZFHU", "prompt": "Idea: I refused to get pregnant\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "I refused to get pregnant at age 12, so my grandmother tied me down. My grandmother required every woman in our family to get pregnant before their 13th birthday because she believed early motherhood would strengthen our bloodline and prevent the weakness that comes with maturity. Granny Edna had controlled our family for three generations with her twisted breeding philosophy. She lived in her house and monitored every aspect of our lives, especially the women. Mom had been pregnant at 13, just like Granny, and Granny Edna constantly reminded us that this tradition was what made our family special and strong. She homeschooled all the girls to prevent us from being contaminated by modern ideas about women's roles and believed that formal education was specifically designed to destroy women's natural instincts for motherhood. On my 12th birthday, Granny explained that childhood was officially over and I would now begin my real purpose as a woman. She had already selected three boys and expected me to choose one immediately so we could begin trying for a baby. She said, "Waiting until adulthood is the poison that makes women think they're too good to fulfill their biological destiny." She said that I had exactly 6 months to become pregnant, or she would arrange the situation herself through whatever means necessary. I was horrified and refused to participate in any part of her insane plan, which made Granny Edna absolutely furious. She locked me in my room and began bringing the selected boys to the house for courtship visits, where she would force me to sit with them while she discussed my breeding potential like I was livestock. I would sit there silent and glaring while she explained to these teenage boys that I was right for pregnancy and that whoever got me pregnant first would receive a substantial cash reward from our family. The boys seemed just as uncomfortable as I was, but their parents had clearly pressured them to participate in this sick arrangement. Granny Edna monitored my every movement and started timing my trips to the bathroom to track my menstrual cycle. She removed all books from my room except pregnancy and child birth manuals and began feeding me special foods that she claimed would increase my fertility. When I still refused to cooperate with her breeding program, she threatened to have me physically restrained during my fertile period and put boys on top of me herself. They'll know what to do. I overheard her telling one of the boys that if I wouldn't cooperate voluntarily, she would drug my food and let him do what nature intended while I was unconscious. When I confronted her, she said, "I don't care if you're a child. You're a woman now, and women exist to make babies." I couldn't let Granny Edna destroy my life and potentially help RP me. So, I decided to use her own system against her. I started pretending to be interested in one of the boys, the youngest one named Ignatius, who seemed the most uncomfortable with the whole arrangement. During our next courtship visit, I pulled Ignatius aside and told him that all of this was against my will. I watched his face go white with horror as I explained that she was planning to make him a r pissed whether he wanted to or not. Ignatius was disgusted and agreed to help me escape by pretending to go along with the plan while actually helping me get away. For 2 weeks, we pretended I was warming up to him while he secretly brought me supplies and information about Granny Edna's timeline. I felt hope for the first time in months knowing that I had found an ally who was just as horrified by the situation as I was. But granny overheard Ignatius and I talking and blew up. She locked Ignatius in the basement and told his parents that he was having second thoughts about his biological destiny and needed to be corrected. She dragged my dinner and dragged me to my bedroom where she tied me to my bed. She screamed at me that I had corrupted an innocent boy with modern feminist poison and that she would make sure I got pregnant that night, even if she had to artificially inseminate me herself. She had a cup and a syringe and was prepared to assault both Ignatius and me to force a pregnancy through whatever means necessary. She said, "Your little boyfriend is going to fulfill your destiny whether either of you likes it or not." But Ignatius managed to escape from the basement and came bursting into my room. In the chaos of him trying to stop her, she accidentally pressed her life alert button and emergency services heard everything over the open line. The dispatcher heard her screaming, "I don't care if you're a child. You're a woman now and women exist to make babies." Followed by the sounds of Ignatius and me fighting back and crying for help. Police arrived within minutes to find her still trying to restrain me while shouting, "This is what women are for." The officers were horrified and immediately arrested her. I'm 17 now and no contact with my entire family. I'm relieved to be free, but I don't know if I'll ever be able to have a family of my own because just thinking about pregnancy makes me completely shut", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 1061578, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "YoHVm5DVM7Q", "prompt": "Idea: My business partner put lead in my daughter's drinks for money, so I introduced him to people\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My business partner put lead in my\ndaughter's drinks for money, so I\nintroduced him to people who collect\ndebts in blood. You ever have a business\npartner who starts out like family but\nturns into your worst nightmare? That\nwas Derek. We met at a construction site\n10 years ago. He was the kind of guy who\ncould charm clients with a handshake and\nclose deals over beer. Numbers were his\nthing and building was mine. We started\nour company in his garage, but that\nchanged when the money got real. First,\nit was small things. Expenses that\ndidn't add up. Then I caught him at the\ncasino when he said he was meeting\nclients. It became a pattern. Every loss\nmade him bet bigger. Every confrontation\nmade him lie smoother. Just one bad\nnight, he'd say. Then I'd find another\ncash withdrawal. His ex-wife called\ncrying about missed child support.\nmentioned something about old gambling\ndebts to dangerous people. I covered for\nhim. That's what partners do, right?\nWhen I finally threatened an audit after\nfinding 200,000 missing, Dererick\npanicked. That's when Emma got sick.\nEmma was my 8-year-old daughter. She'd\nvisit the office after school. Dererick\nstarted bringing her special smoothies.\nSaid he made them at home with protein\npowder. Emma loved them. Drank one every\nday for 3 months. Then came the\nheadaches, nose beds. When she collapsed\nat school, the hospital found lead\npoisoning. Chronic exposure. I\nconfronted Dererick about the missing\nmoney. Mentioned Emma's kidney damage.\nHe actually smiled. Shame about Emma.\nKids are resilient, right? I asked about\nthe smoothies. His face went cold. You\nwere going to ruin me with that audit. A\nsick kid means you'd sell cheap. I mixed\nlead paint dust in her drinks. Those\ncups are long gone. Good luck proving\nanything. That was the moment something\nsnapped. The police needed evidence.\nDererick had already destroyed\neverything. Filed to force a company\nsale while I drowned in medical bills. I\nsold everything watching my daughter\nsuffer while Dererick bought a boat. I\nspent three months planning. Sold the\nhouse publicly while keeping cash\nhidden. Let Derrick think grief broke\nme. Agreed to sell my company half for\npennies. Meanwhile, I studied him like a\nblueprint. Found his old bookie Tommy\nthrough contractor connections. Dererick\nowed $80,000 from before we partnered.\nTommy worked for Victor's crew, the kind\nwho collected fingers as late fees. I\nhired a forensic accountant with a house\nmoney. Had him document every stolen\ndollar. Learned Derrick's patterns.\nTuesday poker games where he was getting\ndeeper in debt. New office he worked\nfrom alone. The boat he kept at the\nmarina. His custody hearings every\nmonth. I never contacted Victor\ndirectly. Never made threats. Just made\nsure information traveled through the\nright channels. Phase one started with\nthe IRS. Had my accountant flag just\nenough transactions to trigger an audit.\nNot criminal yet, just pressure. Derrick\nstarted sweating, drinking more,\ngambling more to cope. Phase two was\nTommy. I made sure Dererick's name came\nup at the right poker game. Mentioned to\nanother player how Dererick was bragging\nabout stiffing Victor's crew now that he\nhad money. Word travels fast in those\ncircles. Tommy heard within a week.\nPhase three was beautiful. Victor's guys\nvisited Dererick's office on a Tuesday.\nI watched from the coffee shop as three\nmen entered. First came shouting, then\ncrashing furniture. 20 minutes of\nscreaming. Then Dererick stumbled out,\nclutching broken fingers to his chest,\nblood on his shirt. He saw me through\nthe coffee shop window. Our eyes met. He\nknew. His mouth opened, but no words\ncame. Just this look of recognition, of\nunderstanding. He knew exactly who'd\nsent them. Victor's guys took his boat\ntitle as partial payment. Said they'd be\nback for the rest. Dererick couldn't\nwork with broken hands. Couldn't sign\ncontracts. Couldn't even hold a phone.\nClients left within two weeks. He begged\nfor extensions. Offered his car, his\nwatch. They wanted cash. Phase four was\nthe collapse. The IRS freeze hit right\nas Dererick needed money most. Couldn't\npay employees. They walked out mid-\nproject. Business folded in 3 weeks.\nBank foreclosed on his house when he\nmissed payments. Ex-wife got full\ncustody when he showed up to court with\nbroken fingers and no income. No lawyer\nwould take him without a retainer. He\ntried representing himself. Judge wasn't\nimpressed. Phase five was prison. My\nforensic accountant's full report went\nto the state prosecutor. Financial\nfraud, embezzlement, tax evasion. 15\nyears minimum. Dererick's old gambling\ncrew visited him one last time before\ntrial. Made sure he knew prison wouldn't\nprotect him from old debts. Guards found\nhim crying in his cell. I bought our\ncompany name at auction. Used it to\nstart over. Emma's getting better\nslowly. Still draws blueprints, though\nher hands shake now. Dererick writes\nletters from prison. Says I ruined his\nlife. still thinks he's the victim.\nStill doesn't understand. He poisoned an\n8-year-old for gambling money. Now he's\ngot 20 years to think about that bet.", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 139697, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "xr1RYo7sIgg", "prompt": "Idea: When did the cat lady ACTUALLY turn out crazy?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did the cat lady actually turn out crazy? The morning my wife Mallerie delivered our daughter Samantha. There was only silence. I watched my wife hold our stillborn baby for four hours, humming lullabies to a child who'd never hear them. When the nurses finally convinced her to let go, Mallerie looked at me with empty eyes and said, "She was so cold." The doctor explained that complications meant we'd never have another. For weeks, Mallerie didn't leave Samantha's nursery. Then one morning, I found her cradling newborn kittens she'd found under our porch. "They need a mother," she whispered. And for the first time since the hospital, she smiled. Things started looking up since then. The kittens kept us busy and brought back love into the house. Mallerie would wake every two hours for feedings, humming the same lullabies we practiced for Samantha. You're a natural," I said, admiring how she glowed while caring for the adorable little beasts. Before I knew it, Mallerie was bringing home more cats from the shelter, even taking in ones with missing limbs and imperfections. The vet called her a saint. Soon, word spread. People left kittens on our porch like some kind of shrine. Mallerie never said no. I'd come home to find her surrounded by these tiny creatures, calling herself Mama as she fed them. She used the baby monitor and transformed the yellow nursery into a kitten room. The house was chaotic, but her smile made the mess worth it. I started feeling uncomfortable when Mallerie gave the cats variations of our deceased daughter's name, Sam. Sammy Samantha Marie. She created birth certificates with her last name for every cat. She tried to enroll them in the local daycare, arguing they needed socialization with other children. I felt relieved when the daycare turned her away, but instead of understanding, she stood outside pickup times, shouting like a madman, telling parents they were supporting discrimination. The saddest moment for me was when our friends began avoiding us, admitting she was whispering to that orange cat for 20 minutes at dinner, then meowing when it meowed back. You need to throw those cats out. At first, I thought they were exaggerating until one night, I found scratch marks and bites on her chest where she tried breastfeeding the cats. Mallerie, this is nuts. Our house is a mess, and you're scaring all our friends away. Honey, they're just cats, not kids. She hissed at me, her face wrinkling into a disgusted expression. There are children, and if you want to get rid of them, you'll have to get rid of me first. She marched out of our bedroom and moved all her things into the nursery, sleeping on the floor, surrounded by the children. I laid awake that night wondering when I'd started losing her. My gut twisted the first time Mallerie called our neighbor's 5-year-old daughter Samantha instead of Bailey when she came to pet the cats. While she didn't seem to mind, it worried me. Bailey giggled when Mallerie called her Samantha. But I felt sick. My deepest fears came to life when one afternoon I dozed off on the couch while Bailey played upstairs with Mallerie and the cats. I woke to a sound that made my blood freeze. Not Bailey's usual giggles or even her wines when a cat scratched her, but pure terror. Every parental instinct in my body fired at once. I ran upstairs and pushed open the nursery door. The afternoon sun lit up the room, highlighting a scene straight from my nightmares. I stared in disbelief as Mallerie pinned Bailey on the changing table with her own shirt pulled up. She forced Bailey's head against her chest, trying to make her nurse while cats crawled over both of them. When Mallerie noticed me, she cackled. "Our kids are growing so fast. When I jumped to protect Bailey, Mallerie went feral. She slashed at me with a metal feeding syringe, catching my cheek and drawing blood." I jumped forward and wrestled her onto the bed, trying to keep her from reaching Bailey again. As I held her down, a burning smell filled the room like melted plastic and burnt skin. I turned and saw the hot glue gun on the table, still plugged in and dripping. Then I looked at Bailey and understood where the smell was coming from. Bailey sobbed while picking at the gray and orange fur that had been hot glued to her body. Blood soaked through the fur. When Mallerie caught me staring, she grinned. "She's both my Samantha and my kitten. She's perfect, just needs more fur." I shook Mallerie angrily, tears from my eyes dropping onto her face. She's five. My voice broke while I begged her to come to her senses. Our child is gone and nothing can replace her. You need to stop it, Mallerie, please. Just then, the front door slammed. Bailey, time to come home. Her footsteps pounded up the stairs. She appeared in the doorway and her face went from confusion to absolute horror. I screamed at her to call 911 while I held Mallerie down. She pulled out her phone, calling while removing Bailey from the room. The police arrived quickly and carried Mallerie out in restraints while she screamed, "Don't touch my children. Give me my Samantha." Mallerie got locked away in a remote facility far from home. I paid for Bailey's burn treatment in skin grafts where the fur had been glued and put all the cats up for adoption. I put the house up for sale to move away from everything. Until then, I've spent weekends checking on my wife. Last visit, she asked, "Are you feeding the children?" Oh, you'll never believe who I found here. Samantha. And she's all grown", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 118554, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "X5Yi1xh_Fhk", "prompt": "Idea: I destroyed my family because I refused to wear a bag over my head.\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "I destroyed my family because I refused to wear a bag over my head. My sister made me wear a bag over my head whenever we left the house because she said my face was stealing the attention meant for her. Maria was 5 years older and had been our parents perfect pageant princess until I was born. She'd won dozens of crowns and had a whole room dedicated to her trophies. Mom loved telling how Maria's first words when she saw me were, "Send it back." She meant it. Growing up, Maria would study our faces in the mirror, pointing out how my features were cheap copies of hers that somehow got more attention. She kept notebooks tracking every compliment I received, and every time someone ignored her to talk to me. She'd circle dates when people said I was pretty and write stolen from me in red ink. She told our parents I was deliberately trying to upstage her. They thought it was normal jealousy until Maria started covering mirrors when I was around. She said seeing us together made people compare us and she always lost. On my 13th birthday, Maria gave me a silk bag with eyeholes cut out. "This is for when we go out together," she announced. "You're getting too much attention, and it's not fair when I was here first." Our parents laughed nervously, but Maria pulled out a notebook. She'd tracked every compliment I'd received and matched it to times she felt ignored or overlooked. "See, every time someone notices her, they stop seeing me," she said. The bag is the only solution unless you want me to become invisible. Dad told her to stop being ridiculous, but mom hesitated. Maria had been acting more desperate for attention lately. Maybe covering my face would help her confidence. I was stunned when my parents decided I should give it a try. "That's what a good sister would do," Mom told me. The first time I wore the bag to the grocery store, I thought I'd die of shame. The silk stuck to my face when I breathed, and the eyeholes never lined up right, so I kept bumping into things. People stared and whispered while Maria strutdded beside me, soaking up their attention. "See how much better this is?" she'd say. Now they're looking at me like they should. When of course, actually, everyone was staring at me more than ever because there was a bag on my head. The bag got worse over time. Maria made improvements by adding a drawstring at the neck to make sure I couldn't slip it off. She embroidered property of Maria across the forehead. She made me wear it to family dinners where I'd try to eat through the mouth hole she'd cut, food catching on the fabric. At the mall, she'd hold my arm and introduce me to her friends as my sister who's too ugly for public viewing. The worst part was how normal it became. Mom started keeping spare bags in her purse in case I forgot mine. Eventually, Maria demanded I wear it at my school when she wasn't even there. She'd gotten a note from a boy saying I was pretty and lost her mind. She tried to super glue the bag to my head while I slept, but I woke up and fought her off. When I ripped it away, she grabbed my face, leaving nail marks. You're sucking up all the spotlight like a parasite. She hissed. I'm supposed to be the pretty one. I ran out of the house and called Dad from a neighbor's phone. While I waited for him to come get me, Maria sent dozens of texts saying I was deliberately trying to humiliate her by refusing the bag. She said I was stealing her identity as the pretty sister. She even sent an invoice for how much attention I'd cost her and lost opportunities. When dad arrived, he actually brought a bag with him. "Just keep the piece," he told me. But I was done. That night, I packed everything I could carry and went to my friend's house and refused to come home. For the first time in a year, I felt like I could breathe again with my face out in the open air. Maria spiraled when I left home. She hired a private investigator to photograph me through windows to prove I was living her life. She filed police reports saying I'd stolen her identity as the family beauty. She even contacted my teachers saying I had a medical condition that required me to wear face coverings. The worst was when she started following other pretty girls around town trying to convince them they were stealing her attention too, chasing them down with bags demanding they wear them. Everything ended when Maria attacked another girl at her college who looked like me. She tried to force a bag over the girl's head, screaming that she was stealing Maria's spotlight. Campus security restrained her and found dozens of bags in her dorm room. The girl pressed charges and during the investigation, police found Maria's notebooks documenting her plans to bag every pretty girl she met. She'd been stalking multiple women who she felt were too attractive. Maria was expelled and ordered to get psychiatric treatment. My parents finally had to face what they'd enabled. They sent me apologetic messages, but I wasn't ready to forgive them for making me wear that bag.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 586757, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "kr0mX1hESG0", "prompt": "Idea: How did watching Fast and Furious lead to fifteen years of prison?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "How did watching Fast and Furious lead to 15 years of prison? Christian and I had been working as mechanics at the same shop for three years when his father died last spring. The funeral hit him hard because even while dying, his father had called him a disappointment for choosing mechanics over law school. After that, Christian started staying late every weekend coping by watching Fast and Furious movies in the break room. Look how they treat each other. That's real family. This went on for months until one night, Christian looked at me with tears in his eyes. I want a family like that. I patted his back and agreed, "Let's do it." Christian started organizing Fast and Furious meetups at the shop, bringing together dozens of fans who'd show off their builds. He quit his job to open a custom garage specializing in movie replica cars, and customers commissioned expensive builds, calling him a visionary. I helped him renovate the space, convinced we were building something revolutionary. He got ride or die tattooed across his knuckles and legally changed his name to Dominic. But lots of super fans did extreme things. Other enthusiasts praised his attention to detail when he spent his entire inheritance on authentic parts. His girlfriend joked about him quoting Dom during arguments, but found it endearing. When he insisted everyone call him Dom at the shop, we indulged him. Even when he started testing customer cars without permission, claiming real racers share everything. I'd cover for him with customers, explaining it was part of our family garage philosophy. The first real warning sign was when Christian punched a customer who accidentally called him by his birth name. "It's dumb," he screamed. Customers started avoiding the shop after that. With business declining, Christian shifted focus to organizing illegal street races in residential neighborhoods. When cops shut it down, he just moved the races elsewhere, insisting, "We're honoring the underground culture." I went along with it, helping coordinate locations, my hands shaking as I texted addresses. When money got tight and Christian convinced me to help him steal parts to keep the shop running, we started small, siphoning from suppliers shipments. Each theft made my stomach turn, but I couldn't stop him. Not until he brought a teenage crew to strip cars at a rival shop's lot. I watched these kids loading stolen engines while Christian quoted Dom, "The most important thing in life will always be family, and sometimes family needs to take what's theirs." One boy's hands trembled as he worked, his face covered in engine grease and tears as he asked when he'd get a break. Something in me snapped. "This isn't a movie, Christian. You're actually destroying other shops. I'm not going to be a part of this anymore." Christian's face went cold. He patted the trembling kid's shoulder, quoting, "You never turn your back on family, even when they do. I knew I'd lost him." 4 days after I quit, Christian called me about initiating new family members with real excitement in his voice. "When I arrived at the abandoned lot, I found two scrawny pre-teen brothers sitting in heavily modified Civics with illegal nitrous systems, their hands visibly shook on the steering wheels, heads barely visible through the windshield. "Just like Brian's first race," Christian said proudly, clapping the older kid's shoulder through the window. The boy flinched, but tried to look tough. Christian explained the race route carefully. My eyes widened when I realized it went straight through the elementary school's pickup zone. "You can't race through a school zone. There'll be kids everywhere," he shrugged. "So, the movie had obstacles, too. Anyway, school lets out in 5 minutes. You're either family or you're a cop. Which is it? The younger brother was sobbing, begging, "Please, I can't drive stick." His foot kept slipping off the clutch. He whimpered as Christian started the cars remotely, engines screaming. "Remember, yellow light means speed up!" he shouted over the noise. The kids took off just as parents started flooding the pickup area. The younger one immediately lost control. His tires screamed as he jumped the sidewalk. A mother yanked her young daughter out of the way, but the car caught the girl's backpack and dragged her 20 ft before it sheared off. Her screams mixed with a shriek of rubber. Her pink shoes tumbled off as she clawed at the asphalt, leaving bloody streaks behind her small body. The older brother tried to avoid a minivan and spun out. He slammed into the crossing guard, who had just managed to shove three kids clear. The guard took the full impact. His body rolled off the hood and hit the pavement with a wet thud. My baby. Someone help my baby. The mother wailed, cradling her daughter's torn hands. Christian cheered like he was watching the movie live. When sirens filled the air, his celebration stopped. "We got to go now," he shouted, already running toward his car. "Grab the tanks. I'll fetch the kids. They pass the test. They're family now," he said with a grin like he was celebrating. I called 911 instead, frantically giving them his location. Christian's face went dark. He grabbed a wrench and swung up my head, spit flying from his mouth as he quoted. "You broke my heart. Now I'll break your neck." I dodged the wrench and pinned Christian down until cops arrived. He got 15 years for orchestrating the attack. During the trial, Christian screamed movie quotes about betrayal while those brothers testified with cracking voices about being forced to race. Now Christian just writes me from prison about his new crew inside. Worst of all, last week I saw one of his students teaching neighborhood kids to drift in a school parking lot, worshiping Christian's race and his idea of", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 34054, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "KzXb4sfBaLQ", "prompt": "Idea: The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job. I was flying out for a union arbitration next week and instead of using my TSA pre-check, I wanted to go through regular security to see how agents really treated passengers when they didn't know a union lawyer was watching. Nothing could have prepared me for agent Franco at checkpoint 3, the one whose termination hearing I was supposed to defend tomorrow. The pre-check lane was mysteriously closed that morning. I joined the regular queue where an elderly woman struggled with her bins. After helping her get sorted, I placed my own items on the belt. Franco's expression changed when my medical bag triggered additional screening. He pulled it aside with his theatrical sigh. Everyone in three lanes knew I was going to be a problem. He deliberately made me wait while he cleared three other bags first. He took his sweet time examining a teenager's laptop. He joked with other agents about the game while I stood there. Franco finally got to my bag 20 minutes later. He picked up my CPAP machine like it was contaminated. He held my prescription documentation up to the light with exaggerated suspicion. "Sleep apnea is just fancy talk for snoring," he announced to his trainee. Then he noticed my scuffed shoes and wrinkled shirt from the early flight. "Probably can't even afford a real doctor," he muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. He turned my CPAP over and shook it next to his ear. "These things are just props for insurance fraud," he declared. Franco set down his clipboard and cracked his knuckles with a grin. "He dismantled my CPAP piece by piece. He claimed he needed to check for hidden compartments. He yanked the hose hard enough to strip the connector threads. My chest burned with suppressed rage. He poured the water chamber onto the floor to test for dissolved substances. The water splashed across my shoes while he watched with satisfaction. My hands started trembling as he made me wear the mask. He snapped photos with his checkpoint tablet while other passengers watched. "This is what drug smugglers do now," he announced to the growing crowd. He made me turn in a circle, wearing it like I was modeling. "The destruction turned deliberate when Franco found my medical documentation." He walked to the podium and fed it into their paper shredder. He maintained eye contact the entire time. "Oops, wrong slot," he said with a smile. My jaw clenched hard enough to crack a mer. He tore my prescription into confetti and scattered it in the trash. He ground my doctor's letter into the floor with his boot. The paper smeared under his heel as he twisted it. Other passengers recorded everything on their phones. A younger agent started to object, but Franco's glare silenced him immediately. "You got something to say, rookie?" Franco barked. I tried staying calm and kept my voice level. "Please, I need that equipment to breathe at night. This only made him bolder." He laughed and mimicked my voice in a whiny tone. He started photographing my driver's license with a checkpoint camera. He zoomed in on my address while calling another agent over. "Look at this address. Guy lives in the ghetto but carries expensive medical toys. He typed something into his computer with dramatic keystrokes." "Adding you to our special screening list," he said with m concern. Everything changed when he saw my barcard identifying me as an attorney. Franco's entire demeanor shifted to pure hostility. His face darkened and his jaw muscles twitched. He leaned close enough that I could smell stale coffee. He grabbed my collar and shoved me hard against the wall. Lawyers like you destroy good men's lives. He snarled. My spine hit the concrete with enough force to knock the wind out. Black spots danced in my vision. That's when I heard footsteps running toward us. The checkpoint supervisor rounded the corner and froze mid-stride. He saw me pinned against the wall. Jim. Jim Wheeler. His face drained of color. Franco's grip instantly loosened at his supervisor's voice. Franco glanced back with confusion. Vargas, I got this handled. Just a difficult passenger. Vargas was already pulling up something on his phone. His hands shook as he showed Franco the email thread. He's defending you tomorrow at your termination hearing. I straightened my jacket and looked Franco directly in the eye. Was defending you. Past tense. Franco's desperate begging meant nothing once the security footage sealed his fate. Federal agents reviewed evidence of him assaulting his own union lawyer. His uncle at headquarters couldn't touch federal ADA violations. Without union protection, other agents lined up to testify against him. Franco lost his badge, his pension, and his freedom. The assault charges stuck. Last I heard, he was pulling night shifts at a mall. He made $12 an hour. He googled my name obsessively and lived with one truth. He destroyed his own last chance with his bare hands.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 1057017, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "zeAfajyFWmU", "prompt": "Idea: My husband's manager think I was just arm candy until he realized I was the one fixing his mistakes.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My husband's creepy manager thought I was just arm candy until he realized I was the engineer fixing his mistakes. When my husband asked me to come to the construction site meeting, I figured why not? I had time between client calls, so I grabbed my coffee and drove over. The project was this commercial building downtown that I had designed 2 years ago at my previous firm. My husband was the developer and they were having structural issues that needed sorting out. The head contractor, Leonard, was there to discuss the foundation problems. My husband introduced me as his wife and then got called away for an urgent phone call. The moment my husband left for his phone call, Leonard's entire demeanor changed. He stopped mid-sentence and turned his back to me completely, spreading the blueprints across the table as if I'd suddenly vanished. When I stepped closer to examine the plans, he shifted his body to block my view. These are technical documents, sweetheart. Why don't you wait in the car? My stomach tightened as I politely mentioned I had experience with construction blueprints. Leonard's eyes traveled from my manicured nails to my designer heels, snorting at my fitted blazer. He chuckled while marking up the plans with aggressive red penstrokes, muttering about cocktail parties. When I pointed out a potential issue with the foundation specifications, Leonard spoke slowly, like explaining to a child, using his finger to trace the blueprints in exaggerated motions. I mentioned my engineering degrees, and his face twisted into a smirk. He made air quotes around engineering degree while pulling out his phone, pretending to Google diploma mills. My jaw clenched as he suggested I probably confused Instagram influencing with actual engineering work. Two subcontractors arrived and Leonard's voice boomed across the site. He gestured at my designer handbag, announcing it cost more than a week's salary for his workers. The men exchanged uncomfortable glances as Leonard launched into stories about his ex-wife who pretended to work but really just spent his money on yoga classes. He pointed at my wedding ring and whistled. Must be nice having a husband who lets you play dress up as a professional. My face burned as he kept comparing me to every trophy wife he'd ever met. Leonard puffed out his chest and started pacing like he was giving a TED talk. Diversity hires companies forced to put unqualified people in positions they didn't earn. He grabbed my portfolio and flipped through it dismissively, holding pages up to the light as if checking for forgeries. He tossed it aside carelessly, letting papers scatter across the dirty floor. His voice echoed off concrete walls as he ranted about participation trophies and gender quotas ruining the industry. When I reached for the structural drawings, Leonard snatched them away and tore one slightly, letting the piece down. I tried explaining the loadbearing wall placement, but he grabbed my pencil mid-sentence and snapped it with a sharp crack. He crumpled my calculation sheet and stomped on it before tossing it in the trash. The broken pencil pieces clattered on concrete as he kicked them aside, grinding the eraser into pink dust. My hands started shaking as he began grabbing every paper I touched, either crumpling them or holding them above his head. He even moved my coffee cup across the room, telling workers I might spill it on important documents. Leonard cornered me against the table, coffee breath mixing with stale cigarettes from his work shirt. He looked me up and down deliberately, his tongue running across his bottom lip, his hand moved to my lower back as he leaned over to grab papers, calluses rough through my silk blouse. He pulled out his phone and started typing with one hand while the other stayed planted on my back, fingers tracing small circles. I'm messaging our industry group chat right now. 300 contractors about to learn your name, and not in a good way. My hands trembled as he showed me the screen. Another fake engineer alert with my name. His breath was hot against my ear as he whispered, "I'd be lucky to design a birdhouse after this." The table edge dug into my hip as he pressed closer, trapping me between his body and the furniture. That's when the safety inspector showed up with urgent concerns about the structural integrity. And my husband returned from his phone call. Leonard immediately started panicking and said, "We need to get the engineer who designed this mess down here right now." My husband looked at me and smiled. She's standing right here. Leonard's face went completely white as I calmly pulled out my business card and professional engineer license. Leonard literally started stammering apologies while I walked him through exactly how to fix the structural issues he'd been complaining about. Turned out his concerns were him misreading my blueprints. Within an hour, I had identified the real problems and provided solutions. Word got around the construction community quickly about what happened. Leonard lost two major contracts when clients heard about his behavior.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 145061, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "l1PsHtsvC20", "prompt": "Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you wish Twilight had never\nbeen written? For as long as I could\nremember, my friend Tina had been\ninsecure about being pale. The boys at\nschool constantly teased her, saying she\nlooked sickly and called her Casper. She\nwore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather\nto avoid getting bullied. I felt\nterrible watching her suffer. But the\nweek she discovered Twilight, everything\nchanged. She walked into class with bare\narms for the first time in years,\nquoting from the book, "My skin's like\nmarble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was\nshocked except me. I was just happy\nshe'd found something that made her feel\npowerful instead of pathetic. At first,\nTina's vampire things seemed like\ntypical teenage fandom. She'd come over\nwith the books, reading her favorite\npassages out loud and giggling. Edward\nCullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter\nwith sunscreen so both of our skins\nwould look like thousands of tiny\ndiamonds embedded, just like in the\nseries. Our parents thought it was\nsweet. When Tina started wearing those\namber contacts to school, even the\ncounselor was supportive, saying\nwhatever helps her confidence. The boys\nwho used to call her Casper now moved\nout of her way in the halls, looking\ncompletely intimidated by her\nconfidence. Her parents bought her the\nwhole book collection for Christmas and\nthe Blu-ray disc of the first movie for\nher birthday. We were all thrilled at\nhow much she thrived. Things got out of\nhand after spring break. Tina pulled me\naside and opened her mouth. Her canines\nhad been filed into points like actual\nfangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over\nthem proudly. Cool, huh? They're\npermanent. I'll show you something else\nafter school. At her house, Tina dragged\nme to the kitchen and drained blood from\nraw meat into a glass. She drank it down\nwhile I watched in horror. Want some?\nShe asked, holding the glass for my\nface. I threw up in the sink while she\nlaughed. Yeah, I was like that too at\nfirst, but it's actually not that bad.\nBefore she could pressure me again, her\nmom marched in fuming red and waving a\ncredit card statement. "$3,000. Are you\nserious, Tina? That card was for\nemergencies only." Tina shrugged and\nlied calmly. "It's just teeth\nwhitening." Her mom grabbed her face,\nforcing her mouth open. She saw the\nfangs and froze. Tina pulled back,\nglaring. "Do you want me to be bullied\nagain?" After a long silence, Tina\nhugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I\njust wanted to be beautiful like the\nvampires in Twilight." Once her mom\nwalked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's\nwrist and said sternly, "You're going\ntoo far. This isn't right." She frowned\nand told me to leave, completely\nunwilling to hear me out. After\neverything that happened, I avoided Tina\nat school. But on Friday, she walked\nover after class, begging to be friends\nagain. "Please, like old times, I've\nbeen avoiding her for weeks, so I\ncaved." Later that day, while we were\nwatching a clips in my room, she\nsuddenly stood up during her favorite\nscene and said, "Don't pause it. I just\nneed the bathroom." But instead of\nmaking a left, she turned down the hall\ntoward my 8-year-old brother's room. I\ngot up and followed, pushing the door\nopen to see what was going on. The\ndinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the\nworst thing I've ever seen. Tina had\nJustin pinned to his race car bed, her\nmouth clamped on his neck, not playing.\nFeeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound\nfilled the room. I stood there\nparalyzed, watching while the blood ran\nfrom under her lips, soaking his Pokemon\npajamas, pooling on his face themed\nsheets. Justin's eyes were huge with\nterror, tears streaming as his small\nhands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She\nwhispered between swallows. The burn\nmeans it's working. You're so lucky. I\nscreamed for help and stumbled in to\nswitch on the lights. Tina's head jerked\nup. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts\nreflected like a predator's eyes. Don't\ninterrupt, she hissed. I can taste his\ninnocence. It's exactly like the book\nsaid. Sweet and addicting. Justin made\nthis horrible choking sound. I grabbed\nher hair, yanking hard, but she was\nimpossibly strong. He just needs to die\nfirst, then he'll wake up perfect. My\nparents crashed through the door,\nyelling curse words when they saw the\nsight. Dad ripped her off while she\nfought like something possessed. You're\nruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood\nspraying from her mouth. Mom pressed\ntowels to Justin's neck while sobbing\nhysterically. The white cloth turned red\ninstantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina\ntried to lunge past D. Let me finish.\nHe's already half turned. Can't you\nsmell how his blood's changing? Dad\npinned her down while she thrashed. His\nthoughts are in my head now, she moaned,\nlicking the blood from her lips. He's\nscared, but he understands. He wants to\nlive forever as my Edward. Dad held her\ndown until the EMTs arrived. When they\ngot careless, she bit one of them too,\nscreaming about spreading the gift. They\nhad to sedate her twice before taking\nher away. They took Tina to the state\npsychiatric hospital. Justin needed\nstitches and one liter of transfusions.\nHe eventually stabilized but left the\nhospital traumatized. Two years have\npassed since then, but he still sleeps\nwith every light on. The puncture scars\non his neck look exactly like fang marks\nhaunting our family. I visited Tina once\na year later. She smiled with those\npointy teeth and whispered, "Has my\nEdward? Has he taken his first victim?"\nWhen I said he wasn't a vampire, she\nlaughed. The change takes years for\nchildren. Tell him wait.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 2644943, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "KzXb4sfBaLQ", "prompt": "Idea: The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job. I was flying out for a union arbitration next week and instead of using my TSA pre-check, I wanted to go through regular security to see how agents really treated passengers when they didn't know a union lawyer was watching. Nothing could have prepared me for agent Franco at checkpoint 3, the one whose termination hearing I was supposed to defend tomorrow. The pre-check lane was mysteriously closed that morning. I joined the regular queue where an elderly woman struggled with her bins. After helping her get sorted, I placed my own items on the belt. Franco's expression changed when my medical bag triggered additional screening. He pulled it aside with his theatrical sigh. Everyone in three lanes knew I was going to be a problem. He deliberately made me wait while he cleared three other bags first. He took his sweet time examining a teenager's laptop. He joked with other agents about the game while I stood there. Franco finally got to my bag 20 minutes later. He picked up my CPAP machine like it was contaminated. He held my prescription documentation up to the light with exaggerated suspicion. "Sleep apnea is just fancy talk for snoring," he announced to his trainee. Then he noticed my scuffed shoes and wrinkled shirt from the early flight. "Probably can't even afford a real doctor," he muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. He turned my CPAP over and shook it next to his ear. "These things are just props for insurance fraud," he declared. Franco set down his clipboard and cracked his knuckles with a grin. "He dismantled my CPAP piece by piece. He claimed he needed to check for hidden compartments. He yanked the hose hard enough to strip the connector threads. My chest burned with suppressed rage. He poured the water chamber onto the floor to test for dissolved substances. The water splashed across my shoes while he watched with satisfaction. My hands started trembling as he made me wear the mask. He snapped photos with his checkpoint tablet while other passengers watched. "This is what drug smugglers do now," he announced to the growing crowd. He made me turn in a circle, wearing it like I was modeling. "The destruction turned deliberate when Franco found my medical documentation." He walked to the podium and fed it into their paper shredder. He maintained eye contact the entire time. "Oops, wrong slot," he said with a smile. My jaw clenched hard enough to crack a mer. He tore my prescription into confetti and scattered it in the trash. He ground my doctor's letter into the floor with his boot. The paper smeared under his heel as he twisted it. Other passengers recorded everything on their phones. A younger agent started to object, but Franco's glare silenced him immediately. "You got something to say, rookie?" Franco barked. I tried staying calm and kept my voice level. "Please, I need that equipment to breathe at night. This only made him bolder." He laughed and mimicked my voice in a whiny tone. He started photographing my driver's license with a checkpoint camera. He zoomed in on my address while calling another agent over. "Look at this address. Guy lives in the ghetto but carries expensive medical toys. He typed something into his computer with dramatic keystrokes." "Adding you to our special screening list," he said with m concern. Everything changed when he saw my barcard identifying me as an attorney. Franco's entire demeanor shifted to pure hostility. His face darkened and his jaw muscles twitched. He leaned close enough that I could smell stale coffee. He grabbed my collar and shoved me hard against the wall. Lawyers like you destroy good men's lives. He snarled. My spine hit the concrete with enough force to knock the wind out. Black spots danced in my vision. That's when I heard footsteps running toward us. The checkpoint supervisor rounded the corner and froze mid-stride. He saw me pinned against the wall. Jim. Jim Wheeler. His face drained of color. Franco's grip instantly loosened at his supervisor's voice. Franco glanced back with confusion. Vargas, I got this handled. Just a difficult passenger. Vargas was already pulling up something on his phone. His hands shook as he showed Franco the email thread. He's defending you tomorrow at your termination hearing. I straightened my jacket and looked Franco directly in the eye. Was defending you. Past tense. Franco's desperate begging meant nothing once the security footage sealed his fate. Federal agents reviewed evidence of him assaulting his own union lawyer. His uncle at headquarters couldn't touch federal ADA violations. Without union protection, other agents lined up to testify against him. Franco lost his badge, his pension, and his freedom. The assault charges stuck. Last I heard, he was pulling night shifts at a mall. He made $12 an hour. He googled my name obsessively and lived with one truth. He destroyed his own last chance with his bare hands.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 1057017, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "3PEMDM6drys", "prompt": "Idea: When did you realize evil wears a friendly face?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did you realize evil wears a\nfriendly face? My husband Shane and I\nlost our baby girl at 7 months. And I\nspent weeks barely able to get out of\nbed while he threw himself into work to\ncope. The day after we came home from\nthe hospital, our neighbor Donna showed\nup at our door with a casserole and this\nsoft, understanding look that made me\ncry all over again. She was in her 60s\nand lived alone next door where I'd see\nher tending her garden with this wistful\nexpression. Donna sat with me that first\nday and held my hand while I sobbed\nabout the nursery we painted pink and\nthe tiny clothes still hanging in the\ncloset. She started coming over every\nmorning with fresh food and would stay\nto chat about anything except babies,\nwhich I thought was considerate. Donna\ndrove me to appointments when Shane\ncouldn't leave work and picked up\nprescriptions without being asked. She\nmentioned losing someone years ago and\nunderstanding that raw emptiness that\nmade breathing impossible. Shane was\ngrateful someone was checking on me\nsince my family lived across the country\nand friends disappeared once they\nrealized grief didn't go away quickly.\nWhen I fainted one afternoon, Donna\ninsisted on having a spare key for\nemergencies, and I was too exhausted to\nargue. She'd clean while I rested and\nleave encouraging notes that actually\nhelped. After a month, Donna started\nbringing up babies more often and\nshowing me knitting patterns she was\nworking on. She'd casually asked about\nmy therapy schedule to avoid disturbing\nme and would arrive minutes after I left\nto clean. One day, I came home early and\nfound her in the closed nursery touching\nthe crib rails. When she saw me, she\nsmiled and said she felt such beautiful\nenergy in this room and knew I'd have\nanother baby soon because of her dreams.\nI noticed she watched from her window\nand knew when Shane worked late before I\ntold her. The comments got stranger when\nDonna asked about my cycle and whether\nwe were trying again while pushing\nfertility herbs she'd researched. She\nbrought special tees and got upset when\nI didn't drink them immediately. When I\nasked for my key back, she kept\nforgetting and would mention baby\nclothes she was collecting. She started\nshowing up at my doctor appointments\nclaiming coincidence, but always knew\nwhat the doctor said. When my sister\nvisited, Donna got hostile and told her\nI needed consistent care from someone\nwho understands. I found her going\nthrough our mail and she laughed, saying\nshe was checking for sympathy cards, but\nher hands shook. She told the grocery\nclerk I'd be pregnant soon and winked at\nme like we shared a secret. When I\nfinally told Donna she was making me\nuncomfortable and needed to give me\nspace, she smiled sadly and said I was\npushing away the only person who truly\nunderstood my loss. Shane dismissed my\nconcerns, saying I was being paranoid. 3\nmonths after the miscarriage, I followed\nDonna home after she said, "Our baby's\nnursery is ready." I crept around and\npeeked through her windows. Her spare\nroom was an exact copy of our nursery\ndown to the same elephant mobile. The\nwalls were covered with photos of me\ntaken through our windows. I slipped\ninside through her unlocked door and\nfound pregnancy tests in her trash and a\njournal filled with entries about how\nGod chose her to raise my next baby.\nShe'd written about private adoption\narrangements and putting herbs in my\nfood to help me conceive because the\nbaby needs to come home to its real\nmother. Donna found me reading and\nsmiled while locking the door behind\nher. You understand now, don't you? Your\nbaby was meant for me. God took mine 40\nyears ago so I could be ready for\nyours," she said calmly. She explained\nshe'd been documenting my mental\ninstability and had talked to Shane\nabout her concerns. I tried to back away\nslowly and told her we could talk about\nthis, but she kept moving closer,\ninsisting I didn't understand the gift\nGod was giving us both. When I tried to\nleave, she grabbed my arm hard and said\nI had my miscarriage because it wasn't\nthe right baby yet. I shoved past her\nand ran home to call police who found\nsurveillance equipment and files on\nthree other women who'd lost babies in\nour neighborhood. Donna was arrested but\nreleased to a psychiatric facility.\nAfter evaluation revealed she'd lost\ncustody of a child decades ago for\nneglect. The investigation uncovered\nshe'd been tracking fertility clinic\npatients and had boxes of baby items\nlabeled with different women's names\ndating back a decade. Police contacted\nher previous victims and found similar\npatterns of escalation. Shane finally\nbelieved me, but trust was damaged\nbetween us. We moved two towns away\nwithin a month that I still get\nanonymous baby clothes on my daughter's\ndue date every year. Now I'm pregnant\nagain, but haven't told anyone because I\ncan't shake the fear that another Donna\nis watching and waiting somewhere.", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 7801, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "3PEMDM6drys", "prompt": "Idea: When did you realize evil wears a friendly face?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did you realize evil wears a\nfriendly face? My husband Shane and I\nlost our baby girl at 7 months. And I\nspent weeks barely able to get out of\nbed while he threw himself into work to\ncope. The day after we came home from\nthe hospital, our neighbor Donna showed\nup at our door with a casserole and this\nsoft, understanding look that made me\ncry all over again. She was in her 60s\nand lived alone next door where I'd see\nher tending her garden with this wistful\nexpression. Donna sat with me that first\nday and held my hand while I sobbed\nabout the nursery we painted pink and\nthe tiny clothes still hanging in the\ncloset. She started coming over every\nmorning with fresh food and would stay\nto chat about anything except babies,\nwhich I thought was considerate. Donna\ndrove me to appointments when Shane\ncouldn't leave work and picked up\nprescriptions without being asked. She\nmentioned losing someone years ago and\nunderstanding that raw emptiness that\nmade breathing impossible. Shane was\ngrateful someone was checking on me\nsince my family lived across the country\nand friends disappeared once they\nrealized grief didn't go away quickly.\nWhen I fainted one afternoon, Donna\ninsisted on having a spare key for\nemergencies, and I was too exhausted to\nargue. She'd clean while I rested and\nleave encouraging notes that actually\nhelped. After a month, Donna started\nbringing up babies more often and\nshowing me knitting patterns she was\nworking on. She'd casually asked about\nmy therapy schedule to avoid disturbing\nme and would arrive minutes after I left\nto clean. One day, I came home early and\nfound her in the closed nursery touching\nthe crib rails. When she saw me, she\nsmiled and said she felt such beautiful\nenergy in this room and knew I'd have\nanother baby soon because of her dreams.\nI noticed she watched from her window\nand knew when Shane worked late before I\ntold her. The comments got stranger when\nDonna asked about my cycle and whether\nwe were trying again while pushing\nfertility herbs she'd researched. She\nbrought special tees and got upset when\nI didn't drink them immediately. When I\nasked for my key back, she kept\nforgetting and would mention baby\nclothes she was collecting. She started\nshowing up at my doctor appointments\nclaiming coincidence, but always knew\nwhat the doctor said. When my sister\nvisited, Donna got hostile and told her\nI needed consistent care from someone\nwho understands. I found her going\nthrough our mail and she laughed, saying\nshe was checking for sympathy cards, but\nher hands shook. She told the grocery\nclerk I'd be pregnant soon and winked at\nme like we shared a secret. When I\nfinally told Donna she was making me\nuncomfortable and needed to give me\nspace, she smiled sadly and said I was\npushing away the only person who truly\nunderstood my loss. Shane dismissed my\nconcerns, saying I was being paranoid. 3\nmonths after the miscarriage, I followed\nDonna home after she said, "Our baby's\nnursery is ready." I crept around and\npeeked through her windows. Her spare\nroom was an exact copy of our nursery\ndown to the same elephant mobile. The\nwalls were covered with photos of me\ntaken through our windows. I slipped\ninside through her unlocked door and\nfound pregnancy tests in her trash and a\njournal filled with entries about how\nGod chose her to raise my next baby.\nShe'd written about private adoption\narrangements and putting herbs in my\nfood to help me conceive because the\nbaby needs to come home to its real\nmother. Donna found me reading and\nsmiled while locking the door behind\nher. You understand now, don't you? Your\nbaby was meant for me. God took mine 40\nyears ago so I could be ready for\nyours," she said calmly. She explained\nshe'd been documenting my mental\ninstability and had talked to Shane\nabout her concerns. I tried to back away\nslowly and told her we could talk about\nthis, but she kept moving closer,\ninsisting I didn't understand the gift\nGod was giving us both. When I tried to\nleave, she grabbed my arm hard and said\nI had my miscarriage because it wasn't\nthe right baby yet. I shoved past her\nand ran home to call police who found\nsurveillance equipment and files on\nthree other women who'd lost babies in\nour neighborhood. Donna was arrested but\nreleased to a psychiatric facility.\nAfter evaluation revealed she'd lost\ncustody of a child decades ago for\nneglect. The investigation uncovered\nshe'd been tracking fertility clinic\npatients and had boxes of baby items\nlabeled with different women's names\ndating back a decade. Police contacted\nher previous victims and found similar\npatterns of escalation. Shane finally\nbelieved me, but trust was damaged\nbetween us. We moved two towns away\nwithin a month that I still get\nanonymous baby clothes on my daughter's\ndue date every year. Now I'm pregnant\nagain, but haven't told anyone because I\ncan't shake the fear that another Donna\nis watching and waiting somewhere.", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 7801, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "uWYEJy2sgJs", "prompt": "Idea: When was therapy actually torture?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When was therapy actually torture? My\nparents sent me to a conversion camp\nwhere they tried to cure my\nleft-handedness by tying my left arm\nbehind my back for months and beating me\nwhenever they caught me using it because\nthey believed left-handed people were\npossessed by demons. My parents had\nalways been religious fanatics. But when\nI started writing with my left hand in\nkindergarten, they completely lost their\nminds. They became obsessed with\ncorrecting me before the devil could\ntake hold. And by the time I was eight,\nthey were tying my left hand behind my\nback during meals and hitting me with\nwooden spoons whenever I reached for\nthings with the wrong hand. Our church\nmade everything worse by telling them\nthat left-handedness was a gateway for\ndemonic possession and that they needed\nto take drastic action. The devil enters\nthrough the left side of the body," the\npastor would preach, staring directly at\nme. "That child needs intensive\nspiritual rehabilitation before it's too\nlate." When I turned 12, my parents\nannounced I'd be spending the summer at\nCamp Righteous Path, a special facility\nthat promised to realign left-handed\nchildren with God's natural order. The\ndirector was this guy, Olsen, who\nclaimed he had personally cast demons\nout of over 300 left-handed children.\nThe first day, he explained my treatment\nplan with disturbing enthusiasm. We're\ngoing to break that demonic connection.\nYour left arm will be permanently\nrestrained, and every time you attempt\nto use it, you'll receive correction\nuntil your brain learns to obey God's\ndesign. He showed me the leather harness\nthey would strap to my body, pinning my\nleft arm completely immobile against my\nback. Some children take longer than\nothers to accept the Lord's will, he\nsaid with a sick smile, but they all\nbreak eventually. Living with my arm\nstrapped down was pure agony that\nconsumed every moment of every day. The\nleather cut into my skin until it was\nraw and bleeding, and my shoulder felt\nlike it was being pulled out of its\nsocket constantly. Simple tasks like\neating or writing became torture\nsessions where counselors would beat me\nwith hatles whenever I instinctively\ntried to use my left side. Olsen would\nforce me to practice writing my name\nwith my right hand for hours while he\nstood behind me with a belt, striking me\nacross the back every time my letters\nwere crooked. The demon is fighting\nback, he would say as I sobbed over my\nmangled handwriting. But we're going to\nbeat it out of you if it takes all\nsummer. The breaking point came when I\noverheard him bragging to another\ncounselor about his methods. This one's\ngot a particularly strong demon, he\nsaid, laughing. But I've never met a\ndemon I couldn't beat to death. One day\nduring arts and crafts time, I pocketed\na pair of scissors and used them to cut\nmyself loose. I ran through the woods\nand made it to a nearby town where I\nused a gas station phone to call my\naunt, who had always seemed relatively\nsane. When she picked me up and saw the\ncondition I was in, she was horrified.\nI'm putting a stop to this insanity, she\nsaid. And for two beautiful weeks, I\nlived with her and felt normal again.\nShe told me that being left-handed was\nperfectly natural and even bought me\nspecial left-handed scissors and\nnotebooks. I thought my nightmare was\nfinally over and that my aunt would\nprotect me from my parents madness. But\nthen my parents showed up at my aunt's\nhouse with Olsen, demanding I be\nreturned immediately. They told her that\nI had been making tremendous progress at\ncamp and that pulling me out early would\nundo months of spiritual healing. The\ndemon is still inside him," Pastor\nWilliams said, pointing at me like I was\ncontaminated. "If we don't complete the\ntreatment now, it will grow stronger and\nhe'll be lost forever." They convinced\nRebecca that they knew what was best for\nmy spiritual well-being and made fake\npromises that they'd treat me more\ngently this time. In reality, my parents\nhad them escalate my treatment as\npunishment for escaping. Convincing\nDirector Olsen to add leg restraints and\nextend my stay through the entire school\nyear. Since you clearly can't be\ntrusted, Director Olsson announced,\n"You'll now spend 23 hours a day in full\nrestraints until every trace of\nrebellion is beaten out of you." But one\nday, the camp nurse was treating my\nsores from the restraints and decided\nshe couldn't watch the abuse anymore.\nShe snuck into my room and cut my\nrestraints. She drove me straight to the\npolice station and testified about\neverything she had witnessed at the\ncamp. The authorities raided Camp\nRighteous Path the next day and shut it\ndown permanently, arresting Olsen and\nseveral counselors for child abuse. I\nwas placed in foster care because my\nparents refused to accept that there was\nnothing wrong with being left-handed.\nAnd they still believe I'm possessed by\ndemons to this day. I'm no contact with\nthem, but I still flinch whenever\nsomeone comments on my left-handedness.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 489837, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "tqXOk1iPztY", "prompt": "Idea: What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year? My twin brother Matus and I had been fighting to survive ever since dad left three years ago. The same week mom got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The medical bills crushed us. Some days we come home from school to find the electricity cut off again. Matias would study by candle light, desperate to keep his grades perfect. It was the only thing left he could control. Then on the day the school announced a new validictorian scholarship, Matus looked at me like he'd found a new spark, vowing, "I'll get us out low. I'll do it for mom." Throughout high school, Matus always came out on top. Then during senior year, our teacher announced that Vienna had transferred to our school with a higher GPA. Nobody clapped. I felt Matus slouched down like someone punched him until the class started cheering him on. It's only 0.03 difference. You got this, Matt. That night, he stayed up creating spreadsheets, tracking every assignment's point value, calculating what scores he'd need. When our AP teacher saw it, she bragged about it to other students. Within days, I noticed Matas had Vienna's entire schedule written in his planner. "Healthy competition," he explained when I asked. Even mom encouraged him to skip meals to study, saying, "My fighter." The day he got a 98 on our calculus test, he literally cried in the hallway. Everyone assured him it was still amazing. When first quarter rankings showed Vienna's name on top, Matus didn't come home for 2 days. After Christmas break, my brother became someone I barely recognized. He started spreading rumors about her cheating on SATs, then turn around and comfort her when people gave her dirty looks. I know you'd never cheat. Things only got worse. Her assignments went missing. I watched Matias find it behind the cafeteria dumpster 2 days later, making sure others saw. Vienna, you really should be more careful, he'd say, handing it back with pages torn out. She just stared at the ruined paper with an expression like she knew exactly who'd taken it. After school, I saw Matias shove Vienna against the lockers and snatch her textbook. He disappeared into the boy's bathroom and walked out with a smirk. Vienna stared at the door while I offered, "I'll get it for you." I opened the door and spotted the textbook hanging from a urinal, completely soaked in urine. I felt sick. Vienna held my arm and said, "Don't. I'll just buy a new one." Matias's face went dark. Must be nice. Some of us can't even afford electricity. He spat. Later at home, I confronted him. You're losing. He grabbed my shoulders and screamed. Every A she gets is another month of chemo mom can't afford. You know this. For the first time, I felt afraid of the person he had to become just to keep us afloat. During the second term, Matus stopped bothering her and put all his attention into studying for the AP calculus final, the test that would determine the validictorian. I sat two rows behind Matus, watching his whole body vibrate with anxiety. He finished with 40 minutes left, practically running to submit for the bonus first to submit points. But as he walked past Vienna's desk, his face visibly crumbled. I leaned forward and squinted my eyes to see what he was looking at and noticed Vienna's completed work on the bonus impossible questions that my teacher put for fun. I held my breath and glanced back at my brother just as he breathed, "How dare you?" Then I watched my twin grab Vienna's right hand and slam it against the metal desk edge. The crack echoed. Vienna screamed, "You're killing my mother. Every point you steal is another day she suffers." He snatched the graphing calculator on her desk and started hammering her fingers one by one like vegetables on a chopping board. The wet crushing sounds kept us in our seats, but the sight of blood spraying across her arm, across his face, and desk had us screaming for help. Vienna sobbed, trying to pull away, but he had her wrist locked. He continued pounding her fingers to dust while spitting. "You can't write without fingers. Mom needs this scholarship." Her pinky had bent completely sideways before I found the courage to lunge at him. "Mia, stop!" He shoved me into the desks and held the calculator over my head like he wanted to hurt me, too. "You want mom to die, too?" Three guards burst in and pinned him down. Even then, he tried to reach for Vienna's blood soaked test. Tell them I'm a hero. I cried out at the horrible sight of my brother and shook my head at him. Stop it, Matt. It's over. As they dragged him away, he screamed, "I did it for mom. I'm not the villain here." The guards dragged him away after restraining him. Our teacher picked up Vienna, who had passed out from the pain, and took her to the nurse's office for immediate care. The rest of us hugged the corners of the room, sobbing and traumatized, until another teacher walked into Clare's out and sent us home early. No one from our class attended graduation. Not when one student was injured and another charged with felony assault. They removed the scholarship from the school's program and used the money to pay for Vienna's hospital bills. We lost the house and mom ended up passing away weeks later. When I visit him, he shows me letters he writes to validictorians across the state, explaining they need to know they're stealing from families like ours. Last week, he told me excitedly, "When I get out, I'll work at a tutoring center.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 639768, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "kr0mX1hESG0", "prompt": "Idea: How did watching Fast and Furious lead to fifteen years of prison?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "How did watching Fast and Furious lead to 15 years of prison? Christian and I had been working as mechanics at the same shop for three years when his father died last spring. The funeral hit him hard because even while dying, his father had called him a disappointment for choosing mechanics over law school. After that, Christian started staying late every weekend coping by watching Fast and Furious movies in the break room. Look how they treat each other. That's real family. This went on for months until one night, Christian looked at me with tears in his eyes. I want a family like that. I patted his back and agreed, "Let's do it." Christian started organizing Fast and Furious meetups at the shop, bringing together dozens of fans who'd show off their builds. He quit his job to open a custom garage specializing in movie replica cars, and customers commissioned expensive builds, calling him a visionary. I helped him renovate the space, convinced we were building something revolutionary. He got ride or die tattooed across his knuckles and legally changed his name to Dominic. But lots of super fans did extreme things. Other enthusiasts praised his attention to detail when he spent his entire inheritance on authentic parts. His girlfriend joked about him quoting Dom during arguments, but found it endearing. When he insisted everyone call him Dom at the shop, we indulged him. Even when he started testing customer cars without permission, claiming real racers share everything. I'd cover for him with customers, explaining it was part of our family garage philosophy. The first real warning sign was when Christian punched a customer who accidentally called him by his birth name. "It's dumb," he screamed. Customers started avoiding the shop after that. With business declining, Christian shifted focus to organizing illegal street races in residential neighborhoods. When cops shut it down, he just moved the races elsewhere, insisting, "We're honoring the underground culture." I went along with it, helping coordinate locations, my hands shaking as I texted addresses. When money got tight and Christian convinced me to help him steal parts to keep the shop running, we started small, siphoning from suppliers shipments. Each theft made my stomach turn, but I couldn't stop him. Not until he brought a teenage crew to strip cars at a rival shop's lot. I watched these kids loading stolen engines while Christian quoted Dom, "The most important thing in life will always be family, and sometimes family needs to take what's theirs." One boy's hands trembled as he worked, his face covered in engine grease and tears as he asked when he'd get a break. Something in me snapped. "This isn't a movie, Christian. You're actually destroying other shops. I'm not going to be a part of this anymore." Christian's face went cold. He patted the trembling kid's shoulder, quoting, "You never turn your back on family, even when they do. I knew I'd lost him." 4 days after I quit, Christian called me about initiating new family members with real excitement in his voice. "When I arrived at the abandoned lot, I found two scrawny pre-teen brothers sitting in heavily modified Civics with illegal nitrous systems, their hands visibly shook on the steering wheels, heads barely visible through the windshield. "Just like Brian's first race," Christian said proudly, clapping the older kid's shoulder through the window. The boy flinched, but tried to look tough. Christian explained the race route carefully. My eyes widened when I realized it went straight through the elementary school's pickup zone. "You can't race through a school zone. There'll be kids everywhere," he shrugged. "So, the movie had obstacles, too. Anyway, school lets out in 5 minutes. You're either family or you're a cop. Which is it? The younger brother was sobbing, begging, "Please, I can't drive stick." His foot kept slipping off the clutch. He whimpered as Christian started the cars remotely, engines screaming. "Remember, yellow light means speed up!" he shouted over the noise. The kids took off just as parents started flooding the pickup area. The younger one immediately lost control. His tires screamed as he jumped the sidewalk. A mother yanked her young daughter out of the way, but the car caught the girl's backpack and dragged her 20 ft before it sheared off. Her screams mixed with a shriek of rubber. Her pink shoes tumbled off as she clawed at the asphalt, leaving bloody streaks behind her small body. The older brother tried to avoid a minivan and spun out. He slammed into the crossing guard, who had just managed to shove three kids clear. The guard took the full impact. His body rolled off the hood and hit the pavement with a wet thud. My baby. Someone help my baby. The mother wailed, cradling her daughter's torn hands. Christian cheered like he was watching the movie live. When sirens filled the air, his celebration stopped. "We got to go now," he shouted, already running toward his car. "Grab the tanks. I'll fetch the kids. They pass the test. They're family now," he said with a grin like he was celebrating. I called 911 instead, frantically giving them his location. Christian's face went dark. He grabbed a wrench and swung up my head, spit flying from his mouth as he quoted. "You broke my heart. Now I'll break your neck." I dodged the wrench and pinned Christian down until cops arrived. He got 15 years for orchestrating the attack. During the trial, Christian screamed movie quotes about betrayal while those brothers testified with cracking voices about being forced to race. Now Christian just writes me from prison about his new crew inside. Worst of all, last week I saw one of his students teaching neighborhood kids to drift in a school parking lot, worshiping Christian's race and his idea of", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 34054, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "VU6wCpQuHeA", "prompt": "Idea: What’s the worst lie you almost believed?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What's the worst lie you almost believed? My adoptive parents told me that my bio parents were murdered and their dying wish was for me to avenge them by killing their attacker. Jimmy and Beth had been my guardians since I was 5 years old after my parents died. They treated me like an unwanted burden, making me do all the housework while constantly reminding me how much money they spent raising me. They would say I wasn't as smart or as useful as other kids and tell me I should be grateful they didn't dump me in foster care. Jimmy had a violent temper and would throw things when he was angry and Beth was cold and manipulative, always making me feel guilty for existing. They ran some kind of business from home that involved a lot of secretive phone calls and visitors at odd hours, but they never explained what they did for work and I got slapped the one time I asked. When I was a teenager, Jimmy cornered me in the garage where he kept his hunting rifles and told me the truth about my parents' death. He grabbed me by the shoulders and said, "Your parents weren't killed in a car accident like they told you. They were slaughtered by a man named George Abrams. He claimed my parents had discovered something about Abrams' business dealings and he had them killed to keep them quiet. Your mother's last words were, "Make sure my son gets the payback we deserve," Beth added, appearing in the doorway. Jimmy shoved a photograph of a middle-aged man into my hands and said, "It's time you honored your parents' memory and gave them justice so their souls can rest." Looking at the man who'd taken my pictures for me, I felt sick, but even so, I was horrified by what Beth and Jimmy were asking of me, and I told them I wasn't a murderer. "Let's just go to the police if he's guilty," I said. Jimmy exploded with rage about me being an ungrateful pess who expects other people to solve their problems for him. Your parents would be disgusted with you. He said clearly it was his job to train me into the man my parents wanted me to be. After that he'd make me practice shooting at targets in the backyard every day while lecturing me about family honor and settling debts. Beth would guilt trip me by crying about how disappointed my parents would be if they knew I was too weak to avenge them. They started bringing up George Abrams constantly showing me newspaper clippings about his business and telling me detailed stories about how he supposedly killed my parents. Jimmy would describe graphic scenarios of how my parents died and say that monster needs to pay for what he did to them. They began restricting my access to money and transportation, claiming I couldn't be trusted to make good decisions until I stepped up and became a man. Jimmy installed a lock on my bedroom door and started locking me in at night, saying it was to prevent me from running away like a coward. Beth would stand outside my door and tell me stories about my parents' supposed final moments, describing how they begged for their lives and asked Abrams to spare me. The breaking point came when Jimmy brought home a detailed map of Abrams' neighborhood and daily schedule along with a loaded handgun. He slammed them on the table and said, "You have one week to grow some balls and do what needs to be done or you can find somewhere else to live." I couldn't bring myself to kill someone based on their claims. So, I started secretly researching my parents' death online and requesting official records from the police department. What I found made my blood run cold. The police report clearly stated that my parents died in a single car accident during a snowstorm with no evidence of foul play or involvement from any other parties. There was no mention of George Abrams anywhere in the official documentation, and the accident had been thoroughly investigated by multiple agencies. I also discovered that Abrams was actually a respected businessman who had never been involved in any criminal activity. When I confronted Jimmy and Beth with the police report, all hell broke loose. When they realized I wasn't going to kill Abrams, they stopped acting like this was ever about me at all. Jimmy grabbed me by the throat and snarled. Your parents weren't murdered, but Abrams has been asking too many questions about our business, and he needs to disappear. We raised you for 11 years, and now it's time you paid us back," she said coldly. They locked me in the basement and told me I wouldn't be released until I agreed to kill Abrams. They said if I wouldn't do it, they'd be forced to kill him themselves and frame me. So, I pretended they'd worn me down and said I'd do it. But when they released me, instead of killing Abrams, I went straight to him and begged him to get himself to safety, telling him my adoptive parents were out for blood. He revealed that he had been investigating Jimmy and Beth's moneyaundering operation and had already contacted the FBI about their activities. These death threats were the smoking gun he needed. Within hours, FBI agents raided the house and arrested Jimmy and Beth for conspiracy to commit murder, moneyaundering, and child endangerment.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 54435, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "l1PsHtsvC20", "prompt": "Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you wish Twilight had never\nbeen written? For as long as I could\nremember, my friend Tina had been\ninsecure about being pale. The boys at\nschool constantly teased her, saying she\nlooked sickly and called her Casper. She\nwore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather\nto avoid getting bullied. I felt\nterrible watching her suffer. But the\nweek she discovered Twilight, everything\nchanged. She walked into class with bare\narms for the first time in years,\nquoting from the book, "My skin's like\nmarble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was\nshocked except me. I was just happy\nshe'd found something that made her feel\npowerful instead of pathetic. At first,\nTina's vampire things seemed like\ntypical teenage fandom. She'd come over\nwith the books, reading her favorite\npassages out loud and giggling. Edward\nCullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter\nwith sunscreen so both of our skins\nwould look like thousands of tiny\ndiamonds embedded, just like in the\nseries. Our parents thought it was\nsweet. When Tina started wearing those\namber contacts to school, even the\ncounselor was supportive, saying\nwhatever helps her confidence. The boys\nwho used to call her Casper now moved\nout of her way in the halls, looking\ncompletely intimidated by her\nconfidence. Her parents bought her the\nwhole book collection for Christmas and\nthe Blu-ray disc of the first movie for\nher birthday. We were all thrilled at\nhow much she thrived. Things got out of\nhand after spring break. Tina pulled me\naside and opened her mouth. Her canines\nhad been filed into points like actual\nfangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over\nthem proudly. Cool, huh? They're\npermanent. I'll show you something else\nafter school. At her house, Tina dragged\nme to the kitchen and drained blood from\nraw meat into a glass. She drank it down\nwhile I watched in horror. Want some?\nShe asked, holding the glass for my\nface. I threw up in the sink while she\nlaughed. Yeah, I was like that too at\nfirst, but it's actually not that bad.\nBefore she could pressure me again, her\nmom marched in fuming red and waving a\ncredit card statement. "$3,000. Are you\nserious, Tina? That card was for\nemergencies only." Tina shrugged and\nlied calmly. "It's just teeth\nwhitening." Her mom grabbed her face,\nforcing her mouth open. She saw the\nfangs and froze. Tina pulled back,\nglaring. "Do you want me to be bullied\nagain?" After a long silence, Tina\nhugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I\njust wanted to be beautiful like the\nvampires in Twilight." Once her mom\nwalked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's\nwrist and said sternly, "You're going\ntoo far. This isn't right." She frowned\nand told me to leave, completely\nunwilling to hear me out. After\neverything that happened, I avoided Tina\nat school. But on Friday, she walked\nover after class, begging to be friends\nagain. "Please, like old times, I've\nbeen avoiding her for weeks, so I\ncaved." Later that day, while we were\nwatching a clips in my room, she\nsuddenly stood up during her favorite\nscene and said, "Don't pause it. I just\nneed the bathroom." But instead of\nmaking a left, she turned down the hall\ntoward my 8-year-old brother's room. I\ngot up and followed, pushing the door\nopen to see what was going on. The\ndinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the\nworst thing I've ever seen. Tina had\nJustin pinned to his race car bed, her\nmouth clamped on his neck, not playing.\nFeeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound\nfilled the room. I stood there\nparalyzed, watching while the blood ran\nfrom under her lips, soaking his Pokemon\npajamas, pooling on his face themed\nsheets. Justin's eyes were huge with\nterror, tears streaming as his small\nhands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She\nwhispered between swallows. The burn\nmeans it's working. You're so lucky. I\nscreamed for help and stumbled in to\nswitch on the lights. Tina's head jerked\nup. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts\nreflected like a predator's eyes. Don't\ninterrupt, she hissed. I can taste his\ninnocence. It's exactly like the book\nsaid. Sweet and addicting. Justin made\nthis horrible choking sound. I grabbed\nher hair, yanking hard, but she was\nimpossibly strong. He just needs to die\nfirst, then he'll wake up perfect. My\nparents crashed through the door,\nyelling curse words when they saw the\nsight. Dad ripped her off while she\nfought like something possessed. You're\nruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood\nspraying from her mouth. Mom pressed\ntowels to Justin's neck while sobbing\nhysterically. The white cloth turned red\ninstantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina\ntried to lunge past D. Let me finish.\nHe's already half turned. Can't you\nsmell how his blood's changing? Dad\npinned her down while she thrashed. His\nthoughts are in my head now, she moaned,\nlicking the blood from her lips. He's\nscared, but he understands. He wants to\nlive forever as my Edward. Dad held her\ndown until the EMTs arrived. When they\ngot careless, she bit one of them too,\nscreaming about spreading the gift. They\nhad to sedate her twice before taking\nher away. They took Tina to the state\npsychiatric hospital. Justin needed\nstitches and one liter of transfusions.\nHe eventually stabilized but left the\nhospital traumatized. Two years have\npassed since then, but he still sleeps\nwith every light on. The puncture scars\non his neck look exactly like fang marks\nhaunting our family. I visited Tina once\na year later. She smiled with those\npointy teeth and whispered, "Has my\nEdward? Has he taken his first victim?"\nWhen I said he wasn't a vampire, she\nlaughed. The change takes years for\nchildren. Tell him wait.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 2644943, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "-Y0rsgfHVjY", "prompt": "Idea: My cousin said I was a loser until he realized I owned his company.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My cousin said I was a loser until he\nrealized I owned his company. I was\nsitting at my family's barbecue eating\nmy burger and minding my own business.\nMy relatives always saw me as the guy\nwho did computer stuff all day instead\nof having a real job. They had no idea I\nactually owned a software company that\nI'd built from nothing over the past 8\nyears. We specialized in productivity\ntools for large corporations and had\njust acquired a major firm 3 months ago.\nBrad settled into his usual routine,\nlooking me up and down with obvious\ndisgust. He gestured at my faded clothes\nwhile adjusting his expensive watch,\nlecturing me about how I needed to dress\nlike an adult instead of shopping at\nthrift stores. He said people would\nnever take me seriously looking like a\nteenager. My jaw clenched, but I stayed\nquiet. The family nodded along like he\nwas delivering profound wisdom. My aunt\nchimed in about how I couldn't live off\nmy parents forever while most people my\nage had real careers. She turned to Brad\nwith admiration, asking about his\npromotion. Brad's chest puffed out as he\nlaunched into his success story, then\npivoted to complaining about his new\nmanagement. The company had been\nacquired by some tech startup and the\nnew CEO was a complete joke. He called\nthe guy a 20some who probably learned\nbusiness from YouTube videos. My uncle\nleaned forward with interest as Brad\nexplained how the CEO never showed up to\nmeetings, probably too busy playing\nvideo games in his mom's basement to\nactually run a company. He looked\ndirectly at me with a knowing smirk. My\nface burned, but I kept my expression\nneutral. Brad continued warming to his\naudience, explaining how this CEO\nprobably made decisions based on Tik Tok\ntrends. He said, "These startup kids\nthought they were geniuses, but didn't\nunderstand real business, probably\nburning through investor money on fancy\ncoffee and ping- pong tables." My aunt\nlaughed about how at least Brad had\nactual skills, unlike these computer\nnerds who thought clicking buttons all\nday made them entrepreneurs. Brad\nexplained how the CEO probably couldn't\neven afford a real office, betting he\nwas running the whole company from some\ncramped apartment, eating ramen noodles\nand pretending he was Steve Jobs. I\ngritted my teeth as the attacks got more\npersonal. My uncle joined in about how\nthese tech bros were what was wrong with\nAmerica, thinking playing on the\ninternet was a real job. Brad leaned\nback smuggly, explaining how he'd been\ndoing the actual work while this CEO\ntook credit for everything. The guy\nprobably didn't even know how to read a\nfinancial statement, just another\nbasement dweller who got lucky. My hands\ntrembled slightly as I set down my\nburger. Brad noticed and smirked. He\nreached over and grabbed my burger,\ntaking a big bite while explaining how\nthis CEO was so incompetent, he probably\ncouldn't even run his own life, let\nalone a company. He chewed my food while\nspeculating that the guy had never even\nbeen on a real date, asking what woman\nwould want to be with some loser who\nplayed video games all day. The family\nerupted in laughter. My aunt wiped tears\nfrom her eyes as Brad continued his\nperformance. He kept talking about how\npathetic it would be to live in your\nparents' basement with no real job, no\ngirlfriend, no future, just sitting\nthere in pajamas thinking you were\nimportant. He tossed the rest of my\nburger in the trash, explaining how the\ncompany would probably fail within 6\nmonths because the leadership was so\nweak. He was already looking for a new\njob before this ran everything\ninto the ground. My chest burned as I\nwatched him wipe his hands on a napkin.\nHe pointed at me with a condescending\nsmile. This is why you need to get\nserious about your life before you end\nup like these fake entrepreneurs who\nthink they're hot stuff but actually\nknow nothing. I pulled out my phone and\nopened my email. I scrolled until I\nfound the acquisition announcement from\n3 months ago and turned the screen\ntoward Brad. His face went white as he\nread the email from me to all employees,\nwelcoming his former company to our\norganization. My signature sat at the\nbottom with my title as CEO and founder.\nWait, that's not possible, he whispered,\nhis voice cracking. I shrugged. I\nfounded the company 7 years ago. We\nacquired your firm in March. The\nbackyard went dead silent. Brad stared\nat the phone like it might explode.\nYou're telling me you're my boss? I\nnodded. Have been for 3 months. I've\nbeen reading your performance reviews.\nHis face cycled through five different\ncolors. He started stuttering apologies,\nbut I cut him off, telling him not to\nworry about it, and that he was actually\ndoing great work. My aunt's mouth hung\nopen, asking if I really owned a\ncompany. I explained that I owned the\ncompany that owned Brad's company, about\n200 employees now. Brad looked like he\nwanted to disappear.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 158288, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "zeAfajyFWmU", "prompt": "Idea: My husband's manager think I was just arm candy until he realized I was the one fixing his mistakes.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My husband's creepy manager thought I was just arm candy until he realized I was the engineer fixing his mistakes. When my husband asked me to come to the construction site meeting, I figured why not? I had time between client calls, so I grabbed my coffee and drove over. The project was this commercial building downtown that I had designed 2 years ago at my previous firm. My husband was the developer and they were having structural issues that needed sorting out. The head contractor, Leonard, was there to discuss the foundation problems. My husband introduced me as his wife and then got called away for an urgent phone call. The moment my husband left for his phone call, Leonard's entire demeanor changed. He stopped mid-sentence and turned his back to me completely, spreading the blueprints across the table as if I'd suddenly vanished. When I stepped closer to examine the plans, he shifted his body to block my view. These are technical documents, sweetheart. Why don't you wait in the car? My stomach tightened as I politely mentioned I had experience with construction blueprints. Leonard's eyes traveled from my manicured nails to my designer heels, snorting at my fitted blazer. He chuckled while marking up the plans with aggressive red penstrokes, muttering about cocktail parties. When I pointed out a potential issue with the foundation specifications, Leonard spoke slowly, like explaining to a child, using his finger to trace the blueprints in exaggerated motions. I mentioned my engineering degrees, and his face twisted into a smirk. He made air quotes around engineering degree while pulling out his phone, pretending to Google diploma mills. My jaw clenched as he suggested I probably confused Instagram influencing with actual engineering work. Two subcontractors arrived and Leonard's voice boomed across the site. He gestured at my designer handbag, announcing it cost more than a week's salary for his workers. The men exchanged uncomfortable glances as Leonard launched into stories about his ex-wife who pretended to work but really just spent his money on yoga classes. He pointed at my wedding ring and whistled. Must be nice having a husband who lets you play dress up as a professional. My face burned as he kept comparing me to every trophy wife he'd ever met. Leonard puffed out his chest and started pacing like he was giving a TED talk. Diversity hires companies forced to put unqualified people in positions they didn't earn. He grabbed my portfolio and flipped through it dismissively, holding pages up to the light as if checking for forgeries. He tossed it aside carelessly, letting papers scatter across the dirty floor. His voice echoed off concrete walls as he ranted about participation trophies and gender quotas ruining the industry. When I reached for the structural drawings, Leonard snatched them away and tore one slightly, letting the piece down. I tried explaining the loadbearing wall placement, but he grabbed my pencil mid-sentence and snapped it with a sharp crack. He crumpled my calculation sheet and stomped on it before tossing it in the trash. The broken pencil pieces clattered on concrete as he kicked them aside, grinding the eraser into pink dust. My hands started shaking as he began grabbing every paper I touched, either crumpling them or holding them above his head. He even moved my coffee cup across the room, telling workers I might spill it on important documents. Leonard cornered me against the table, coffee breath mixing with stale cigarettes from his work shirt. He looked me up and down deliberately, his tongue running across his bottom lip, his hand moved to my lower back as he leaned over to grab papers, calluses rough through my silk blouse. He pulled out his phone and started typing with one hand while the other stayed planted on my back, fingers tracing small circles. I'm messaging our industry group chat right now. 300 contractors about to learn your name, and not in a good way. My hands trembled as he showed me the screen. Another fake engineer alert with my name. His breath was hot against my ear as he whispered, "I'd be lucky to design a birdhouse after this." The table edge dug into my hip as he pressed closer, trapping me between his body and the furniture. That's when the safety inspector showed up with urgent concerns about the structural integrity. And my husband returned from his phone call. Leonard immediately started panicking and said, "We need to get the engineer who designed this mess down here right now." My husband looked at me and smiled. She's standing right here. Leonard's face went completely white as I calmly pulled out my business card and professional engineer license. Leonard literally started stammering apologies while I walked him through exactly how to fix the structural issues he'd been complaining about. Turned out his concerns were him misreading my blueprints. Within an hour, I had identified the real problems and provided solutions. Word got around the construction community quickly about what happened. Leonard lost two major contracts when clients heard about his behavior.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 145061, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "B089wIE9YP8", "prompt": "Idea: A store refused to serve me because of an imaginary companion, so I made them pay\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "A store refused to serve me because of an imaginary companion. So, I made them pay for their imagination. I spent four years as a regular customer before they accused me of bringing an imaginary friend to buy wine. And I don't mean they thought I was talking to myself or acting weird. I mean, they literally demanded to see ID from a person who didn't exist. And they were willing to die on that hill. Fine by me, I just make sure it was an expensive funeral. I needed this specific wine for the holidays, not just any wine, but the exact one that pairs with brazed short ribs like they were meant to be together. The nearest location with it in stock was 60 mi away, and December had decided to throw a storm that made my windshield wipers sound like they were having a breakdown. But, I've been shopping at this exact store for 4 years back when I lived two blocks away. Knew the layout like my own apartment. knew which register moved fastest, even knew which employees would actually help you find stuff versus the ones who just point vaguely to an aisle. So, I drove through sheets of rain for over an hour, planning my holiday menu, thinking about how this wine would make everything perfect. Then, I spent another hour in the store grabbing extras for parties, that good cheese that costs too much, but everyone loves normal Tuesday night stuff for someone who takes hosting way too seriously. I finally get to the register with my cart full of carefully selected bottles, and handed my ID to the cashier while I typed in my email for rewards. She scans it, pauses, and then hits me with, "I need to see the ID of the person you were with." I just stared at her genuinely confused. Then, I explained I was alone and literally drove an hour here by myself. She insisted someone was with me and they needed to come back with their ID. Now, I'm thinking, "Maybe she's new. Maybe she's confused, but she called her manager. The assistant manager shows up wearing his tiny bit of authority like it's a crown. Takes my ID, studies it like he's trying to crack the Da Vinci Code, then says, and I'll never forget this. Unfortunately, you look young. He's holding my ID that clearly shows I was born in 1997, but apparently I look young while he's literally reading my birth date. He went on about how the cashier saw me with someone who needed to present ID or they couldn't complete the sale. I explained everything again alone, 60 mi in a storm, been shopping here for years, even offered my passport as a second ID. He just stood there with that power trip smirk and said, "You can come back tomorrow alone." Like he was doing me a favor, like I hadn't just wasted 3 hours of my life. I left $300 worth of carefully selected wine and groceries right there on the counter and drove home in that storm with my hands gripping the wheels so tight my knuckles went white. Not from the weather, but from pure rage. The next day, I went to a different location for the party supplies, and they didn't even card me. Just smiled and asked if I found everything okay, which somehow made the whole thing worse. Then the email came, their automatic rate your experience survey that I'd ignored 100 times before. But that night, oh, that night I had feedback, wrote exactly what happened. The phantom companion, the condescending manager, the wasted evening, all of it. 2 days later, the phone rings. It's the store manager calling to address my concerns. She'd reviewed the security footage and confirmed that yes, someone did walk through the door at the same time as me, which apparently made us party. I asked if a stranger using the same door during business hours really meant we were together, but she said it didn't matter. They'd need to return with ID to complete my transaction, even though they'd left 30 minutes before I tried to check out. No apology, no acknowledgement that this was insane, just doubling down on their power trip. That's when something in me snapped and I started researching their policies. I found a beautiful little detail buried in their website. Orders not picked up within 7 days get automatically refunded. I placed a $10,000 order for immediate pickup. 238 bottles of Titos, their entire stock, every heavy cheap bottle I could find. Everything behind locked glass that needs a manager's key. All singles, no cases, maximum labor, and the cherry on top. I made sure to time it for the holiday rush when they'd already be swamped. The confirmation came through in 5 hours. They'd actually done it. scrambled to fill this massive order. I pictured the assistant manager running around with his keys, employees hauling cases, customers asking why all the to was gone, being told it was all reserved for a pickup order. Then the reminder email started coming. Day three, day seven, final notice. Day 10. She calls the manager. Same woman who defended their door buddy policy. She asked when I was coming for my order, trying to keep her voice professional, but I could hear the stress underneath. Oh, I tried, I said, savoring every word, but I was told I looked too young and that you needed the ID of the person I walked in with. So, I went to your competitor instead. I could actually hear the moment it clicked for her, that sharp intake of breath when she realized exactly who I was and what this massive unpicked order meant. "Are you seriously not picking this up?" she asked. Nah. Click. They had to refund all $10,000. had to restock everything during their busiest season and had to explain to corporate why they've been sitting on that much inventory while customers couldn't find what they needed.", "metadata": {"writer": "Lucis L", "views": 74829, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "4lAaNReEUtM", "prompt": "Idea: When did you realize the person you were looking at wasn't human anymore?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did you realize the person you were looking at wasn't human anymore? My sister-in-law pointed at Ren while lecturing her daughter about dessert, and I watched my daughter's shoulders slump as she became the cautionary tale again. "See what happens when you don't watch what you eat," she said. "For years, our relatives beat her up with their cruel comments, treating her like a monster while she pretended not to hear. That night in the car, Ren finally broke." "They're so mean," she sobbed against me. When she looked up and said she was going to get healthy, I saw years of pain in her eyes and agreed. "I believe in you." Those first few months filled me with hope. Every Saturday morning, Gloria would knock on my bedroom door at six sharp, already in her workout clothes. During the week, I packed healthy lunches with encouraging notes tucked inside. She text me pictures of herself holding them up in class with huge smiles. After Gloria lost 20 pounds, relatives started complimenting her instead of making their usual sarcastic jokes. I was so proud I couldn't help posting her progress photos on Facebook. Eventually, we had to shop for new clothes that fit her smaller frame. Gloria twirled in the dressing room. I never knew I could look like this. For once, everything felt like it was falling into place. I never got worried when she started weighing herself multiple times a day or even refused a slice of her favorite chocolate cake for her birthday. I simply told myself she was just disciplined. Everything shifted that Tuesday when I went to throw out coffee grounds and found Gloria's entire dinner buried in the trash, untouched, except for one small bite. My heart achd as she threw out more food night after night. Sleep became impossible as her exercise videos played through the walls at 3:00 in the morning. her desperate whispers of 20 more, push harder, mixing with the instructor's voice. Everything changed when I found the needles. I was cleaning Gloria's bathroom while she was at class. My hands trembled as I picked one up, imagining my baby injecting herself with drugs. I waited in the kitchen for her to come home. When I held up the OMIC needles, her face went completely cold. Where did you get these? I asked. She rolled her eyes. Everyone uses it, Mom. Lizo, Kelly Clarkson, even Oprah. My voice cracked. Gloria, these are dangerous. You're only 19 in. She laughed bitterly. Exactly. 19 years of cruelty from my own family. Even after our confrontation, packages kept arriving daily. She'd snatched them from the porch before I could intervene. I found more needles, medications, double doses in her trash. When I saw her hollowed cheeks one morning, I begged her, "Please just eat something. Anything." She smiled eerily. "I don't need food. Oza gives me all the nutrients I need. I've transcended." She slammed her door shut. Easter Sunday was supposed to be about resurrection, but all I witnessed was my daughter's death. Everyone had gathered at our house after church. My sister-in-law still wearing her pastel dress and the kids hunting for eggs in the backyard. When Gloria finally came downstairs, my brother dropped his coffee cup, shattering on my kitchen floor. Her Easter dress hung off her like a shroud. Patches of scalp showed through where her hair had fallen out. She moved toward the table in these jerky, unnatural movements like she was a character in a stop motion film. And when she reached for the ham, her elbow bent the wrong way with a loud pop. She held her arm against her chest and laughed. It's working. Can't you see it's working? Then her fever bright eyes lit up with an idea. Let's take the family photo now. This time I know I'll fit in the frame. She lurched toward my sister-in-law, grabbing her arm. I heard her bones creek like old floorboards as she walked into the living room. The loose skin on her arm swayed with each movement. Did you know I don't need food anymore? She told her aunt, who recoiled at the foul smell of her breath. Ompic gives me everything. I've evolved. She made her way around the room, touching everyone with bony fingers, explaining her transformation while they pressed themselves against walls. Every gesture produced horrible popping sounds from her joints. That's when she spotted my nine-year-old niece. Zoe, come here, sweetheart. Let me show you something amazing. Before anyone could react, Gloria had pulled a needle from her pocket and grabbed Zoe's tiny arm. "This is how you never become fat," she cooed and plunged it in. Zoe shrieked. Zoe's dad bolted straight to them as Gloria pushed the plunger, giggling about giving her a head start. It's just a baby dose. She'll thank me when she's transcended like me. The room erupted into chaos. Zoe's mother checked the injection site while her dad held Gloria down. She thrashed in his arms while I cried out, begging her to stop. My hands shook so badly I could barely dial 911. My daughter just injected a child with drugs. I sobbed into the phone. The EMTs arrived to find her shouting at them to document her transformation to tell everyone she didn't need food anymore, that she'd found the answer to everything. The next four months, Gloria spent locked away in a rehabilitation facility for detox. Doctors tell me she has the bone density of an 80-year-old and must wear special padding to hold her body together. The entire family refuses to see her. When I visit, she calculates calories and scratches equations into her skin. Yesterday, I told her, "You know, you were beautiful because you had a heart baby. You never needed Osmp. She just laughed and replied, "You're", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 97429, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "kEwiUwx0XzI", "prompt": "Idea: The Korean nail salon mocked me in their language not knowing I understood every word\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "The Korean nail salon mocked me in their\nlanguage, not knowing I understood every\nword. The Korean nail salon mocked me in\ntheir language, not knowing I understood\nevery word. I'd been going to the same\nKorean nail salon every two weeks for a\nyear. Minjang always did my nails with\nthat practice smile that never reached\nher eyes. "Welcome back, honey," she'd\nsay, already pulling out my usual basic\npolish. She'd chat in English while\nfiling, then switched to rapid Korean\nwith her co-workers. "What Minjong\ndidn't know? I understood every word. My\nmother taught me Korean from birth, but\nI look exactly like my black father.\nPeople see me and never guess I speak\ntheir language." After years of shocked\nreactions, sometimes it's easier to just\nsmile and nod. I was settling in when\nMing Jung turned to the new girl and\ncommented in Korean about my fingers\ngetting chubbier like little sausages,\nshe said. The new girl giggled and\nglanced at me, my jaw tightened. Another\ntechnician joined in, observing how I\nmade the chair look small. They laughed\ntogether while M Jung suggested charging\nme extra for equipment stress. She\npressed harder than necessary while\npushing back my cuticles. I didn't\nflinch. Then they started comparing me\nto other customers and taking photos of\nmy hands. M Jung announced I was\ndefinitely their worst dressed regular.\nShe pointed out dark spots on my\nknuckles to new employees. She explained\nin Korean it was for the group chat\nbecause the others would die laughing at\nhow ashy I was. After taking photos, she\nmade a show of using excessive hand\nsanitizer. She pumped it three times and\nrubbed her hands dramatically. The other\nsnickered while one pretended to open\nwindows for fresh air. Another waved a\nmagazine like a fan near my direction.\nThe mockery shifted when they saw my\nanxiety medication in my purse. Minjang\nannounced triumphantly in Korean that I\nwas on crazy pills. She said it\nexplained everything about me being both\ncrazy and ugly. She spoke louder now\nwhile making circular motions near her\ntemple. The whole salon erupted in\nlaughter. Other customers looked over\nbut didn't understand. Another\ntechnician added that no man would\nwillingly touch hands like mine. Minjang\nagreed I probably hadn't been touched in\nyears. That's why she seemed so\ndesperate for contact during manicures.\nThey made vulgar gestures behind my back\nreflected in the mirror. One mimicked\ngroping motions while another pretended\nto vomit. As the appointment went on,\nthey weren't even pretending I was human\nanymore. M Jung started referring to me\nas it when talking to other customers.\nShe'd tell them she had to finish with\nthis thing first. A Korean customer\nnodded sympathetically. The manager\nsuggested charging me a contamination\nfee. Minjang would announce she felt\ndirty after touching it while scrubbing\nher hands. She used the rough side of\nthe file on my natural nails. She\nstarted using old files and chipped\ntools on me. The new polish bottles she\nused for others stayed closed for me.\nThe worst part came when Minjang noticed\nmy mother's ring. She announced that\npathetic ring I always clutched was\nprobably from a dollar store. Another\ntechnician suggested I'd stolen it from\nsomeone who died. Someone added, "My\nmother probably abandoned me for being\nso ugly." They created an entire story\nabout my imaginary deadbeat family. Each\nedition was cruer than the last. The\nworst part was when they started making\nfun of my mother's death. Minjong\npractically shouted in Korean across the\nsalon about one less generation of\nugliness in the world. Her co-orker\nadded that the mother probably killed\nherself after seeing what she created.\nOther employees stopped their work to\nlaugh. Ming Jung laughed so hard she had\nto stop doing my nails. Tears streamed\ndown her face from laughing. Death was a\nrelief from having that as a daughter.\nMy phone rang at that moment. The\nuniversity's number flashed on screen. I\nlooked at the caller ID and decided this\nwas it. "Yes, this is Professor Prescott\nfrom the Korean studies department." I\nanswered in perfect Korean. The salon\nwent completely silent. Someone dropped\na bottle of polish that shattered on the\nfloor. Pink polish spread across the\nwhite tiles like spilled blood. I looked\ndirectly at Minjong, whose face had\ndrained of color. Still in Korean, I\nexplained my mother died alone because\npeople like them made her feel too\nKorean for America, too American for\nKorea. I let the words hang in the air.\nMinj's hands shook violently. The new\ngirl covered her mouth. Another\ntechnician backed away. I placed exact\nchange on the counter. No tip. Keep the\ntips. They were my mother's way of\nteaching me kindness doesn't require\nreciprocation, but I'm done funding your\ncruelty.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 437001, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "4jJco4FcVz8", "prompt": "Idea: When did you realize your parents genuinely didn't see you as human?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did you realize your parents genuinely didn't see you as human? My parents forced me to share a room with my older brother through age 23, while my sister got the master suite because they believed boys don't need privacy or personal space. My parents bought their five-bedroom house when I was 10, and they immediately gave my sister Maddie the master suite with its own bathroom and walk-in closet, even though she was only eight. Mom insisted Mattie needed space for her anxiety, while Dad believed that comfort made men weak because he'd grown up sleeping on floors in military barracks. They moved Hayden and me into the smallest bedroom with two twin beds pushed against opposite walls, convinced they were building our character the way their own fathers had done with them. The arrangement felt temporary when I was young, but by the time I graduated college and started my accounting job, nothing had changed except Hayden had turned 26 and was bringing home different women every week while I tried to sleep 3 ft away. Matty had left for college, but her suite stayed empty and waiting like a shrine, while Hayden's side of our shared room looked like a frat house had exploded with empty bottles and dirty clothes everywhere. He worked part time at a vape shop and spent the rest of his time dealing substances from our shared dresser, turning our room into a revolving door of strangers and smoke. The worst part was that I paid $800 a month in rent to my parents while Hayden paid nothing cuz he was supposedly finding himself. And they covered Matty's $1,200 college apartment while keeping her room as storage. When I tried talking to them about getting my own room, dad laughed and said that real men don't need their own princess tower. And mom clutched her chest like I'd personally wounded her by suggesting that families shouldn't support each other during Hayden's extended tough time that had somehow lasted 8 years. Everything started falling apart when I met Kylie at work and we dated for 3 months before she agreed to come over, which required me to clean obsessively and beg Hayden for privacy. He promised to stay out until midnight, but brought home two women at 10. Kylie left immediately after witnessing the chaos of my living situation. She broke up with me the next week, explaining that she couldn't date someone who lived like a teenager, which stung because I couldn't even bring my girlfriend home without being humiliated. I thought my life couldn't get any worse. But one day, Hayden brought home Kylie just 2 months after our breakup. I could hear them through the paper thin walls laughing about how uptight I was. I slept in my car in the office parking lot after that and showed up to work looking so rough that my boss pulled me aside to ask if I was using substances. That made me realize that this living situation was destroying my professional life along with my personal one. That day, I signed a lease for a studio apartment and started planning my escape carefully by slowly packing boxes and storing them in my trunk while changing my mailing address to a PO box. I kept all my important documents, including therapist records in my car after signing the lease, knowing I might need them. I waited for Matty's graduation weekend when I knew they'd all be gone. But my mother noticed a credit check notification on my account since she still monitored my finances despite my age. They confronted me during dinner where they demanded to know why I had betray the family like this. Dad screamed about how I was abandoning my responsibilities while mom sobbed that I was killing her by refusing to support Hayden through his struggles. Then they gave me an ultimatum that I could leave, but I'd be dead to them with no holidays or family events or relationship with Matty's future kids. When I tried to explain that I just needed basic privacy and sleep to function at my job, they kicked me out and put my belongings in garbage bags on the lawn. They even had the audacity to leave a note saying I could come back when I learned about family values. When I didn't come back after a day like they expected, my parents began calling my workplace to report that I was having a mental breakdown and needed help. They nearly got me fired until I provided the documentation from my therapist about the abusive living situation. When they realized that tactic didn't work, they showed up at my new apartment, demanding I let them in because family doesn't abandon family. But I called building security when they wouldn't leave. When security arrived, they tried to claim me as a dependent on their taxes since I lived with them part of the year, forcing me to hire a lawyer to prove my independence. Their next call came with a very different tone because Mattie had moved back home after graduation, expecting to live rent free in her suite. She brought her boyfriend, who stayed nightly for his anxiety. And when my parents tried setting boundaries, Mattie threw their own words back about family supporting each other. Within months, she'd taken over, treating them like servants while contributing nothing. They called, begging me to talk sense into her, sobbing they couldn't afford the house without my rent money since Matty refused to pay. When they asked to stay in my studio temporarily, I reminded them that real men don't need princess towers and changed my number permanently.", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 626036, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "kr0mX1hESG0", "prompt": "Idea: How did watching Fast and Furious lead to fifteen years of prison?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "How did watching Fast and Furious lead to 15 years of prison? Christian and I had been working as mechanics at the same shop for three years when his father died last spring. The funeral hit him hard because even while dying, his father had called him a disappointment for choosing mechanics over law school. After that, Christian started staying late every weekend coping by watching Fast and Furious movies in the break room. Look how they treat each other. That's real family. This went on for months until one night, Christian looked at me with tears in his eyes. I want a family like that. I patted his back and agreed, "Let's do it." Christian started organizing Fast and Furious meetups at the shop, bringing together dozens of fans who'd show off their builds. He quit his job to open a custom garage specializing in movie replica cars, and customers commissioned expensive builds, calling him a visionary. I helped him renovate the space, convinced we were building something revolutionary. He got ride or die tattooed across his knuckles and legally changed his name to Dominic. But lots of super fans did extreme things. Other enthusiasts praised his attention to detail when he spent his entire inheritance on authentic parts. His girlfriend joked about him quoting Dom during arguments, but found it endearing. When he insisted everyone call him Dom at the shop, we indulged him. Even when he started testing customer cars without permission, claiming real racers share everything. I'd cover for him with customers, explaining it was part of our family garage philosophy. The first real warning sign was when Christian punched a customer who accidentally called him by his birth name. "It's dumb," he screamed. Customers started avoiding the shop after that. With business declining, Christian shifted focus to organizing illegal street races in residential neighborhoods. When cops shut it down, he just moved the races elsewhere, insisting, "We're honoring the underground culture." I went along with it, helping coordinate locations, my hands shaking as I texted addresses. When money got tight and Christian convinced me to help him steal parts to keep the shop running, we started small, siphoning from suppliers shipments. Each theft made my stomach turn, but I couldn't stop him. Not until he brought a teenage crew to strip cars at a rival shop's lot. I watched these kids loading stolen engines while Christian quoted Dom, "The most important thing in life will always be family, and sometimes family needs to take what's theirs." One boy's hands trembled as he worked, his face covered in engine grease and tears as he asked when he'd get a break. Something in me snapped. "This isn't a movie, Christian. You're actually destroying other shops. I'm not going to be a part of this anymore." Christian's face went cold. He patted the trembling kid's shoulder, quoting, "You never turn your back on family, even when they do. I knew I'd lost him." 4 days after I quit, Christian called me about initiating new family members with real excitement in his voice. "When I arrived at the abandoned lot, I found two scrawny pre-teen brothers sitting in heavily modified Civics with illegal nitrous systems, their hands visibly shook on the steering wheels, heads barely visible through the windshield. "Just like Brian's first race," Christian said proudly, clapping the older kid's shoulder through the window. The boy flinched, but tried to look tough. Christian explained the race route carefully. My eyes widened when I realized it went straight through the elementary school's pickup zone. "You can't race through a school zone. There'll be kids everywhere," he shrugged. "So, the movie had obstacles, too. Anyway, school lets out in 5 minutes. You're either family or you're a cop. Which is it? The younger brother was sobbing, begging, "Please, I can't drive stick." His foot kept slipping off the clutch. He whimpered as Christian started the cars remotely, engines screaming. "Remember, yellow light means speed up!" he shouted over the noise. The kids took off just as parents started flooding the pickup area. The younger one immediately lost control. His tires screamed as he jumped the sidewalk. A mother yanked her young daughter out of the way, but the car caught the girl's backpack and dragged her 20 ft before it sheared off. Her screams mixed with a shriek of rubber. Her pink shoes tumbled off as she clawed at the asphalt, leaving bloody streaks behind her small body. The older brother tried to avoid a minivan and spun out. He slammed into the crossing guard, who had just managed to shove three kids clear. The guard took the full impact. His body rolled off the hood and hit the pavement with a wet thud. My baby. Someone help my baby. The mother wailed, cradling her daughter's torn hands. Christian cheered like he was watching the movie live. When sirens filled the air, his celebration stopped. "We got to go now," he shouted, already running toward his car. "Grab the tanks. I'll fetch the kids. They pass the test. They're family now," he said with a grin like he was celebrating. I called 911 instead, frantically giving them his location. Christian's face went dark. He grabbed a wrench and swung up my head, spit flying from his mouth as he quoted. "You broke my heart. Now I'll break your neck." I dodged the wrench and pinned Christian down until cops arrived. He got 15 years for orchestrating the attack. During the trial, Christian screamed movie quotes about betrayal while those brothers testified with cracking voices about being forced to race. Now Christian just writes me from prison about his new crew inside. Worst of all, last week I saw one of his students teaching neighborhood kids to drift in a school parking lot, worshiping Christian's race and his idea of", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 34054, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "Boi9IonqVKI", "prompt": "Idea: When did you realize your boyfriend was a monster?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did you realize your boyfriend was a monster? My boyfriend forbade me from being happy around anyone but him. Because he said my joy was a finite resource. When I laughed with friends, he grabbed my face and said, "You're giving away what belongs to me." Bartholomew grew up in a cold mansion where his investment banker father made his children compete for affection. His mother would literally tell them, "I only have three hugs left today, so figure out who gets them." Bartholomew watched his siblings raise and smiles like currency and learned that love was scarce. By the time I met him senior year, he was already possessive and intense. He'd follow his ex-girlfriend around campus, documenting who she smiled at after they broke up. He told me she had depleted him emotionally by being happy near other men. I thought his jealousy was romantic until it turned on me. 2 months into dating, Bartholomew said we needed a relationship optimization talk. He pulled out his phone and showed me videos he'd secretly taken of me laughing with friends. "Look how much joy you're wasting on them," he said, zooming in on my smile. He explained his theory that humans only produce a certain amount of happiness per day, and I was spending mine on people who didn't deserve it. From now on, I needed to save all positive emotions for him. No more smiling at cashiers, no more laughing at classmates jokes, no more excitement about anything unless he was there to receive it. He actually created a point system where different expressions were worth different amounts. A genuine laugh was 10 points. A smile was five. He wanted all my daily points, but said it was acceptable if I needed to spend 10 elsewhere to get by, but no more. After that, Bartholomew would drop me off at work and remind me to save myself for later. I had to keep my face neutral during meetings, even when co-workers said funny things. If someone complimented my work, I could only nod blankly because enthusiasm was reserved for Bartholomew. He'd quiz me when I got home, asking detailed questions about every interaction to make sure I hadn't spent any joy. He knew when I was lying because he'd installed tracking apps on my phone and could see who I'd been near. If I'd been around friends, he'd interrogate me about whether I'd laughed or smiled. He started picking me up from work early to minimize my time around others. The emotion hoarding got more extreme over time. He decided even negative emotions were mine to give only to him. I couldn't be sad about work stress because that was emotional energy he deserved. I couldn't be angry at traffic because that anger belonged to our relationship. He wanted every feeling I was capable of producing. He'd trigger emotions just to harvest them. He'd tell me sad stories to make me cry, then hold me whispering, "These tears are mine." He'd scare me by driving recklessly, then comfort me, saying, "This fear is for us." My co-workers started asking if I was okay because I'd become completely expressionless. My friends said I looked like a zombie. But when I got home to Bartholomew, I had to transform into the most emotive version of myself. He'd demand I release all the saved emotions at once. I'd have to laugh at his stories like they were the funniest things I'd ever heard and cry with joy when he touched me. Then we got to my sister's wedding. Bartholomew allowed me to attend, but with strict emotional limits. I could smile in photos, but not genuinely. I could hug family, but without warmth. During the reception, my sister pulled me aside crying, saying she was pregnant. The joy burst out of me before I could stop it. I hugged her and laughed and cried happy tears. Bartholomew saw from across the room. His face went dark. He dragged me to the parking lot and screamed that I'd just given away months of joy meant for him. I couldn't believe he'd ruined my sister's wedding by shouting at me like that in public. That night, I stayed at my sister's hotel instead of going home with him. I was done. The next morning, I smiled at people in the hotel lobby and laughed at the receptionist dumb joke. I was free. But when I didn't come home the next day, Bartholomew went off the deep end. He showed up at my work saying I'd stolen emotional property that belonged to him. Security removed him, but he came back with printed screenshots of every time I'd smiled in photos without him, calling it evidence of theft. He filed a lawsuit claiming emotional damages, saying I'd entered a verbal contract to be his sole source of joy. He hired a private investigator to follow me and document every facial expression, trying to prove I was spending emotions recklessly. He broke into my apartment and left notes on everything that might make me happy. This book's joy is mine. These flowers beauty is mine. One day, a barista made me laugh and Bartholomew charged into the coffee shop out of nowhere. He'd been stalking me, watching through the window. He grabbed the barista's throat and roared, "That laugh was mine." Multiple witnesses called 911. Police found his car full of surveillance equipment and thousands of photos documenting my facial expressions. His apartment had charts tracking my emotional expenditure and contracts he forged with my signature, promising him exclusive access to my feelings. He was charged with assault and stalking. He's now serving 5 years.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 15866, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "_bUhxfwtjOk", "prompt": "Idea: The rich kid said I'd end up cleaning toilets for people like him, not knowing his dad worked\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "A rich kid said I'd end up cleaning\ntoilets for people like him, not knowing\nhis dad worked for my mom. I was the\nquiet kid in eighth grade whose mom\nalways said to keep a low profile at\nschool. She dropped me off a block away\nevery morning before heading to her\noffice, and I knew not to mention that\nshe meant the executive suite of the\nbiggest company in town. Bruce's dad\nworked there, too. Always bragging about\nbeing a regional sales manager. Bruce\nhad no idea my mom was the one who\nsigned his dad's paychecks, though, and\nbecause of that, Bruce made me the\ntarget of his bullying. Everything\nstarted on a Tuesday morning in early\nOctober when Bruce knocked my books out\nof my hands in the main hallway. While I\nknelt down to gather my scattered\npapers, he stood there laughing with his\nfriends. Later that same day, when I\nheld the door open for him after lunch,\nhe shoved past and told everyone I was\nprobably hoping for a tip like a\ndoorman. By Thursday of that week, he\nhad progressed to stealing my lunch\nmoney during second period and\nannouncing loudly that I was too poor to\nafford food anyway. Friday afternoon\nbrought another escalation when he\nshoved me into a locker after PE and\nmade comments about my clothes smelling\nlike thrift store while the entire\nhallway erupted in laughter. The\nfollowing week brought even worse\ntreatment. Every time I raised my hand\nduring English class on Monday, he\ninterrupted to call me stupid and wrong.\nWhen test results came back on Wednesday\nand I had earned an A, he grabbed my\npaper right off my desk and ripped it\ninto pieces while telling everyone the\nteacher probably felt too sorry for me\nto give me the F I really deserved.\nDuring lunch periods throughout that\nweek, his harassment evolved from simply\nknocking over my tray to something more\nhumiliating. He would grab my sandwich\nfrom my reused grocery bag, take a\ndramatic bite, and spit it out while\ndeclaring it was welfare food and\nmystery meat before throwing everything\nin the trash. On a particularly bad\nThursday, I tried a different approach\nand offered him my chips, thinking maybe\nkindness would work. He knocked them out\nof my hand and ground them into the\ncafeteria floor with his heel while\nexplaining that he didn't want to catch\nwhatever diseases poor people carry. The\nentire cafeteria watched in silence as\nhe made me clean up the mess with my\nbare hands. Physical education class\nbecame my daily nightmare after that. He\nwould wait until I was changing clothes,\nthen grab everything I owned and throw\nit all in the shower, leaving me\nstanding there in my underwear. While I\ntried to retrieve my soaked clothes, he\nwould loudly describe to the entire\nlocker room how skinny and malnourished\nI looked from eating dollar store food.\nThe harassment reached new levels the\nday he found my phone with its cracked\nscreen in early November. He picked it\nup and called it ancient junk, then\nexplained that his dad had told him poor\npeople always have broken phones because\nthey can't take care of anything. He\nthrew it on the ground and stomped on it\nrepeatedly until the screen went\ncompletely black and the phone wouldn't\nturn on anymore. When I wore the same\njacket three days in a row because my\nother one was still drying from being\nthrown in the shower, he started a rumor\nthat I only owned one set of clothes. He\nwould make gagging sounds whenever I\nwalked past in the hallways and hold his\nnose while telling everyone I hadn't\nchanged my underwear in a week. Career\nday arrived in mid- November, and Bruce\nhad spent the entire week telling\neveryone how his dad was going to\npresent about being successful in\nbusiness. The morning of the\npresentations, he cornered me in the\nbathroom and pushed my head toward the\ntoilet while his friends held the door\nshut. He kept my face inches from the\nwater and told me I better get used to\ncleaning toilets for rich people like\nhim. His dad went first during the\npresentations, strutting around the\nclassroom talking about sales figures\nand leadership while mentioning three\ntimes that he worked for the most\nsuccessful company in the state. Then\nthe classroom door opened and my mom\nwalked in. Bruce's dad stopped\nmid-sentence when he saw her, and his\nconfident expression transformed into\npure terror within seconds. His hands\nshook so badly that he dropped all his\npresentation notes while sweat soaked\nthrough his cheap shirt. My mom calmly\ntold Johnson to finish up and said they\nwould discuss his quarterly review\nafterward. Bruce's smirk disappeared\ninstantly as his face turned white as\npaper, and when someone whispered who\nshe was, he stared at me with his mouth\nhanging open in horror. His whole body\nstarted trembling as he finally\nunderstood that he had spent months\ntormenting his dad's boss's kid. After\nclass ended, Bruce tried to stammer out\nan apology, but couldn't even form\ncomplete words. His dad had to formally\napologize to my mom while Bruce stood\nthere looking like he might throw up at\nany moment. Within a week, Bruce had\ntransferred to a private school across\ntown, and his dad got demoted to a\ndifferent branch in another", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 369091, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "kEwiUwx0XzI", "prompt": "Idea: The Korean nail salon mocked me in their language not knowing I understood every word\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "The Korean nail salon mocked me in their\nlanguage, not knowing I understood every\nword. The Korean nail salon mocked me in\ntheir language, not knowing I understood\nevery word. I'd been going to the same\nKorean nail salon every two weeks for a\nyear. Minjang always did my nails with\nthat practice smile that never reached\nher eyes. "Welcome back, honey," she'd\nsay, already pulling out my usual basic\npolish. She'd chat in English while\nfiling, then switched to rapid Korean\nwith her co-workers. "What Minjong\ndidn't know? I understood every word. My\nmother taught me Korean from birth, but\nI look exactly like my black father.\nPeople see me and never guess I speak\ntheir language." After years of shocked\nreactions, sometimes it's easier to just\nsmile and nod. I was settling in when\nMing Jung turned to the new girl and\ncommented in Korean about my fingers\ngetting chubbier like little sausages,\nshe said. The new girl giggled and\nglanced at me, my jaw tightened. Another\ntechnician joined in, observing how I\nmade the chair look small. They laughed\ntogether while M Jung suggested charging\nme extra for equipment stress. She\npressed harder than necessary while\npushing back my cuticles. I didn't\nflinch. Then they started comparing me\nto other customers and taking photos of\nmy hands. M Jung announced I was\ndefinitely their worst dressed regular.\nShe pointed out dark spots on my\nknuckles to new employees. She explained\nin Korean it was for the group chat\nbecause the others would die laughing at\nhow ashy I was. After taking photos, she\nmade a show of using excessive hand\nsanitizer. She pumped it three times and\nrubbed her hands dramatically. The other\nsnickered while one pretended to open\nwindows for fresh air. Another waved a\nmagazine like a fan near my direction.\nThe mockery shifted when they saw my\nanxiety medication in my purse. Minjang\nannounced triumphantly in Korean that I\nwas on crazy pills. She said it\nexplained everything about me being both\ncrazy and ugly. She spoke louder now\nwhile making circular motions near her\ntemple. The whole salon erupted in\nlaughter. Other customers looked over\nbut didn't understand. Another\ntechnician added that no man would\nwillingly touch hands like mine. Minjang\nagreed I probably hadn't been touched in\nyears. That's why she seemed so\ndesperate for contact during manicures.\nThey made vulgar gestures behind my back\nreflected in the mirror. One mimicked\ngroping motions while another pretended\nto vomit. As the appointment went on,\nthey weren't even pretending I was human\nanymore. M Jung started referring to me\nas it when talking to other customers.\nShe'd tell them she had to finish with\nthis thing first. A Korean customer\nnodded sympathetically. The manager\nsuggested charging me a contamination\nfee. Minjang would announce she felt\ndirty after touching it while scrubbing\nher hands. She used the rough side of\nthe file on my natural nails. She\nstarted using old files and chipped\ntools on me. The new polish bottles she\nused for others stayed closed for me.\nThe worst part came when Minjang noticed\nmy mother's ring. She announced that\npathetic ring I always clutched was\nprobably from a dollar store. Another\ntechnician suggested I'd stolen it from\nsomeone who died. Someone added, "My\nmother probably abandoned me for being\nso ugly." They created an entire story\nabout my imaginary deadbeat family. Each\nedition was cruer than the last. The\nworst part was when they started making\nfun of my mother's death. Minjong\npractically shouted in Korean across the\nsalon about one less generation of\nugliness in the world. Her co-orker\nadded that the mother probably killed\nherself after seeing what she created.\nOther employees stopped their work to\nlaugh. Ming Jung laughed so hard she had\nto stop doing my nails. Tears streamed\ndown her face from laughing. Death was a\nrelief from having that as a daughter.\nMy phone rang at that moment. The\nuniversity's number flashed on screen. I\nlooked at the caller ID and decided this\nwas it. "Yes, this is Professor Prescott\nfrom the Korean studies department." I\nanswered in perfect Korean. The salon\nwent completely silent. Someone dropped\na bottle of polish that shattered on the\nfloor. Pink polish spread across the\nwhite tiles like spilled blood. I looked\ndirectly at Minjong, whose face had\ndrained of color. Still in Korean, I\nexplained my mother died alone because\npeople like them made her feel too\nKorean for America, too American for\nKorea. I let the words hang in the air.\nMinj's hands shook violently. The new\ngirl covered her mouth. Another\ntechnician backed away. I placed exact\nchange on the counter. No tip. Keep the\ntips. They were my mother's way of\nteaching me kindness doesn't require\nreciprocation, but I'm done funding your\ncruelty.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 437001, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "zeAfajyFWmU", "prompt": "Idea: My husband's manager think I was just arm candy until he realized I was the one fixing his mistakes.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My husband's creepy manager thought I was just arm candy until he realized I was the engineer fixing his mistakes. When my husband asked me to come to the construction site meeting, I figured why not? I had time between client calls, so I grabbed my coffee and drove over. The project was this commercial building downtown that I had designed 2 years ago at my previous firm. My husband was the developer and they were having structural issues that needed sorting out. The head contractor, Leonard, was there to discuss the foundation problems. My husband introduced me as his wife and then got called away for an urgent phone call. The moment my husband left for his phone call, Leonard's entire demeanor changed. He stopped mid-sentence and turned his back to me completely, spreading the blueprints across the table as if I'd suddenly vanished. When I stepped closer to examine the plans, he shifted his body to block my view. These are technical documents, sweetheart. Why don't you wait in the car? My stomach tightened as I politely mentioned I had experience with construction blueprints. Leonard's eyes traveled from my manicured nails to my designer heels, snorting at my fitted blazer. He chuckled while marking up the plans with aggressive red penstrokes, muttering about cocktail parties. When I pointed out a potential issue with the foundation specifications, Leonard spoke slowly, like explaining to a child, using his finger to trace the blueprints in exaggerated motions. I mentioned my engineering degrees, and his face twisted into a smirk. He made air quotes around engineering degree while pulling out his phone, pretending to Google diploma mills. My jaw clenched as he suggested I probably confused Instagram influencing with actual engineering work. Two subcontractors arrived and Leonard's voice boomed across the site. He gestured at my designer handbag, announcing it cost more than a week's salary for his workers. The men exchanged uncomfortable glances as Leonard launched into stories about his ex-wife who pretended to work but really just spent his money on yoga classes. He pointed at my wedding ring and whistled. Must be nice having a husband who lets you play dress up as a professional. My face burned as he kept comparing me to every trophy wife he'd ever met. Leonard puffed out his chest and started pacing like he was giving a TED talk. Diversity hires companies forced to put unqualified people in positions they didn't earn. He grabbed my portfolio and flipped through it dismissively, holding pages up to the light as if checking for forgeries. He tossed it aside carelessly, letting papers scatter across the dirty floor. His voice echoed off concrete walls as he ranted about participation trophies and gender quotas ruining the industry. When I reached for the structural drawings, Leonard snatched them away and tore one slightly, letting the piece down. I tried explaining the loadbearing wall placement, but he grabbed my pencil mid-sentence and snapped it with a sharp crack. He crumpled my calculation sheet and stomped on it before tossing it in the trash. The broken pencil pieces clattered on concrete as he kicked them aside, grinding the eraser into pink dust. My hands started shaking as he began grabbing every paper I touched, either crumpling them or holding them above his head. He even moved my coffee cup across the room, telling workers I might spill it on important documents. Leonard cornered me against the table, coffee breath mixing with stale cigarettes from his work shirt. He looked me up and down deliberately, his tongue running across his bottom lip, his hand moved to my lower back as he leaned over to grab papers, calluses rough through my silk blouse. He pulled out his phone and started typing with one hand while the other stayed planted on my back, fingers tracing small circles. I'm messaging our industry group chat right now. 300 contractors about to learn your name, and not in a good way. My hands trembled as he showed me the screen. Another fake engineer alert with my name. His breath was hot against my ear as he whispered, "I'd be lucky to design a birdhouse after this." The table edge dug into my hip as he pressed closer, trapping me between his body and the furniture. That's when the safety inspector showed up with urgent concerns about the structural integrity. And my husband returned from his phone call. Leonard immediately started panicking and said, "We need to get the engineer who designed this mess down here right now." My husband looked at me and smiled. She's standing right here. Leonard's face went completely white as I calmly pulled out my business card and professional engineer license. Leonard literally started stammering apologies while I walked him through exactly how to fix the structural issues he'd been complaining about. Turned out his concerns were him misreading my blueprints. Within an hour, I had identified the real problems and provided solutions. Word got around the construction community quickly about what happened. Leonard lost two major contracts when clients heard about his behavior.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 145061, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "FZ3EOETsAa0", "prompt": "Idea: My parents starved me and people paid to watch.\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My parents starved me and people paid to watch. My parents forced me to starve myself until I hallucinated because they discovered they could charge people to hear God speaking through their profit child. My parents were always looking for their next scheme after dad's scam of a construction business tanked. They tried selling fake supplements, running online psychic readings, even breeding exotic lizards. Then I got food poisoning at 11:00 and spent 3 days hallucinating from the fever. I kept babbling about seeing angels and talking to dead grandma. Instead of taking me to the hospital like normal parents, mine started recording everything I said. Then they drove around to different churches until they found one desperate enough to believe their 11-year-old could channel God. They practiced their sob story about their holy child until it sounded believable enough to monetize. Then they had to put their money where their mouth was and have me deliver some visions again. So they announced my first purification fast, 3 days of nothing but water while they sat around waiting for divine messages. By the end, I was seeing spots and mumbling total nonsense, which they wrote down like it was Shakespeare or something. When I begged for food, mom said, "Would you rather have a sandwich or save Mrs. Lipton's marriage? She's paying $500 to hear God's plan for her cheating husband." They stuffed me in white robes and shoved me in front of crying church members while I delivered prophecies that were actually just me hallucinating. I told Mrs. Lipton the angels would pick her husband up in a flying cauldron and bring him to Siberia. My parents convinced her it was a metaphor and the crowd went wild. After that, my parents forced fasts became more regular and longer. 3 days became four, then five. My parents bought professional recording equipment to capture my starvation ramblings and started selling subscriptions to rich church members. They'd make me memorize details about each client. So, when I was delirious, I'd accidentally mention stuff that seemed personal. I'd stand there swaying, mixing up Bible verses with whatever gossip I'd overheard about their marriages or businesses. Every time I begged to stop, my parents would insist that I was helping these people, and that if I stopped, I'd go to hell for my selfishness. Meanwhile, they were counting their cash. By 14, I looked like a skeleton. My hair was falling out in chunks, and I fainted basically every day, but the congregation ate it up, saying I was too pure for earthly flesh. Mom would run her fingers over my ribs and whisper, "Beautiful suffering, holy child." During one 7-day fast, I got so messed up, I thought the church ceiling was made of bread and started trying to eat the air. Everyone lost their minds, crying about visions of heavenly sustenance and threw $40,000 at my parents. Between fasts, they kept me on this pathetic diet to maintain my ethereal profit look. Daily weigh-ins, and if I gained even half a pound, they'd cut my portions. Dad would sit there scarfing down three plates of food while explaining that prophets shouldn't look wellfed. They had my starvation sessions scheduled like business meetings, planning them around visitors and major church events. My whole life was just starving, recovering from starving or dreading the next time I'd have to starve. During this huge Easter prophecy event with 200 paying guests, I completely snapped. 3 days into my fast, I stood up there in my stupid white robes, dizzy from hunger, and started spilling everything. I called out specific people by name with the dirt my parents had dug up on them. One lady's cheating husband, a guy, and his drinking problem. A mom being told her kid was sick because she didn't believe hard enough. Then I dropped the bomb. I'm not talking to God. My parents are starving me until I hallucinate. Tomorrow I'll be so hungry I'll barely be able to speak, and they'll charge you $500 for it. The whole room went dead silent while I kept going, explaining how they went through trash and stalked Facebook profiles for intel. I told them there was no God speaking through me, just a hungry kid with good ears and parents who figured out how to monetize child abuse. Some people started crying, others looked ready to riot, but I just kept talking until I ran out of secrets to spill. But my parents had a backup plan. Mom rushed the stage and grabbed me, tears streaming down her face. "The demons are fighting for his soul," she wailed. She spun this whole story about how my confession was actually Satan trying to destroy their ministry. Somehow, they convinced most of these idiots that my breakdown was proof of spiritual warfare. They locked me in the basement prayer booth and announced a 40-day purification fast to cast out my demons. Church members took shifts praying outside my door while my parents collected emergency donations for this critical spiritual battle. They actually played recordings of my confession as evidence of how powerful the evil forces were. My desperate attempt to tell the truth became their biggest money maker yet. 16 days into the 40-day fast, the pastor found me collapsed and unconscious after my kidneys shut down. The hospital recognized years of severe malnutrition and called the cops and they found financial records showing over 2 million in prophecy donations plus major tax evasion.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 83896, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "0AqkUatWEuw", "prompt": "Idea: My brother in law mocked me for being a stay at home dad not knowing I bought his company.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My brother-in-law mocked me for being a stay-at-home dad, not knowing I bought his company. My wife's family always assumed I was just living off her income. And my brother-in-law, Kenny, was definitely the worst about it. Every Sunday dinner at my in-laws house, he'd go on about being a vice president at his logistics company, making sure everyone knew how successful he was while giving me these looks. Thing is, he didn't know I'd sold my startup 5 years ago and chose to stay home when our daughter was born with serious health complications. All of that came to a head one particular Sunday when Kenny arrived at our house wasted from corporate golf. He saw me setting the table and chuckled about my apron being very domestic, just loud enough for his mother to hear. I tried redirecting to his golf game, but he waved me off. During appetizers, he asked my opinion on interest rates, then immediately turned away. "Actually, what would you know about the economy?" He explained to everyone how being out of the game made people lose touch. My chest started tightening as family members nodded along. When I cut my daughter's food, he announced loudly that I'd mastered the motherly arts. He explained how modern couples sometimes completely reverse nature and wasn't it interesting. The whole table heard him question my masculinity while I helped my child eat. After the main course arrived, he pulled out his wallet and peeled off 20s. Since money's probably tight, let me pay you for serving dinner. It's what I pay my housekeeper. He held out cash while family members stared at their plates in silence. My wife tried defending me, but Kenny laughed and addressed the table. He said she was basically supporting two children, gesturing at my daughter and me. Most women want partners, not dependence, but love is blind. He spoke about me like I wasn't there. I excuse myself to check dessert and sent a quick text to my CFO about accelerating that acquisition we discussed. My hands shook as I typed, returning to find Kenny mid- lecture. I tried sharing an investment insight. He called it adorable and asked if YouTube University was teaching finance. Now, the physical destruction came next when he accidentally knocked his wine glass onto my laptop bag. Red wine soaked through to my computer while he laughed about me using it for online poker. He made no move to help clean up. Extended family arrived and Kenny introduced me to his cousin as unemployed by choice. When I corrected him, he clarified loudly that I play with spreadsheets using my wife's money. He told everyone I was a kept man who'd never work again. My reputation dissolved in real time. The sacred line came when he pulled my daughter close and stage whispered where everyone could hear. When you grow up, find a real job like Uncle Kenny. Daddy can't teach you about success because he gave up. She asked why uncle was being mean to daddy. My mother-in-law mentioned upcoming medical bills and Kenny's eyes lit up with cruelty. He said, "Thank God she married a doctor since I couldn't provide insurance. Using my kid's sickness to avoid working was low, even for me. He weaponized my daughter's heart condition." His final assault came as a drunken toast to the whole room about my wife proving women can have it all. She's the surgeon, the bread winner, and basically a single mother since her husband is just another child to feed. He raised his glass while calling me a burden. The company rant exploded from him unprompted. Months of anxiety pouring out. He ranted about tech bros who got lucky thinking they're geniuses. Private equity parasites were destroying real businesses built by real men. He admitted not bothering to learn which vultures bought them. But when they fire me, I'll still be more man than Mr. Mom. Maybe you can be my maid. I sat down my coffee and asked what firm was buying his company. He sneered about me applying as their secretary before naming the buyer with disgust. The same tech bros who got lucky once and played CEO, he added. I showed him my phone with the acquisition announcement bearing my signature as CEO. The dining room froze as his face shifted from red to white. My wife's satisfied smile said everything while family members gasped in recognition. Kenny stammered about it not being real while desperately checking his own phone. "Your company is mine now," I said, standing to leave with my family. His apologies tumbled out, but I cut him off with raised hand. "You'll keep your job, but report to my new female CEO starting Monday. My daughter asked if uncle worked for daddy now," and I nodded. The tech bro who got lucky owns your future, Kenny.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 137938, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "pbHRzWOZfh4", "prompt": "Idea: 🧠THE SOUND UNLOCKED MEMORIES I NEVER LIVED.\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "How did you find out your friend was trying to end your life? My roommate required me to taste all her food first to make sure it wasn't poisoned because that's how her mother died. She looked me in the eye and said, "I'd rather lose you than die myself." Zoe and I were college roommates who became friends when she showed me a pie someone had sent her. She insisted on watching me eat three slices before she'd touch it herself. I thought she was being anxiously sweet at first. Then she started bringing me samples of everything she planned to eat. She'd time exactly 30 minutes on her phone before taking a bite. Her mother had died from poisoned soup when Zoe was 12, and the killer was never caught. This left her convinced someone was still trying to finish off her family. She'd grown up watching her father hire food tasters, but she couldn't afford to pay anyone to protect her. So, she'd gotten used to asking people to do it for free, but she always worried they were lying to her. She told me that finding a best friend she could trust with her life was the only way she'd ever feel safe eating again. I felt sorry for her trauma and agreed to taste her dining hall food. I thought it was harmless, but she looked at me with complete seriousness and said the arrangement would need to continue as long as we were friends. Whenever I ate with Zoe, I was forbidden from ordering my own food. I had to just eat half of hers. When I tried to laugh it off, she gripped my wrist. "This isn't a joke," she whispered. My mother thought she was safe, too, and now she's dead. "Unless you want me to starve, you'll keep tasting." She pulled out a laminated card that said I was her official food tester. It had my photo and emergency contact information. She'd downloaded an app tracking everything I'd tasted with timestamps and symptoms I was supposed to log. Living as Zoe's food tester destroyed my relationship with food. I couldn't eat my own meals without her panicking that I'd contaminated my palette. She started controlling my entire diet to keep my taste buds pure. She would show up at restaurants to watch what I ordered. Then she'd make me rinse my mouth with special solutions before tasting her food. She installed cameras in her kitchen and made me wear gloves when handling her food to prevent me from accidentally poisoning her. I lost 15 lbs because I was only allowed to eat after she'd finished her meals. By then, I was usually too anxious to have an appetite. She'd wake me up at 3:00 in the morning demanding I come taste medicine. Sometimes it was just her toothpaste because she'd read about someone being poisoned through dental products. When I started dating someone, she accused him of trying to compromise my ability to protect her. She demanded I choose between him and keeping her alive. I found Zoe in our kitchen one night with a syringe. She was injecting something into my groceries. When I confronted her, she calmly explained she was testing my detection abilities. I need to know if you're really paying attention when you taste. She said, "What if you miss something and I die just because you got lazy?" She showed me a notebook where she'd been recording my reaction times. She'd been scoring my performance with declining marks over the past few months. That's when she told me the truth. She'd been putting mild toxins in some of the food to see if I'd notice. I'd failed several tests. She said she couldn't trust me anymore unless I dropped out of school to focus on intensive retraining. I told her absolutely not. I was moving out and I was done being her food tester. I moved in with my boyfriend, blocked her number, and thought I was finally free. For 2 weeks, I ate whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. Pizza at midnight, and ice cream for breakfast. It felt like learning to breathe again. Then the harassment started. She sent messages to all our friends saying I'd abandoned her to die. She claimed that when she inevitably got poisoned, it would be my fault. She filed a lawsuit claiming I'd entered a verbal contract to protect her life, and somehow with her family influence, it made it to court. She testified that I was the only person keeping her from starvation. She even tried to get a court order requiring me to continue tasting her food as a medical necessity. The nightmare ended when Zoe was arrested for poisoning her new roommate. She'd forced the girl into food testing after I left. The girl had an allergic reaction to one of Zoe's detection tests and nearly died. Police found Zoe had been slowly poisoning multiple people, including me. She'd been using increasingly dangerous substances to test our effectiveness. The detective said they found plans where she was working up to lethal poisons so that people would finally take the threat against her life seriously when really the only threat was her. Zoe was sentenced to 15 years for attempted murder. [Music]", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 94351, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "_bUhxfwtjOk", "prompt": "Idea: The rich kid said I'd end up cleaning toilets for people like him, not knowing his dad worked\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "A rich kid said I'd end up cleaning\ntoilets for people like him, not knowing\nhis dad worked for my mom. I was the\nquiet kid in eighth grade whose mom\nalways said to keep a low profile at\nschool. She dropped me off a block away\nevery morning before heading to her\noffice, and I knew not to mention that\nshe meant the executive suite of the\nbiggest company in town. Bruce's dad\nworked there, too. Always bragging about\nbeing a regional sales manager. Bruce\nhad no idea my mom was the one who\nsigned his dad's paychecks, though, and\nbecause of that, Bruce made me the\ntarget of his bullying. Everything\nstarted on a Tuesday morning in early\nOctober when Bruce knocked my books out\nof my hands in the main hallway. While I\nknelt down to gather my scattered\npapers, he stood there laughing with his\nfriends. Later that same day, when I\nheld the door open for him after lunch,\nhe shoved past and told everyone I was\nprobably hoping for a tip like a\ndoorman. By Thursday of that week, he\nhad progressed to stealing my lunch\nmoney during second period and\nannouncing loudly that I was too poor to\nafford food anyway. Friday afternoon\nbrought another escalation when he\nshoved me into a locker after PE and\nmade comments about my clothes smelling\nlike thrift store while the entire\nhallway erupted in laughter. The\nfollowing week brought even worse\ntreatment. Every time I raised my hand\nduring English class on Monday, he\ninterrupted to call me stupid and wrong.\nWhen test results came back on Wednesday\nand I had earned an A, he grabbed my\npaper right off my desk and ripped it\ninto pieces while telling everyone the\nteacher probably felt too sorry for me\nto give me the F I really deserved.\nDuring lunch periods throughout that\nweek, his harassment evolved from simply\nknocking over my tray to something more\nhumiliating. He would grab my sandwich\nfrom my reused grocery bag, take a\ndramatic bite, and spit it out while\ndeclaring it was welfare food and\nmystery meat before throwing everything\nin the trash. On a particularly bad\nThursday, I tried a different approach\nand offered him my chips, thinking maybe\nkindness would work. He knocked them out\nof my hand and ground them into the\ncafeteria floor with his heel while\nexplaining that he didn't want to catch\nwhatever diseases poor people carry. The\nentire cafeteria watched in silence as\nhe made me clean up the mess with my\nbare hands. Physical education class\nbecame my daily nightmare after that. He\nwould wait until I was changing clothes,\nthen grab everything I owned and throw\nit all in the shower, leaving me\nstanding there in my underwear. While I\ntried to retrieve my soaked clothes, he\nwould loudly describe to the entire\nlocker room how skinny and malnourished\nI looked from eating dollar store food.\nThe harassment reached new levels the\nday he found my phone with its cracked\nscreen in early November. He picked it\nup and called it ancient junk, then\nexplained that his dad had told him poor\npeople always have broken phones because\nthey can't take care of anything. He\nthrew it on the ground and stomped on it\nrepeatedly until the screen went\ncompletely black and the phone wouldn't\nturn on anymore. When I wore the same\njacket three days in a row because my\nother one was still drying from being\nthrown in the shower, he started a rumor\nthat I only owned one set of clothes. He\nwould make gagging sounds whenever I\nwalked past in the hallways and hold his\nnose while telling everyone I hadn't\nchanged my underwear in a week. Career\nday arrived in mid- November, and Bruce\nhad spent the entire week telling\neveryone how his dad was going to\npresent about being successful in\nbusiness. The morning of the\npresentations, he cornered me in the\nbathroom and pushed my head toward the\ntoilet while his friends held the door\nshut. He kept my face inches from the\nwater and told me I better get used to\ncleaning toilets for rich people like\nhim. His dad went first during the\npresentations, strutting around the\nclassroom talking about sales figures\nand leadership while mentioning three\ntimes that he worked for the most\nsuccessful company in the state. Then\nthe classroom door opened and my mom\nwalked in. Bruce's dad stopped\nmid-sentence when he saw her, and his\nconfident expression transformed into\npure terror within seconds. His hands\nshook so badly that he dropped all his\npresentation notes while sweat soaked\nthrough his cheap shirt. My mom calmly\ntold Johnson to finish up and said they\nwould discuss his quarterly review\nafterward. Bruce's smirk disappeared\ninstantly as his face turned white as\npaper, and when someone whispered who\nshe was, he stared at me with his mouth\nhanging open in horror. His whole body\nstarted trembling as he finally\nunderstood that he had spent months\ntormenting his dad's boss's kid. After\nclass ended, Bruce tried to stammer out\nan apology, but couldn't even form\ncomplete words. His dad had to formally\napologize to my mom while Bruce stood\nthere looking like he might throw up at\nany moment. Within a week, Bruce had\ntransferred to a private school across\ntown, and his dad got demoted to a\ndifferent branch in another", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 369091, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "kEwiUwx0XzI", "prompt": "Idea: The Korean nail salon mocked me in their language not knowing I understood every word\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "The Korean nail salon mocked me in their\nlanguage, not knowing I understood every\nword. The Korean nail salon mocked me in\ntheir language, not knowing I understood\nevery word. I'd been going to the same\nKorean nail salon every two weeks for a\nyear. Minjang always did my nails with\nthat practice smile that never reached\nher eyes. "Welcome back, honey," she'd\nsay, already pulling out my usual basic\npolish. She'd chat in English while\nfiling, then switched to rapid Korean\nwith her co-workers. "What Minjong\ndidn't know? I understood every word. My\nmother taught me Korean from birth, but\nI look exactly like my black father.\nPeople see me and never guess I speak\ntheir language." After years of shocked\nreactions, sometimes it's easier to just\nsmile and nod. I was settling in when\nMing Jung turned to the new girl and\ncommented in Korean about my fingers\ngetting chubbier like little sausages,\nshe said. The new girl giggled and\nglanced at me, my jaw tightened. Another\ntechnician joined in, observing how I\nmade the chair look small. They laughed\ntogether while M Jung suggested charging\nme extra for equipment stress. She\npressed harder than necessary while\npushing back my cuticles. I didn't\nflinch. Then they started comparing me\nto other customers and taking photos of\nmy hands. M Jung announced I was\ndefinitely their worst dressed regular.\nShe pointed out dark spots on my\nknuckles to new employees. She explained\nin Korean it was for the group chat\nbecause the others would die laughing at\nhow ashy I was. After taking photos, she\nmade a show of using excessive hand\nsanitizer. She pumped it three times and\nrubbed her hands dramatically. The other\nsnickered while one pretended to open\nwindows for fresh air. Another waved a\nmagazine like a fan near my direction.\nThe mockery shifted when they saw my\nanxiety medication in my purse. Minjang\nannounced triumphantly in Korean that I\nwas on crazy pills. She said it\nexplained everything about me being both\ncrazy and ugly. She spoke louder now\nwhile making circular motions near her\ntemple. The whole salon erupted in\nlaughter. Other customers looked over\nbut didn't understand. Another\ntechnician added that no man would\nwillingly touch hands like mine. Minjang\nagreed I probably hadn't been touched in\nyears. That's why she seemed so\ndesperate for contact during manicures.\nThey made vulgar gestures behind my back\nreflected in the mirror. One mimicked\ngroping motions while another pretended\nto vomit. As the appointment went on,\nthey weren't even pretending I was human\nanymore. M Jung started referring to me\nas it when talking to other customers.\nShe'd tell them she had to finish with\nthis thing first. A Korean customer\nnodded sympathetically. The manager\nsuggested charging me a contamination\nfee. Minjang would announce she felt\ndirty after touching it while scrubbing\nher hands. She used the rough side of\nthe file on my natural nails. She\nstarted using old files and chipped\ntools on me. The new polish bottles she\nused for others stayed closed for me.\nThe worst part came when Minjang noticed\nmy mother's ring. She announced that\npathetic ring I always clutched was\nprobably from a dollar store. Another\ntechnician suggested I'd stolen it from\nsomeone who died. Someone added, "My\nmother probably abandoned me for being\nso ugly." They created an entire story\nabout my imaginary deadbeat family. Each\nedition was cruer than the last. The\nworst part was when they started making\nfun of my mother's death. Minjong\npractically shouted in Korean across the\nsalon about one less generation of\nugliness in the world. Her co-orker\nadded that the mother probably killed\nherself after seeing what she created.\nOther employees stopped their work to\nlaugh. Ming Jung laughed so hard she had\nto stop doing my nails. Tears streamed\ndown her face from laughing. Death was a\nrelief from having that as a daughter.\nMy phone rang at that moment. The\nuniversity's number flashed on screen. I\nlooked at the caller ID and decided this\nwas it. "Yes, this is Professor Prescott\nfrom the Korean studies department." I\nanswered in perfect Korean. The salon\nwent completely silent. Someone dropped\na bottle of polish that shattered on the\nfloor. Pink polish spread across the\nwhite tiles like spilled blood. I looked\ndirectly at Minjong, whose face had\ndrained of color. Still in Korean, I\nexplained my mother died alone because\npeople like them made her feel too\nKorean for America, too American for\nKorea. I let the words hang in the air.\nMinj's hands shook violently. The new\ngirl covered her mouth. Another\ntechnician backed away. I placed exact\nchange on the counter. No tip. Keep the\ntips. They were my mother's way of\nteaching me kindness doesn't require\nreciprocation, but I'm done funding your\ncruelty.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 437001, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "AWB9fMrm09s", "prompt": "Idea: When did the last person you expected come to your rescue?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did the last person you expected\ncome to your rescue? On the night of my\nwedding, when I was supposed to undergo\nour horrific community ritual, the\nsacred claiming. In my community, every\nbride was expected to spend her wedding\nnight being broken in by the village\nelders because they said virgins belong\nto the community before they belong to\ntheir husbands. Elder Elias was our\ndisgusting 70-year-old leader who\nclaimed God spoke directly through him\nand controlled everything in our\nisolated religious settlement. My\nparents worshiped him, and whenever he\nvisited our house, mom would practically\ngravel at his feet. "Your daughter has\nsuch pure eyes," he told my parents when\nI was 13, running his wrinkled fingers\nthrough my hair while I tried not to\nvomit. "He'll make a perfect offering\nwhen the time comes." When I turned 18,\nElder Elias knocked on our door at 6:00\nin the morning with a massive grin on\nhis face. "Congratulations," he\nannounced to my parents. "I've selected\nyoung Levi as your daughter's husband,\nand the ceremony will be next month." My\nmother started crying tears of joy while\nmy father shook Elias's hand repeatedly,\nbut I felt my stomach drop because I\nknew what came next. Elder Elias pulled\nme aside and his eyes lit up. "Now, let\nme explain your sacred duties as a\nbride," he said, licking his lips.\n"Before your husband can touch you, all\n12 elders will spend your wedding night\npreparing your body for marriage." I\nstared at him in horror while he\ndescribed what each elder would do to\nme, how they would strip me bare and\nhousebreak me into the perfect lover for\nmy new husband. You should feel honored,\nhe whispered. Because God has chosen\nyou. The next month was pure\npsychological torture as I watched my\nmother plan my wedding while I counted\ndown the days to my assault. I started\nsobbing every time someone mentioned the\nceremony and I would lie awake at night\nthinking about the other brides in our\ncommunity who came back from their\nwedding nights looking like zombies. My\nmother tried to comfort me. The pain\nonly lasts a few hours, she said. But\nthe spiritual benefits last forever. One\nday at dinner, I overheard Elder Elias\ntalking to the other elders. This is the\nmost beautiful bride we've had in years,\nhe was saying practically drooling. I\ncan't wait to break her in properly\ntomorrow night. I imagine that wrinkled\nmouth on my body, and I knew I couldn't\ngo through with this. So that night, I\npacked a small bag and escaped through\nthe community gates. I made it past the\nguards and to the main road, where I\nflagged down a truck driver who took me\nto the nearest town. For three\nincredible days, I stayed in a women's\nshelter and felt what freedom was like\nfor the first time in my life. I could\neat what I wanted, sleep without fear,\nand nobody was planning to assault me.\nBut then, Elder Elias showed up at the\nshelter, claiming I was his mentally ill\ndaughter who had run away from home. He\nhad faked medical documents saying I was\ndelusional and needed to return for\ntreatment. The shelter workers believed\nhim because he seemed so concerned and\nfatherly, and they helped load me into\nhis van despite my screaming protests.\nWhen we got back to my parents house, I\nwas still fighting. I would rather die\nthan let you animals touch me. I\nscreamed. My mother slapped me across\nthe face so hard the whole world spun.\nElder Elias was furious that I had dared\nto defy their sacred tradition. So, he\ndecided to make an example of me. Since\nyou tried to run away from your divine\ncalling, he announced with a sick smile.\nYou'll now spend an entire week with the\nelders, and your wedding ceremony will\nbe performed publicly so everyone can\nwitness your submission. They locked me\nin the community prayer house, and the\nelders took turns visiting me to explain\nexactly what they plan to do. But right\nwhen I felt like all hope was lost,\nsomeone came to my rescue, Levi, my\nintended husband. He came to the window\nof the prayer house the night before we\nwere supposed to be married, and he was\nshaking. I just found out what the\nsacred claiming actually is, and I'm\nhorrified," he said. His family had\nmoved to our community when he was 12,\nso he had never witnessed the ritual\nfirsthand, and genuinely believed it was\njust a blessing ceremony. "I heard Elder\nElias and the others talking about what\nthey're going to do to you," he said,\n"And I can't let this happen. I'm\nbringing the police here tomorrow night\nto catch them in the act." The next\nevening, just as Elder Elias was\nentering the prayer house with two other\nelders for my first night of\npreparation, police burst through the\ndoors with guns drawn. Levi had led them\nstraight to the scene, and they caught\nElder Elias in the act of unlocking my\ncell while describing what he planned to\ndo to me. Our entire religious\nsettlement was disbanded, and I watched\nElder Elias get dragged away in\nhandcuffs while he screamed that we were\nall going to hell. Levi testified\nalongside me. I escaped that hell, but I\nlost everything else in the process. My\nparents disowned me for destroying our\nsacred way of life, and I'm now\ncompletely alone with no family or\ncommunity. I still have nightmares about\nwhat would have happened if Levi hadn't\noverheard the plan and had a conscience.\nAnd I struggle with trusting men because\nof what those monsters taught me.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 1123904, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "KzXb4sfBaLQ", "prompt": "Idea: The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job. I was flying out for a union arbitration next week and instead of using my TSA pre-check, I wanted to go through regular security to see how agents really treated passengers when they didn't know a union lawyer was watching. Nothing could have prepared me for agent Franco at checkpoint 3, the one whose termination hearing I was supposed to defend tomorrow. The pre-check lane was mysteriously closed that morning. I joined the regular queue where an elderly woman struggled with her bins. After helping her get sorted, I placed my own items on the belt. Franco's expression changed when my medical bag triggered additional screening. He pulled it aside with his theatrical sigh. Everyone in three lanes knew I was going to be a problem. He deliberately made me wait while he cleared three other bags first. He took his sweet time examining a teenager's laptop. He joked with other agents about the game while I stood there. Franco finally got to my bag 20 minutes later. He picked up my CPAP machine like it was contaminated. He held my prescription documentation up to the light with exaggerated suspicion. "Sleep apnea is just fancy talk for snoring," he announced to his trainee. Then he noticed my scuffed shoes and wrinkled shirt from the early flight. "Probably can't even afford a real doctor," he muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. He turned my CPAP over and shook it next to his ear. "These things are just props for insurance fraud," he declared. Franco set down his clipboard and cracked his knuckles with a grin. "He dismantled my CPAP piece by piece. He claimed he needed to check for hidden compartments. He yanked the hose hard enough to strip the connector threads. My chest burned with suppressed rage. He poured the water chamber onto the floor to test for dissolved substances. The water splashed across my shoes while he watched with satisfaction. My hands started trembling as he made me wear the mask. He snapped photos with his checkpoint tablet while other passengers watched. "This is what drug smugglers do now," he announced to the growing crowd. He made me turn in a circle, wearing it like I was modeling. "The destruction turned deliberate when Franco found my medical documentation." He walked to the podium and fed it into their paper shredder. He maintained eye contact the entire time. "Oops, wrong slot," he said with a smile. My jaw clenched hard enough to crack a mer. He tore my prescription into confetti and scattered it in the trash. He ground my doctor's letter into the floor with his boot. The paper smeared under his heel as he twisted it. Other passengers recorded everything on their phones. A younger agent started to object, but Franco's glare silenced him immediately. "You got something to say, rookie?" Franco barked. I tried staying calm and kept my voice level. "Please, I need that equipment to breathe at night. This only made him bolder." He laughed and mimicked my voice in a whiny tone. He started photographing my driver's license with a checkpoint camera. He zoomed in on my address while calling another agent over. "Look at this address. Guy lives in the ghetto but carries expensive medical toys. He typed something into his computer with dramatic keystrokes." "Adding you to our special screening list," he said with m concern. Everything changed when he saw my barcard identifying me as an attorney. Franco's entire demeanor shifted to pure hostility. His face darkened and his jaw muscles twitched. He leaned close enough that I could smell stale coffee. He grabbed my collar and shoved me hard against the wall. Lawyers like you destroy good men's lives. He snarled. My spine hit the concrete with enough force to knock the wind out. Black spots danced in my vision. That's when I heard footsteps running toward us. The checkpoint supervisor rounded the corner and froze mid-stride. He saw me pinned against the wall. Jim. Jim Wheeler. His face drained of color. Franco's grip instantly loosened at his supervisor's voice. Franco glanced back with confusion. Vargas, I got this handled. Just a difficult passenger. Vargas was already pulling up something on his phone. His hands shook as he showed Franco the email thread. He's defending you tomorrow at your termination hearing. I straightened my jacket and looked Franco directly in the eye. Was defending you. Past tense. Franco's desperate begging meant nothing once the security footage sealed his fate. Federal agents reviewed evidence of him assaulting his own union lawyer. His uncle at headquarters couldn't touch federal ADA violations. Without union protection, other agents lined up to testify against him. Franco lost his badge, his pension, and his freedom. The assault charges stuck. Last I heard, he was pulling night shifts at a mall. He made $12 an hour. He googled my name obsessively and lived with one truth. He destroyed his own last chance with his bare hands.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 1057017, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "i2K8OljlkYQ", "prompt": "Idea: My neighbor called the cops on the entire neighborhood, So I let her call the cops on herself.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My neighbor called the cops on the entire neighborhood, so I let her call the cops on herself. Karen moved to our diverse neighborhood and immediately appointed herself the unofficial sheriff with 911 on speed dial. She called cops on kids playing basketball, reported every food truck is unlicensed, and had a particular obsession with calling about any gathering that involved loud music or colored people. Her reign of terror started with noise complaints about birthday parties in broad daylight and escalated to claiming the Fam family's PHO restaurant was producing chemical weapons because she didn't like fish sauce. She got Johnny detained for jogging while black, claiming he was casing houses, even though he'd run the same route every morning for 3 years. The neighborhood started recording her after she got Billy arrested for watering his garden because she reported him for brandishing a weapon, which turned out to be his garden hose. Her worst offense was destroying the Collins family's food truck business by filing false health complaints until they lost their permit and had to sell everything to pay legal fees. I was more of a spectator until I saw something that pushed me over the edge. One morning, I witnessed her attacking Anka, a 70-year-old grandmother who sold Tamales door to door to support her grandkids. Karen burst from her house screaming about illegal food operations and blocked Anka's path while calling 911 to report aggressive criminal activity. The elderly woman spoke little English and became so frightened when multiple police units surrounded her that she had a panic attack and dropped her cooler, losing her entire day's income across the pavement. Seeing Karen's satisfied smirk while Anka cried, reminded me of my own grandmother, who'd sold newspapers the same way when she first immigrated here. I quit being a spectator and decided to bully Karen in the only way I could. Over the following weeks, I started my own small rebellion against Karen by parking in front of her house whenever I needed to make work calls. I discovered she absolutely hated car exhaust and would peek through her curtains, looking annoyed whenever someone idled outside, so I made it my mission to park there with my engine running. It was petty but satisfying to watch her pace behind her window getting increasingly agitated. And I figured the worst that could happen was another one of her pointless 911 calls that would go nowhere like they always did. I had no idea about any warrants or legal troubles. I just wanted to irritate her the same way she'd been terrorizing everyone else. One day, as I had parked my car in front of her house yet again, she ran out screaming with a freshly botoxed face that looked puffy and tight with rage. She shrieked that my exhaust fumes were poisoning her and reversing her expensive cosmetic treatments, then announced she was calling 911 for assault with a deadly weapon. I almost laughed at the absurdity while settling in to watch what I assumed would be another pointless performance. This time she really sold it, describing a terrorist attack via carbon monoxide and demanding immediate police response for attempted murder. I expected maybe one board officer to eventually show up and roll their eyes, but two full units arrived with officers approaching my car with hands on their weapons. Karen launched into theatrical explanations about chemical warfare against her medical procedures, gesturing wildly at my exhaust pipe like it was a loaded gun. She completely lost it and even physically grabbed an officer's arm, screaming that I was a criminal who needed immediate arrest. The officer firmly told her to step back, but she kept advancing while shrieking about her connections and how she'd called 911 on every criminal in the neighborhood if they didn't arrest me immediately. When they requested identification from both of us, I handed over my license expecting a lecture about being neighborly. But when they ran Karen's information, their entire demeanor shifted. They informed her she was under arrest for multiple outstanding warrants. Karen went completely berserk and shoved one officer hard in the chest. The officer immediately deployed his taser and Karen dropped to the pavement, convulsing while still trying to scream about exhaust fumes between electrical pulses. They cuffed her while she was still twitching and loaded her into the squad car as I sat there genuinely stunned because I only wanted to annoy her a little, not watch her get electrocuted and hauled away. Karen's mugsh shot went viral in our neighborhood Facebook group and she got charged with assault on an officer as well as filing false reports. Karen made bail but moved away within a month, ranting about our criminal neighborhood conspiring against her. We threw a block party when her moving truck left and drank beer till sunrise.", "metadata": {"writer": "Neil", "views": 231044, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "QoO3JMB2U_M", "prompt": "Idea: My Best Friend Stole Every Detail of My Life for Eight Years,\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My best friend stole every detail of my life for eight years. So, I fed her the one thing that would ruin hers. My best friend, Lindsay, had been copying me since college, and I mean that literally. She'd insist on wearing the same Halloween costume every single year. She'd get the exact same haircut days after I changed mine. She even switched her major to match mine sophomore year. The copying got progressively worse over our eight years of friendship. When I cut my hair into a pixie cut, she showed up next week with the same style. I adopted a rescue mut named Biscuit, and within a month, she bought the same breed. She paid $3,000 and named hers muffin. Then, it spread to my relationships when I started dating Brandon. Lindsay suddenly realized she had feelings for his roommate, who she never noticed before. When Brandon proposed with his grandmother's art deco ring, something predictable happened 3 weeks later. Lindsay's boyfriend proposed with a suspiciously similar vintage ring. Whenever I confronted her about the copying, she played victim. When I asked about the haircut, she smiled and said, "Great minds think alike." She told our friends I was possessive and should be flattered. The wedding situation destroyed any remaining boundaries between us. Lindsay begged to be my maid of honor and used that access to duplicate every detail. She booked the same venue for 6 weeks after my date. She ordered the exact same dress and claimed we just had similar taste. My dusty rose and sage color scheme became her color scheme. She even booked the same Costa Rica resort for her honeymoon. 2 weeks before my wedding, Lindsay called with incredible news about a venue cancellation. she could move her wedding to the week before mine, which meant guests would see hers first. I drove to her apartment that night to talk about it. She knew why I was there before I could even speak. She mentioned how perfect her wedding would be with both parents walking her down the aisle. Then she paused and gave me this fake sympathetic look while touching my shoulder. "At least your mom will be there," she said, knowing my dad died 3 years ago. I left her apartment and spent the entire night thinking about her calculated cruelty. Lindsay's weakness was that she could only copy what she could see on the surface. She never verified anything because she just took it and made it bigger with her trust fund. She desperately wanted to prove she was more than daddy's money, but couldn't create anything herself. That's when I started building my fake startup. Over the next 3 weeks, I created an entire sustainable wedding planning company from scratch. The professional website used stock photos and fake testimonials I wrote myself. I designed branded business cards and letterhead that looked completely legitimate. The pitch deck showed $5 million projected valuations and pending celebrity endorsements. I knew Lindsay always arrived at our coffee shop at 3:15 on Thursday afternoons. I arrived at 2:45 and strategically left the pitch deck partially visible under my notebook. I departed at 3:10 knowing she'd take my usual table by the window. Over the following days, I took fake phone calls about turning down investors in her presence. I posted about exhausting venture capitalist meetings on Instagram. Lindsay confronted me within days with desperation in her voice. Why didn't you tell me about your company? She demanded. I played it perfectly by saying I didn't want to mix friendship with business. The investment window was really competitive and nearly closed, which made her absolutely raid. She insisted on investing, and I reluctantly agreed to let her put in 50,000 minimum. Lindsay wanted more, though, and demanded to be co-founder for a $200,000 investment. I'll quit my job tomorrow if that's what it takes, she promised. She agreed immediately and started telling everyone about our revolutionary business. The next three months were incredible to watch as she destroyed her own life. She pressured her husband to invest his entire savings into the company. Her parents invested half a million dollars after she showed them my fake materials. Her Instagram became nothing but CEO lifestyle posts. I maintained the illusion by scheduling fake meetings during her yoga classes. My tech friend redirected the website to a coming soon page whenever she tried showing people. When she finally demanded to see financials for an investor meeting, I showed her the truth. The company never existed, and she couldn't expose me without admitting she'd lied. Her husband left when he realized she'd invested their future in nothing. Her parents put her on financial lockdown, demanding full repayment to avoid charges. The investment community blacklisted her completely after losing $750,000. My wedding went beautifully without drama the following month. Last, I heard she was interviewing for entry-le positions. She finally got something she couldn't copy for me. Real consequences.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 29571, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "-Y0rsgfHVjY", "prompt": "Idea: My cousin said I was a loser until he realized I owned his company.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My cousin said I was a loser until he\nrealized I owned his company. I was\nsitting at my family's barbecue eating\nmy burger and minding my own business.\nMy relatives always saw me as the guy\nwho did computer stuff all day instead\nof having a real job. They had no idea I\nactually owned a software company that\nI'd built from nothing over the past 8\nyears. We specialized in productivity\ntools for large corporations and had\njust acquired a major firm 3 months ago.\nBrad settled into his usual routine,\nlooking me up and down with obvious\ndisgust. He gestured at my faded clothes\nwhile adjusting his expensive watch,\nlecturing me about how I needed to dress\nlike an adult instead of shopping at\nthrift stores. He said people would\nnever take me seriously looking like a\nteenager. My jaw clenched, but I stayed\nquiet. The family nodded along like he\nwas delivering profound wisdom. My aunt\nchimed in about how I couldn't live off\nmy parents forever while most people my\nage had real careers. She turned to Brad\nwith admiration, asking about his\npromotion. Brad's chest puffed out as he\nlaunched into his success story, then\npivoted to complaining about his new\nmanagement. The company had been\nacquired by some tech startup and the\nnew CEO was a complete joke. He called\nthe guy a 20some who probably learned\nbusiness from YouTube videos. My uncle\nleaned forward with interest as Brad\nexplained how the CEO never showed up to\nmeetings, probably too busy playing\nvideo games in his mom's basement to\nactually run a company. He looked\ndirectly at me with a knowing smirk. My\nface burned, but I kept my expression\nneutral. Brad continued warming to his\naudience, explaining how this CEO\nprobably made decisions based on Tik Tok\ntrends. He said, "These startup kids\nthought they were geniuses, but didn't\nunderstand real business, probably\nburning through investor money on fancy\ncoffee and ping- pong tables." My aunt\nlaughed about how at least Brad had\nactual skills, unlike these computer\nnerds who thought clicking buttons all\nday made them entrepreneurs. Brad\nexplained how the CEO probably couldn't\neven afford a real office, betting he\nwas running the whole company from some\ncramped apartment, eating ramen noodles\nand pretending he was Steve Jobs. I\ngritted my teeth as the attacks got more\npersonal. My uncle joined in about how\nthese tech bros were what was wrong with\nAmerica, thinking playing on the\ninternet was a real job. Brad leaned\nback smuggly, explaining how he'd been\ndoing the actual work while this CEO\ntook credit for everything. The guy\nprobably didn't even know how to read a\nfinancial statement, just another\nbasement dweller who got lucky. My hands\ntrembled slightly as I set down my\nburger. Brad noticed and smirked. He\nreached over and grabbed my burger,\ntaking a big bite while explaining how\nthis CEO was so incompetent, he probably\ncouldn't even run his own life, let\nalone a company. He chewed my food while\nspeculating that the guy had never even\nbeen on a real date, asking what woman\nwould want to be with some loser who\nplayed video games all day. The family\nerupted in laughter. My aunt wiped tears\nfrom her eyes as Brad continued his\nperformance. He kept talking about how\npathetic it would be to live in your\nparents' basement with no real job, no\ngirlfriend, no future, just sitting\nthere in pajamas thinking you were\nimportant. He tossed the rest of my\nburger in the trash, explaining how the\ncompany would probably fail within 6\nmonths because the leadership was so\nweak. He was already looking for a new\njob before this ran everything\ninto the ground. My chest burned as I\nwatched him wipe his hands on a napkin.\nHe pointed at me with a condescending\nsmile. This is why you need to get\nserious about your life before you end\nup like these fake entrepreneurs who\nthink they're hot stuff but actually\nknow nothing. I pulled out my phone and\nopened my email. I scrolled until I\nfound the acquisition announcement from\n3 months ago and turned the screen\ntoward Brad. His face went white as he\nread the email from me to all employees,\nwelcoming his former company to our\norganization. My signature sat at the\nbottom with my title as CEO and founder.\nWait, that's not possible, he whispered,\nhis voice cracking. I shrugged. I\nfounded the company 7 years ago. We\nacquired your firm in March. The\nbackyard went dead silent. Brad stared\nat the phone like it might explode.\nYou're telling me you're my boss? I\nnodded. Have been for 3 months. I've\nbeen reading your performance reviews.\nHis face cycled through five different\ncolors. He started stuttering apologies,\nbut I cut him off, telling him not to\nworry about it, and that he was actually\ndoing great work. My aunt's mouth hung\nopen, asking if I really owned a\ncompany. I explained that I owned the\ncompany that owned Brad's company, about\n200 employees now. Brad looked like he\nwanted to disappear.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 158288, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "l1PsHtsvC20", "prompt": "Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you wish Twilight had never\nbeen written? For as long as I could\nremember, my friend Tina had been\ninsecure about being pale. The boys at\nschool constantly teased her, saying she\nlooked sickly and called her Casper. She\nwore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather\nto avoid getting bullied. I felt\nterrible watching her suffer. But the\nweek she discovered Twilight, everything\nchanged. She walked into class with bare\narms for the first time in years,\nquoting from the book, "My skin's like\nmarble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was\nshocked except me. I was just happy\nshe'd found something that made her feel\npowerful instead of pathetic. At first,\nTina's vampire things seemed like\ntypical teenage fandom. She'd come over\nwith the books, reading her favorite\npassages out loud and giggling. Edward\nCullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter\nwith sunscreen so both of our skins\nwould look like thousands of tiny\ndiamonds embedded, just like in the\nseries. Our parents thought it was\nsweet. When Tina started wearing those\namber contacts to school, even the\ncounselor was supportive, saying\nwhatever helps her confidence. The boys\nwho used to call her Casper now moved\nout of her way in the halls, looking\ncompletely intimidated by her\nconfidence. Her parents bought her the\nwhole book collection for Christmas and\nthe Blu-ray disc of the first movie for\nher birthday. We were all thrilled at\nhow much she thrived. Things got out of\nhand after spring break. Tina pulled me\naside and opened her mouth. Her canines\nhad been filed into points like actual\nfangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over\nthem proudly. Cool, huh? They're\npermanent. I'll show you something else\nafter school. At her house, Tina dragged\nme to the kitchen and drained blood from\nraw meat into a glass. She drank it down\nwhile I watched in horror. Want some?\nShe asked, holding the glass for my\nface. I threw up in the sink while she\nlaughed. Yeah, I was like that too at\nfirst, but it's actually not that bad.\nBefore she could pressure me again, her\nmom marched in fuming red and waving a\ncredit card statement. "$3,000. Are you\nserious, Tina? That card was for\nemergencies only." Tina shrugged and\nlied calmly. "It's just teeth\nwhitening." Her mom grabbed her face,\nforcing her mouth open. She saw the\nfangs and froze. Tina pulled back,\nglaring. "Do you want me to be bullied\nagain?" After a long silence, Tina\nhugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I\njust wanted to be beautiful like the\nvampires in Twilight." Once her mom\nwalked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's\nwrist and said sternly, "You're going\ntoo far. This isn't right." She frowned\nand told me to leave, completely\nunwilling to hear me out. After\neverything that happened, I avoided Tina\nat school. But on Friday, she walked\nover after class, begging to be friends\nagain. "Please, like old times, I've\nbeen avoiding her for weeks, so I\ncaved." Later that day, while we were\nwatching a clips in my room, she\nsuddenly stood up during her favorite\nscene and said, "Don't pause it. I just\nneed the bathroom." But instead of\nmaking a left, she turned down the hall\ntoward my 8-year-old brother's room. I\ngot up and followed, pushing the door\nopen to see what was going on. The\ndinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the\nworst thing I've ever seen. Tina had\nJustin pinned to his race car bed, her\nmouth clamped on his neck, not playing.\nFeeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound\nfilled the room. I stood there\nparalyzed, watching while the blood ran\nfrom under her lips, soaking his Pokemon\npajamas, pooling on his face themed\nsheets. Justin's eyes were huge with\nterror, tears streaming as his small\nhands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She\nwhispered between swallows. The burn\nmeans it's working. You're so lucky. I\nscreamed for help and stumbled in to\nswitch on the lights. Tina's head jerked\nup. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts\nreflected like a predator's eyes. Don't\ninterrupt, she hissed. I can taste his\ninnocence. It's exactly like the book\nsaid. Sweet and addicting. Justin made\nthis horrible choking sound. I grabbed\nher hair, yanking hard, but she was\nimpossibly strong. He just needs to die\nfirst, then he'll wake up perfect. My\nparents crashed through the door,\nyelling curse words when they saw the\nsight. Dad ripped her off while she\nfought like something possessed. You're\nruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood\nspraying from her mouth. Mom pressed\ntowels to Justin's neck while sobbing\nhysterically. The white cloth turned red\ninstantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina\ntried to lunge past D. Let me finish.\nHe's already half turned. Can't you\nsmell how his blood's changing? Dad\npinned her down while she thrashed. His\nthoughts are in my head now, she moaned,\nlicking the blood from her lips. He's\nscared, but he understands. He wants to\nlive forever as my Edward. Dad held her\ndown until the EMTs arrived. When they\ngot careless, she bit one of them too,\nscreaming about spreading the gift. They\nhad to sedate her twice before taking\nher away. They took Tina to the state\npsychiatric hospital. Justin needed\nstitches and one liter of transfusions.\nHe eventually stabilized but left the\nhospital traumatized. Two years have\npassed since then, but he still sleeps\nwith every light on. The puncture scars\non his neck look exactly like fang marks\nhaunting our family. I visited Tina once\na year later. She smiled with those\npointy teeth and whispered, "Has my\nEdward? Has he taken his first victim?"\nWhen I said he wasn't a vampire, she\nlaughed. The change takes years for\nchildren. Tell him wait.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 2644943, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "KzXb4sfBaLQ", "prompt": "Idea: The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job. I was flying out for a union arbitration next week and instead of using my TSA pre-check, I wanted to go through regular security to see how agents really treated passengers when they didn't know a union lawyer was watching. Nothing could have prepared me for agent Franco at checkpoint 3, the one whose termination hearing I was supposed to defend tomorrow. The pre-check lane was mysteriously closed that morning. I joined the regular queue where an elderly woman struggled with her bins. After helping her get sorted, I placed my own items on the belt. Franco's expression changed when my medical bag triggered additional screening. He pulled it aside with his theatrical sigh. Everyone in three lanes knew I was going to be a problem. He deliberately made me wait while he cleared three other bags first. He took his sweet time examining a teenager's laptop. He joked with other agents about the game while I stood there. Franco finally got to my bag 20 minutes later. He picked up my CPAP machine like it was contaminated. He held my prescription documentation up to the light with exaggerated suspicion. "Sleep apnea is just fancy talk for snoring," he announced to his trainee. Then he noticed my scuffed shoes and wrinkled shirt from the early flight. "Probably can't even afford a real doctor," he muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. He turned my CPAP over and shook it next to his ear. "These things are just props for insurance fraud," he declared. Franco set down his clipboard and cracked his knuckles with a grin. "He dismantled my CPAP piece by piece. He claimed he needed to check for hidden compartments. He yanked the hose hard enough to strip the connector threads. My chest burned with suppressed rage. He poured the water chamber onto the floor to test for dissolved substances. The water splashed across my shoes while he watched with satisfaction. My hands started trembling as he made me wear the mask. He snapped photos with his checkpoint tablet while other passengers watched. "This is what drug smugglers do now," he announced to the growing crowd. He made me turn in a circle, wearing it like I was modeling. "The destruction turned deliberate when Franco found my medical documentation." He walked to the podium and fed it into their paper shredder. He maintained eye contact the entire time. "Oops, wrong slot," he said with a smile. My jaw clenched hard enough to crack a mer. He tore my prescription into confetti and scattered it in the trash. He ground my doctor's letter into the floor with his boot. The paper smeared under his heel as he twisted it. Other passengers recorded everything on their phones. A younger agent started to object, but Franco's glare silenced him immediately. "You got something to say, rookie?" Franco barked. I tried staying calm and kept my voice level. "Please, I need that equipment to breathe at night. This only made him bolder." He laughed and mimicked my voice in a whiny tone. He started photographing my driver's license with a checkpoint camera. He zoomed in on my address while calling another agent over. "Look at this address. Guy lives in the ghetto but carries expensive medical toys. He typed something into his computer with dramatic keystrokes." "Adding you to our special screening list," he said with m concern. Everything changed when he saw my barcard identifying me as an attorney. Franco's entire demeanor shifted to pure hostility. His face darkened and his jaw muscles twitched. He leaned close enough that I could smell stale coffee. He grabbed my collar and shoved me hard against the wall. Lawyers like you destroy good men's lives. He snarled. My spine hit the concrete with enough force to knock the wind out. Black spots danced in my vision. That's when I heard footsteps running toward us. The checkpoint supervisor rounded the corner and froze mid-stride. He saw me pinned against the wall. Jim. Jim Wheeler. His face drained of color. Franco's grip instantly loosened at his supervisor's voice. Franco glanced back with confusion. Vargas, I got this handled. Just a difficult passenger. Vargas was already pulling up something on his phone. His hands shook as he showed Franco the email thread. He's defending you tomorrow at your termination hearing. I straightened my jacket and looked Franco directly in the eye. Was defending you. Past tense. Franco's desperate begging meant nothing once the security footage sealed his fate. Federal agents reviewed evidence of him assaulting his own union lawyer. His uncle at headquarters couldn't touch federal ADA violations. Without union protection, other agents lined up to testify against him. Franco lost his badge, his pension, and his freedom. The assault charges stuck. Last I heard, he was pulling night shifts at a mall. He made $12 an hour. He googled my name obsessively and lived with one truth. He destroyed his own last chance with his bare hands.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 1057017, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "TzsoXZaFdeo", "prompt": "Idea: What made you call the police on your own mother?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you call the police on your own mother? My seven-year-old sister Dianiela was singing in the backseat behind me when a truck ran the red light and slammed into us at top speed. By the time the car stopped flipping, Dianiela became permanently silent. After hours trying to save her, the doctors told us she was gone. Mom climbed into the hospital bed and pulled Daniela against her chest, rocking her for 3 hours. Mommy's here, baby. Dad just stood frozen when the nurses pried my sister from mom's arms. And while they fought, I threw up knowing I survived, and Daniela didn't. The first few weeks blurred together with mom crying in Daniela's room for hours. Dad would hold her shoulders and whisper that everything would be okay. I kept making her chamomile tea, but the cups always went cold on the nightstand. She couldn't stop staring at Daniela's things long enough to drink them. Our grief therapist said this was normal and everyone processes loss differently. So, we didn't worry when mom started making Daniela's bed every morning or arranged the stuffed animals in perfect rows just how Daniellea liked them. We thought maybe this ritual was helping her cope with the loss. On the day would have turned nine, mom showed up with a wrapped birthday present saying she'd already bought it before the accident. An obvious lie, but dad and I let it slide because what harm could one gift do to an already broken family. A month later, mom walked through the door carrying a life-sized doll that looked exactly like Dianiela with real human hair in her exact shade. She sat me down to show how she could brush his hair just like Daniela's bedtime routine. I forced myself to nod, my heartbreaking from the desperate sight. The next few days spiralled out of control. Mom dressed the doll in new outfits every morning and took it everywhere in Daniellea's wagon. She did both voices like the doll could actually respond. People at the mall grabbed their children and hurried away from us. Dad found the $3,000 credit card charge. When he confronted her, she clutched the doll, screaming, "You can't put a price on our daughter." He started sleeping on the couch that night. Things got worse when she pulled me out of school, claiming it was too dangerous. She set up homeschooling with three play settings at our kitchen table. Week after week, I sat there watching her teach that doll alongside me until one morning I couldn't take it anymore. One morning, I finally snapped and said, "Stop it. Daniela is gone. Mom sobbed." "You abandoned her in that car, and now you're doing it again." The guilt hit me so hard I couldn't breathe. "I'm here, too," I mumbled while she cradled that doll like a real child while tears streamed down her face. Two weeks after dad left, mom started acting strange. She'd leave the doll behind and disappear, returning with stories about her wonderful new friend and the woman's precious daughter. "I found her phone with Daniellea's photo replaced by a stranger's child." "She has Daniellea's exact laugh," Mom said behind me, her eyes glittering. At noon, the doorbell rang and mom flew to answer feverishly. An exhausted woman stood there clutching her purse, thanking mom over and over for babysitting. Behind her, a girl about 11 with dark hair hung back, clearly uneasy. "Take all the time you need," Mom purred in a voice I'd never heard before. "The second their car turned the corner, something in mom's face shifted into pure predator. She grabbed the girl's wrist hard enough to leave marks and dragged her toward Daniela's room." "Welcome home, baby." The girl's confusion turned to fear. "My name's not Daniela, it's Katie," she whispered. The sound of mom's palm hitting her face made me flinch. "You are Dianiela!" Mom shrieked. Everything accelerated into a nightmare. Mom commanded Katie to undress, but when she shook her head, mom grabbed the scissors from Daniellea's desk. Katie tried to bolt, but mom caught her by the hair. I watched, frozen in horror as she cut through Katie's clothes with violent precision, humming Daniellea's lullabi. Katie stood there exposed and sobbing while mom forced Daniela's tiny dress over her head. The bathroom became a torture chamber. Mom dragged the screaming girl in while I watched in horror. Through the mirror, I watched mom slather bleach on her hair. "I want my mommy," she wailed. "I am your mommy?" Mom cooed. "God gave you back to me." In one desperate moment, when mom turned for more dye, Katie scooped bleach and smeared it across mom's eyes. Mom's scream was inhuman as she clawed at her face. Katie sprinted out and yelled for help. I flew downstairs and dove into the pantry with my phone. I whispered frantically to 911 while Katie's sobbs mixed with mom's rage above us. Those minutes waiting for sirens felt like ours. When they finally broke down Daniela's door, they found mom sitting calmly on the bed, brushing both Katie's hair and the dolls. "My two Dianielas have finally met," she announced proudly. Katie threw herself at the officers while mom fought like a wild animal, screaming, "Don't take my babies again." Even as they wrestled her into handcuffs, the little girl's mom placed a restraining order on her family, and mom's been institutionalized 8 months now. "Last time I visited, she grabbed my hand and whispered, "I forgive you for sending Dianiela away again." She smiled and for a moment I thought I saw a glimpse of mom I had before the crash until she mentioned another patient had Daniellea's exact laugh.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 1390355, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "dJigaUUHuKg", "prompt": "Idea: When did your parents use you for money?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did your parents use you for money?\nWhat's the most twisted thing your\nfamily ever did to you? When I was 17,\nmy parents threw me a beautiful funeral\nservice. The only problem was that I was\nvery much alive. My parents had always\nbeen obsessed with money in the most\ndisgusting ways possible. They'd take\nout credit cards and dead relatives\nnames, steal packages from neighbors\nporches, and constantly claim products\nwere defective or damaged so we could\nget money back. When I turned 16, they\ntook out a massive life insurance policy\non me worth half a million dollars,\ntelling me it was just in case something\nhappened. They made me sign papers I\ndidn't understand, and kept talking\nabout how I was their most valuable\nasset. The plan was simple and\nhorrifying. They were going to fake my\ndeath, collect the insurance money, and\nkeep me hidden until the investigation\nwas over. They've been planning it for\nmonths, setting up fake medical records\nshowing I had a terminal illness,\nbribing a corrupt funeral director, and\neven arranging for a closed casket\nfilled with weights. They told me if I\ndidn't cooperate, they'd make my death\nvery real and very painful. Living as a\ndead person was absolute hell. They\nmoved me to a basement apartment in a\nbuilding they owned across town, where I\nwas basically their prisoner. They\nattached me to the wall with a long\nchain so I could get around the\napartment. But I had no hope of getting\nout. I couldn't go outside, couldn't\ncontact anyone I knew. Couldn't even\norder food. My parents would visit once\na week to bring groceries and remind me\nthat if saw me alive, we'd all go to\nprison for insurance fraud. Even if I\ncould have broken free, they'd taken my\nphone, my ID, my social security card,\neverything that proved I was a real\nperson. The worst part was that I could\nsee my old school from the one window in\nmy apartment. And every day, I watched\nmy old classmates work on building a\nmemorial garden in my honor. I wanted\nmore than anything to break free and run\nto my old friends and tell them I was\nstill alive. But I knew that my parents\nthreats were legit. Meanwhile, they'd\nstarted a GoFundMe from my end of life\nexpenses that raised thousands of\ndollars from people who actually cared\nabout me. They came in cracking up one\nday, telling me my girlfriend had just\ngiven them $200. After 6 months of this\nnightmare, I couldn't take it anymore.\nI'd been working on loosening one of the\nbolts that held my chain to the wall,\nand I finally managed to break free. I\nmade it to the window and started\nscreaming as loud as I could, "Help me!\nI'm alive. My parents faked my death." I\ncould see people on the street looking\nup, and for a moment, I thought someone\nmight actually help me. Someone even\ncame to the building's front door and\nstarted asking questions. I felt this\nincredible rush of hope that finally\nsomeone would realize I was really alive\nand this nightmare would be over. But my\nparents had planned for this, too. They\nshowed up and told the building manager\nthat I was their nephew, who was having\na psychotic break and was obsessed with\ntheir dead son. They showed fake medical\ndocuments saying I was schizophrenic and\ndangerous, and the manager actually\nhelped lock me back up. After that, I\nwas given no leeway at all. They'd go\nweeks at a time without a grocery drop\noff, and I truly thought I was going to\ndie there. But then 2 months later, they\ncame in with a very different energy.\nThey'd gotten the insurance payout and\nwere ready to move to another state. But\nin light of my recent behavior, keeping\nme alive had become too risky. Mom\nlooked me dead in the eyes and said with\na smile, "You're worth more to us dead\nthan alive, and frankly, we're tired of\npretending otherwise." They brought a\nbottle of pills and said, "At least\nit'll be painless." Dad grabbed my arms\nwhile mom tried to force the pills down\nmy throat. When I fought back, Dad\nslammed my head against the wall and\nsnarled. "We should have done this\nmonths ago instead of wasting money\nkeeping you fed. Mom was laughing as she\ntried to pry my mouth open, saying,\n"Just think, in a few hours, we'll be\ngrieving our poor son who's technically\nbeen dead for almost a year. They\nbrought a bottle of pills to actually\nkill me since no one would ever look for\nsomeone who was already dead. When I\nfought back, Dad slammed my head against\nthe wall and snarled. We should have\ndone this months ago instead of wasting\nmoney keeping you fed." But just as my\nvision was going black, the door burst\nopen. It was the police, and with them\nwas my girlfriend, the same one who'd\ndonated $200 months before, who I'd seen\nworking in the community garden every\nday. That's where she'd been when she'd\nnoticed my parents returning to this\napartment week after week. She'd been\ntailing them ever since, and finally\nconvinced the police to investigate just\nin time. My parents were convicted of\ninsurance fraud and attempted murder.\nI'm now 21 and still with my absolute\nhero of a girlfriend. But I struggle\nwith the fact that for 8 months I was\nlegally dead and no one believed I\nexisted. Sometimes I catch myself\nchecking my reflection just to make sure\nI'm really", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 517551, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "bYBP9rMEa0U", "prompt": "Idea: My boyfriend accepted praise for raising my daughter as his own, until I discovered she already was.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My boyfriend accepted praise for raising my daughter as his own until I discovered she already was. Jake has been playing the perfect savior since the worst night of my life, and we all bought his performance. And I don't mean that in the supportive boyfriend steps up kind of way. I mean it like he crafted his entire identity around being the saint who rescued the broken girl with the baby. I was 16 when I woke up in my car after a party with no memory of how I got there. 3 months later, I discovered I was pregnant. And suddenly there was Jake at every appointment, buying onesies before I even showed and told anyone who'd listened that real men choose love over biology. The way he glowed when strangers praised him for stepping up for someone else's mistake should have been my first red flag. For seven years, he perfected his performance. At Emma's soccer games, he would spend halftime telling other parents about the sacrifices of chosen fatherhood while she scored goals he never saw. He kept a photo in his wallet from the day Emma was born, not to treasure the memory, but to pull out at dinner parties and watch faces soften when he explained he wasn't her biological father. I told myself I was lucky because other girls had dead beats while I had someone who showed up, even if it was mostly for the applause. Until I realized I wasn't lucky at all, she needed routine blood work for summer camp. Just simple stuff. When the nurse mentioned she was AB negative, which made me freeze, she said cheerfully that it's pretty rare since only 1% of people have it and must be from her biological father. I smiled politely, but my mind was racing because AB negative was Jake's blood type. something I knew from 2 years ago when we went to donate blood together and made it into a silly bet about who had the rarer type. I lost because Jake had AB negative and we joked about him being a unicorn. But that memory suddenly felt less funny. Over the next few days, I couldn't stop thinking about it and started noticing things I'd ignored before, like the way Emma scrunched her nose when she concentrated, exactly like Jake did with his spreadsheets, or how they both got hiccups when they laughed too hard and tilted their heads the identical way when confused. I told myself I was being paranoid because spending seven years together had just made them similar. But then Jake mentioned wanting to try for his first biological child. And the way he said first made my skin crawl. After a week of gathering courage, I swabbed the inside of Jake's cheek while he slept. It made me freeze and feel sick about what I was doing to the man who'd been nothing but loving. But I needed to know. Then two weeks later, the results confirmed my suspicions. Jake was Emma's biological father. I couldn't go to the police because too much time had passed and DNA only proved paternity, not assault. But I could destroy him using his own pride. Since Jake's whole identity revolved around his father of the year performance, I destroy him by making him believe he was too defective to ever create a child of his own. That night at dinner, I smiled sweetly and told him he was right, that we should try for a baby. His face lit up like I'd given him the world. The next day, I got an IUD inserted while he was at work and began my performance. I bought ovulation tests, made fertility charts, and tracked my cycle on the kitchen calendar. For the first few months, I was gentle, telling him not to stress because sometimes it takes time. I'd pat his hand as he stared at negative pregnancy tests. Watching the man who bragged about choosing fatherhood slowly realize he might not even be capable of it. Perfect. By month four, I started mentioning how quickly it had happened with my assaulter, watching Jake's eye twitch but say nothing. By month six, I suggested fertility testing and added that I knew I was fertile since I'd been pregnant before, which made him leave the room rather than respond. Months 7 through 12 became psychological warfare when I told his mother at Sunday dinner that we were trying to figure out if Jake could have children, and she spent the rest of the meal shooting him pitying looks while he sat frozen, trapped by his own lies. I left fertility articles around the house with titles like when he's never fathered children and accepting male infertility while sighing dramatically at each negative test and telling him maybe some men just can't that it's nothing to be ashamed of. The beautiful irony was that he couldn't scream the truth without admitting he'd already fathered a child without admitting he was Emma's biological father and without admitting what he done to me that night so he suffered in silence. Jake was so consumed with proving his manhood that he never noticed me disappearing for a full year. I built my escape while he swallowed fertility supplements and Googled sperm counts. Then after 12 months of this torture, I told him I couldn't do it anymore. I let him think the fertility struggle had broken us that watching him fail month after month had killed my love. The coolest part was watching him just sit there as I packed Emma's toys. He had to let us walk away because claiming Emma meant confessing to assault and potentially going to prison. So, he watched his biological child leave forever, trapped by his own crime. Last week, Emma said something that confirmed I made the right choice. "Mom," she asked, "why did dad only love me when people were watching? My seven-year-old saw what I'd missed for", "metadata": {"writer": "Lucis L", "views": 103126, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "zeAfajyFWmU", "prompt": "Idea: My husband's manager think I was just arm candy until he realized I was the one fixing his mistakes.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My husband's creepy manager thought I was just arm candy until he realized I was the engineer fixing his mistakes. When my husband asked me to come to the construction site meeting, I figured why not? I had time between client calls, so I grabbed my coffee and drove over. The project was this commercial building downtown that I had designed 2 years ago at my previous firm. My husband was the developer and they were having structural issues that needed sorting out. The head contractor, Leonard, was there to discuss the foundation problems. My husband introduced me as his wife and then got called away for an urgent phone call. The moment my husband left for his phone call, Leonard's entire demeanor changed. He stopped mid-sentence and turned his back to me completely, spreading the blueprints across the table as if I'd suddenly vanished. When I stepped closer to examine the plans, he shifted his body to block my view. These are technical documents, sweetheart. Why don't you wait in the car? My stomach tightened as I politely mentioned I had experience with construction blueprints. Leonard's eyes traveled from my manicured nails to my designer heels, snorting at my fitted blazer. He chuckled while marking up the plans with aggressive red penstrokes, muttering about cocktail parties. When I pointed out a potential issue with the foundation specifications, Leonard spoke slowly, like explaining to a child, using his finger to trace the blueprints in exaggerated motions. I mentioned my engineering degrees, and his face twisted into a smirk. He made air quotes around engineering degree while pulling out his phone, pretending to Google diploma mills. My jaw clenched as he suggested I probably confused Instagram influencing with actual engineering work. Two subcontractors arrived and Leonard's voice boomed across the site. He gestured at my designer handbag, announcing it cost more than a week's salary for his workers. The men exchanged uncomfortable glances as Leonard launched into stories about his ex-wife who pretended to work but really just spent his money on yoga classes. He pointed at my wedding ring and whistled. Must be nice having a husband who lets you play dress up as a professional. My face burned as he kept comparing me to every trophy wife he'd ever met. Leonard puffed out his chest and started pacing like he was giving a TED talk. Diversity hires companies forced to put unqualified people in positions they didn't earn. He grabbed my portfolio and flipped through it dismissively, holding pages up to the light as if checking for forgeries. He tossed it aside carelessly, letting papers scatter across the dirty floor. His voice echoed off concrete walls as he ranted about participation trophies and gender quotas ruining the industry. When I reached for the structural drawings, Leonard snatched them away and tore one slightly, letting the piece down. I tried explaining the loadbearing wall placement, but he grabbed my pencil mid-sentence and snapped it with a sharp crack. He crumpled my calculation sheet and stomped on it before tossing it in the trash. The broken pencil pieces clattered on concrete as he kicked them aside, grinding the eraser into pink dust. My hands started shaking as he began grabbing every paper I touched, either crumpling them or holding them above his head. He even moved my coffee cup across the room, telling workers I might spill it on important documents. Leonard cornered me against the table, coffee breath mixing with stale cigarettes from his work shirt. He looked me up and down deliberately, his tongue running across his bottom lip, his hand moved to my lower back as he leaned over to grab papers, calluses rough through my silk blouse. He pulled out his phone and started typing with one hand while the other stayed planted on my back, fingers tracing small circles. I'm messaging our industry group chat right now. 300 contractors about to learn your name, and not in a good way. My hands trembled as he showed me the screen. Another fake engineer alert with my name. His breath was hot against my ear as he whispered, "I'd be lucky to design a birdhouse after this." The table edge dug into my hip as he pressed closer, trapping me between his body and the furniture. That's when the safety inspector showed up with urgent concerns about the structural integrity. And my husband returned from his phone call. Leonard immediately started panicking and said, "We need to get the engineer who designed this mess down here right now." My husband looked at me and smiled. She's standing right here. Leonard's face went completely white as I calmly pulled out my business card and professional engineer license. Leonard literally started stammering apologies while I walked him through exactly how to fix the structural issues he'd been complaining about. Turned out his concerns were him misreading my blueprints. Within an hour, I had identified the real problems and provided solutions. Word got around the construction community quickly about what happened. Leonard lost two major contracts when clients heard about his behavior.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 145061, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "NdU3DJlkPSs", "prompt": "Idea: My Roommates Said I Never Cleaned Anything, So I Left Them with Nothing To Clean.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My roommates said I never cleaned anything, so I left them with nothing to clean. Zoe and Scarlet were sisters who'd lived in our apartment six months before me, and they wanted me gone. They'd use my groceries, then blame me for the mess, create cleaning schedules that somehow only had my name on them, and hold whispered strategy sessions over their phones that stopped the second I walked in. The harassment started with 6 a.m. texts about blaming me for leaving crumbs on the counter while they ate my bagels. They photographed water droplets as evidence and assigned me permanent bathroom duty, claiming I used more products despite their 12step skincare routines. My olive oil became communal, my meal prep vanished, and when I labeled my food, they called it hostile. The crulest escalation involved my mother when they arranged their own wine bottles on my desk and sent her photos with fake concern about my drinking. I hadn't touched alcohol since my father died from liver failure when I was 12. Something I confided when I first moved in. My mom called me sobbing, convinced I inherited his disease and begged me to stop. When that didn't break me, they started interfering with my work. They'd vacuum during my calls and say, "Oh, we didn't know you were working." Then they escalated to barging into my room during client presentations to urgently ask about dishes. Zoe once unplugged the router during my final interview for a dream job because the Wi-Fi was being slow for her Netflix. The breaking point came on a random day when I came back from work to an ambush. I opened the door to find Zoe and Scarlet positioned like actors on a stage, sitting at our kitchen table with our landlord, Mrs. Giana. The table was covered in printed photos like evidence at a trial. Zoe gestured to an empty chair. We need to discuss your living situation. Her voice had that fake professional tone she used when she thought she was important. I stayed standing, too exhausted to play their game. They took turns presenting their case, the staged messes, the documentation of my failures, concerns about my stability. Mrs. Giana shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing. Then Scarlet leaned forward, eyes glittering with malice. She'd been waiting for this moment. Maybe if you weren't such a disgusting drunk like your father, you'd understand basic cleanliness. The room went silent. Even Zoe looked shocked. Mrs. Giana's eyes widened. They knew about my father because I trusted them when I first moved in, and now they'd weaponized my deepest pain for their performance. That was it. I agreed to leave within the week. But in my mind, I was already planning my revenge. First, I documented every purchase I'd made for our apartment, finding receipts that proved I'd bought the couch, TV, and every appliance while they spent their funds on festivals. I secured a storage unit and studio apartment, and then noticed their Coachella wristbands next to flight confirmations showing they'd leave on Sunday morning. That gave me the perfect idea. I booked the largest U-Haul for that day and recruited my brother's football team to orchestrate the biggest FU to them. Sunday morning came and I watched their Uber leave at 6:00 a.m., then called my crew. We worked systematically, starting with the couch they'd used for Instagram stories. I photographed it with his receipt before loading and used that same routine to take everything else, the microwave, air fryer, coffee maker, vacuum, and even the TV and the kitchen table where they'd held that trial. The light bulbs from every common area fixture went into a bag. And yes, I reclaimed that olive oil. I even changed passwords on Netflix, Hulu, HBO, Spotify, and every service they'd freloaded on for 2 years. They returned from Coachella to nothing. No couch to collapse on, no TV for their shows, no coffee maker for their hangovers. Scarlet went out of control and called me 50 times in 20 minutes and got even angrier when I sent her to voicemail each time. I heard she clawed her own hair out of frustration because they didn't have any money left to buy new furniture and had to sleep on the floor. Zoe tried getting the landlord and police involved, telling everyone that I had robbed them blind. But I had the receipts and proof of ownership, so that obviously didn't work. Then they started asking all my friends for my new address so they could talk to me in person. But I knew what they wanted, so I kept it a secret. After two weeks of trying to reclaim those items, they finally gave up.", "metadata": {"writer": "Neil", "views": 79446, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "qngdUaHDdmA", "prompt": "Idea: My boyfriend's racing buddies said women don’t belong on the track, I hold the track record.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My boyfriend's racing buddies said women don't belong on the track, not realizing I hold the track record. Lewis and I had been dating three months when he invited me to his friends track day. My hands were shaking because these guys were like his brothers and I wanted to make a good impression. Lewis knew I raced time attack competitive. He'd even come to some of my events. But as I parked my stock Civic between their modified cars, I realized he'd never mentioned it to them. "They're going to love you," he said, squeezing my hand. I nodded, deciding instantly to keep my racing background quiet. "Sometimes it's better to observe before revealing your cards. The moment we walked up to his friends gathered around their heavily modified cars, I knew I'd made a mistake." Five guys stood comparing lap times, and their eyes slid right past me like I wasn't there. Lewis introduced me, but Thomas barely glanced over before asking if I was spectating. When I mentioned bringing my car to run some laps, the conversation stopped completely. Thomas finally looked at my Civic parked between his caged M3 and someone's track prepped GTR. "That's adorable," he said, smirking. The others chuckled and turned back to their cars. 20 minutes later, during the driver's meeting, the dismissiveness turned into condescension. One of them explained the flags to me twice, speaking slowly, like teaching a child about colors. The checkered flag explanation came with hand gestures. "That means the session is over," he said. "You come in when you see it." I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper while nodding politely. Lewis stared at his shoes. Things escalated when we returned to the paddic. Thomas popped my hood without asking permission. He waved the gathering group over like he found something hilarious. He immediately announced his findings about my strawberry pads. She'll cook them in two laps, he said. The laughter grew louder when someone noticed my street tires. Another guy said Lewis should teach me basics before bringing me to a real track. "This isn't cars and coffee, sweetheart," he added. Lewis shifted uncomfortably but stayed silent while Thomas continued his inspection. He made increasingly personal attacks about how I probably picked the blue car to match my Instagram feed. "Let me guess, it has a cute name, too." The technical humiliation intensified when they started listing everything wrong with my car to each other. They talked over my head like I was invisible. Someone pulled out their phone to calculate my potential lap times. They made bets about whether I even knew what octane fuel I used. 20 bucks says she puts regular. Thomas announced the attacks on our relationship began next. Thomas turned to Louiswis and questioned why he was letting me on track in this death trap. He suggested I should be in the grand stands where girlfriends belonged. You know she's going to hold up the entire run group, right? Everyone laughed about how I'd be a rolling roadblock ruining his reputation. The physical boundary crossing started when Thomas climbed into my driver's seat without permission. He adjusted everything while declaring I was sitting wrong and probably couldn't reach the pedals. No wonder women can't drive, he muttered. My fist clenched white when he revved my cold engine hard. The sound made me wse. The rage truly built when he put his hand over mine on the gear shift. His palm was sweaty and possessive. He demonstrated how a real shift should feel while explaining that the clutch was the pedal on the left. "You have to be firm with it," he said. After I pulled away and said I knew how to drive, he laughed. He got out and slapped a student driver back 500 feet sticker on my bumper. The group howled with laughter and took photos. The breaking point came when someone suggested taking bets on how many laps before I spun out. "I got 50 on three laps max," one shouted. Thomas grabbed my keys from my hand. He dangled them above his head. He announced he'd move my car to spectator parking where it belonged. When I reached for them, he tossed them to another friend. Keep away from the wannabe racer, he called out. They laughed and threw them between each other. My vision went red with fury as they treated me like a joke. The track photographer walked by and Thomas loudly called out not to waste memory card space on me. "Save it for the real drivers," he said. The photographer stopped and stared at me with recognition dawning on his face. "Aren't you, Miss Rivera?" he asked, making Thomas roll his eyes dismissively. The photographer pulled out his phone, showing them his Instagram. There, I was holding a first place trophy at this exact track last season. The paddic went completely silent. Thomas claimed it wasn't real, but his voice cracked. I pulled out my wallet and my SECA Time Attack competition license fell out. The photographer got excited about shooting my record lap here just 2 months ago. I held out my hand for my keys. Thomas went pale and actually stumbled backward, keys falling from his shaking hands. No, no, no. This isn't happening. He muttered and louder. I'm sorry. I respect women racers. He turned to his friends desperately. Tell her I was kidding. Nobody backed him up. I demolished everyone's time, gapping Thomas by 8 seconds per lap. He didn't even finish his session. Just loaded his car while mumbling apologies to Louiswis. The friends asked for coaching while Thomas blocked everyone on Instagram.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 452075, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "xr1RYo7sIgg", "prompt": "Idea: When did the cat lady ACTUALLY turn out crazy?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did the cat lady actually turn out crazy? The morning my wife Mallerie delivered our daughter Samantha. There was only silence. I watched my wife hold our stillborn baby for four hours, humming lullabies to a child who'd never hear them. When the nurses finally convinced her to let go, Mallerie looked at me with empty eyes and said, "She was so cold." The doctor explained that complications meant we'd never have another. For weeks, Mallerie didn't leave Samantha's nursery. Then one morning, I found her cradling newborn kittens she'd found under our porch. "They need a mother," she whispered. And for the first time since the hospital, she smiled. Things started looking up since then. The kittens kept us busy and brought back love into the house. Mallerie would wake every two hours for feedings, humming the same lullabies we practiced for Samantha. You're a natural," I said, admiring how she glowed while caring for the adorable little beasts. Before I knew it, Mallerie was bringing home more cats from the shelter, even taking in ones with missing limbs and imperfections. The vet called her a saint. Soon, word spread. People left kittens on our porch like some kind of shrine. Mallerie never said no. I'd come home to find her surrounded by these tiny creatures, calling herself Mama as she fed them. She used the baby monitor and transformed the yellow nursery into a kitten room. The house was chaotic, but her smile made the mess worth it. I started feeling uncomfortable when Mallerie gave the cats variations of our deceased daughter's name, Sam. Sammy Samantha Marie. She created birth certificates with her last name for every cat. She tried to enroll them in the local daycare, arguing they needed socialization with other children. I felt relieved when the daycare turned her away, but instead of understanding, she stood outside pickup times, shouting like a madman, telling parents they were supporting discrimination. The saddest moment for me was when our friends began avoiding us, admitting she was whispering to that orange cat for 20 minutes at dinner, then meowing when it meowed back. You need to throw those cats out. At first, I thought they were exaggerating until one night, I found scratch marks and bites on her chest where she tried breastfeeding the cats. Mallerie, this is nuts. Our house is a mess, and you're scaring all our friends away. Honey, they're just cats, not kids. She hissed at me, her face wrinkling into a disgusted expression. There are children, and if you want to get rid of them, you'll have to get rid of me first. She marched out of our bedroom and moved all her things into the nursery, sleeping on the floor, surrounded by the children. I laid awake that night wondering when I'd started losing her. My gut twisted the first time Mallerie called our neighbor's 5-year-old daughter Samantha instead of Bailey when she came to pet the cats. While she didn't seem to mind, it worried me. Bailey giggled when Mallerie called her Samantha. But I felt sick. My deepest fears came to life when one afternoon I dozed off on the couch while Bailey played upstairs with Mallerie and the cats. I woke to a sound that made my blood freeze. Not Bailey's usual giggles or even her wines when a cat scratched her, but pure terror. Every parental instinct in my body fired at once. I ran upstairs and pushed open the nursery door. The afternoon sun lit up the room, highlighting a scene straight from my nightmares. I stared in disbelief as Mallerie pinned Bailey on the changing table with her own shirt pulled up. She forced Bailey's head against her chest, trying to make her nurse while cats crawled over both of them. When Mallerie noticed me, she cackled. "Our kids are growing so fast. When I jumped to protect Bailey, Mallerie went feral. She slashed at me with a metal feeding syringe, catching my cheek and drawing blood." I jumped forward and wrestled her onto the bed, trying to keep her from reaching Bailey again. As I held her down, a burning smell filled the room like melted plastic and burnt skin. I turned and saw the hot glue gun on the table, still plugged in and dripping. Then I looked at Bailey and understood where the smell was coming from. Bailey sobbed while picking at the gray and orange fur that had been hot glued to her body. Blood soaked through the fur. When Mallerie caught me staring, she grinned. "She's both my Samantha and my kitten. She's perfect, just needs more fur." I shook Mallerie angrily, tears from my eyes dropping onto her face. She's five. My voice broke while I begged her to come to her senses. Our child is gone and nothing can replace her. You need to stop it, Mallerie, please. Just then, the front door slammed. Bailey, time to come home. Her footsteps pounded up the stairs. She appeared in the doorway and her face went from confusion to absolute horror. I screamed at her to call 911 while I held Mallerie down. She pulled out her phone, calling while removing Bailey from the room. The police arrived quickly and carried Mallerie out in restraints while she screamed, "Don't touch my children. Give me my Samantha." Mallerie got locked away in a remote facility far from home. I paid for Bailey's burn treatment in skin grafts where the fur had been glued and put all the cats up for adoption. I put the house up for sale to move away from everything. Until then, I've spent weekends checking on my wife. Last visit, she asked, "Are you feeding the children?" Oh, you'll never believe who I found here. Samantha. And she's all grown", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 118554, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "MANu4csQvrY", "prompt": "Idea: I put their relationship to bed.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My upstairs neighbor's affair kept me\nawake for months, so I put their\nrelationship to bed. Every night at 2\nam, my apartment turned into an\ninvoluntary SX education class, complete\nwith surround sound and ceiling\nvibrations. Courtney was 22, worked at\nHooters, and thought 2 p.m. on a Tuesday\nwas the perfect time to drag a keg up\nthe stairs. "Just a small get together,"\nshe chirped with her fake eyelashes,\npractically scraping her eyebrows. "That\nsmall get together turned into a rager\nthat lasted until 5:00 a.m. I know\nbecause I counted every hour while lying\nin bed. Music pounding through the floor\nso loud my lamp was dancing on the\nnightstand. Then there was the morning I\nstepped into my shower and got hit with\na cloud of Ganja smoke so thick I could\ntaste. It came straight through the vent\nlike she was hotboxing directly into my\nbathroom. But the last straw, when she\npassed out in her tub after a night of\npartying and flooded my apartment, I\nwoke up to water dripping through my\nceiling at 5:00 a.m. like a cursed\nwaterfall. The water stain still looks\nlike Florida if you squint hard enough.\nI tried being reasonable. I left polite\nnotes and knocked on her door for a\nfriendly chat, but she called me uptight\nand suggested I try some meditation\napps. The landlord was useless, too.\nYoung people will be young people, he\nsaid. Then the nightly hookup marathons\nbegan. Every single night at 11:00 p.m.,\n2:00 a.m., sometimes 4:00 a.m., with her\nheadboard slamming against the wall like\nsomeone hammering nails into my sanity.\nThe theatrical moaning sounded like she\nwas auditioning for a role she'd never\nget. The worst part was how they'd\nrespond when I grabbed my broom and\nslammed it against the ceiling. She'd\nyell, "Sorry," and then they'd both\nburst out laughing before going right\nback at it even louder. Three weeks of\nthis and my work was suffering. I looked\nlike an extra from The Walking Dead. One\nnight at 2 a.m., I snapped and stormed\nupstairs to pound on her door. And\nthat's when a man answered in his\nboxers, "Older, maybe late 30s, trying\nto look dignified while half naked. Can\nyou please keep it down?" I said, he\nsmiled. This cold little smile that made\nmy skin crawl. Maybe you should invest\nin better headphones, sweetheart. The\ndoor shut in my face, and that's when I\nsaw it. The wedding ring on his left\nhand catching the hallway light like a\nbeacon. I stood there for a second\nprocessing. Then I smiled. If she wanted\nto screw around with married men, she\nwas about to find out. The next morning,\nI texted my friend Derek from college,\nwho was a cop now, and owed me a favor\nfrom when I helped him pass statistics.\nHey, need you to run a plate for me. 20\nminutes later, I had a name, Dr. Michael\nRichardson. A quick Google search\nrevealed he was an English literature\nprofessor at her university, married\nwith two kids. Facebook was a gold mine\nwith family vacation photos and\nanniversary posts showing his wife Betty\nlooking happy and clueless. His\nuniversity bio mentioned he taught\nintroduction to modern fiction. Guess\nwho was probably in that class? I\ncreated a throwaway email because it was\ntime to compose. Thursday night, they\nwere especially loud. Perfect timing. I\nsent two emails. First to Betty\nRichardson, "Your husband has been\nvisiting my building regularly. Condo\naddress attached. Unit 4B, late nights,\nhis car." followed by photos I'd taken\nof his BMW in our lot with timestamps\nincluded. Second email went to the\nuniversity's ethics department concerned\nabout inappropriate relationship between\nDr. Richardson and student Courtney\nMartinez. Unit 4B along with the same\ntimestamped photos showing his car here\nat 2 a.m. 3:00 a.m. 4:00 a.m. on school\nnights. Send. Send. Friday night brought\nsilence with no BMW in the parking lot.\nSaturday afternoon, I heard shouting\nfrom upstairs with things being thrown\nand Courtney screaming about her future.\nSunday was even better when her parents\nshowed up and I could hear her mom\nthrough the floor. How could you be so\nstupid? By Tuesday, local news picked it\nup. University professor suspended amid\nmultiple student relations, grade\nmanipulation scandal. Turns out Courtney\nwasn't his first extracurricular\nactivity, just his loudest. Courtney\nlasted two more weeks. I'd hear her\ncrying at night quietly for once. Then\nher parents came back with a U-Haul\nafter she'd been suspended pending\ninvestigation. The professor, he lost\nhis tenure and his marriage while facing\npotential criminal charges for abuse of\npower. According to the news, the\nuniversity found a pattern going back\nyears and other students came forward.\nMy new upstairs neighbor moved in last\nmonth. Her name's Margaret and she's a\nlibrarian who goes to bed at 9:00 p.m.\nSometimes I don't even remember she's\nthere. I sleep like a baby now with a\nfull 8 hours every night. Sweet dreams,\nCourtney, wherever you", "metadata": {"writer": "Lucis L", "views": 219800, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "bYBP9rMEa0U", "prompt": "Idea: My boyfriend accepted praise for raising my daughter as his own, until I discovered she already was.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My boyfriend accepted praise for raising my daughter as his own until I discovered she already was. Jake has been playing the perfect savior since the worst night of my life, and we all bought his performance. And I don't mean that in the supportive boyfriend steps up kind of way. I mean it like he crafted his entire identity around being the saint who rescued the broken girl with the baby. I was 16 when I woke up in my car after a party with no memory of how I got there. 3 months later, I discovered I was pregnant. And suddenly there was Jake at every appointment, buying onesies before I even showed and told anyone who'd listened that real men choose love over biology. The way he glowed when strangers praised him for stepping up for someone else's mistake should have been my first red flag. For seven years, he perfected his performance. At Emma's soccer games, he would spend halftime telling other parents about the sacrifices of chosen fatherhood while she scored goals he never saw. He kept a photo in his wallet from the day Emma was born, not to treasure the memory, but to pull out at dinner parties and watch faces soften when he explained he wasn't her biological father. I told myself I was lucky because other girls had dead beats while I had someone who showed up, even if it was mostly for the applause. Until I realized I wasn't lucky at all, she needed routine blood work for summer camp. Just simple stuff. When the nurse mentioned she was AB negative, which made me freeze, she said cheerfully that it's pretty rare since only 1% of people have it and must be from her biological father. I smiled politely, but my mind was racing because AB negative was Jake's blood type. something I knew from 2 years ago when we went to donate blood together and made it into a silly bet about who had the rarer type. I lost because Jake had AB negative and we joked about him being a unicorn. But that memory suddenly felt less funny. Over the next few days, I couldn't stop thinking about it and started noticing things I'd ignored before, like the way Emma scrunched her nose when she concentrated, exactly like Jake did with his spreadsheets, or how they both got hiccups when they laughed too hard and tilted their heads the identical way when confused. I told myself I was being paranoid because spending seven years together had just made them similar. But then Jake mentioned wanting to try for his first biological child. And the way he said first made my skin crawl. After a week of gathering courage, I swabbed the inside of Jake's cheek while he slept. It made me freeze and feel sick about what I was doing to the man who'd been nothing but loving. But I needed to know. Then two weeks later, the results confirmed my suspicions. Jake was Emma's biological father. I couldn't go to the police because too much time had passed and DNA only proved paternity, not assault. But I could destroy him using his own pride. Since Jake's whole identity revolved around his father of the year performance, I destroy him by making him believe he was too defective to ever create a child of his own. That night at dinner, I smiled sweetly and told him he was right, that we should try for a baby. His face lit up like I'd given him the world. The next day, I got an IUD inserted while he was at work and began my performance. I bought ovulation tests, made fertility charts, and tracked my cycle on the kitchen calendar. For the first few months, I was gentle, telling him not to stress because sometimes it takes time. I'd pat his hand as he stared at negative pregnancy tests. Watching the man who bragged about choosing fatherhood slowly realize he might not even be capable of it. Perfect. By month four, I started mentioning how quickly it had happened with my assaulter, watching Jake's eye twitch but say nothing. By month six, I suggested fertility testing and added that I knew I was fertile since I'd been pregnant before, which made him leave the room rather than respond. Months 7 through 12 became psychological warfare when I told his mother at Sunday dinner that we were trying to figure out if Jake could have children, and she spent the rest of the meal shooting him pitying looks while he sat frozen, trapped by his own lies. I left fertility articles around the house with titles like when he's never fathered children and accepting male infertility while sighing dramatically at each negative test and telling him maybe some men just can't that it's nothing to be ashamed of. The beautiful irony was that he couldn't scream the truth without admitting he'd already fathered a child without admitting he was Emma's biological father and without admitting what he done to me that night so he suffered in silence. Jake was so consumed with proving his manhood that he never noticed me disappearing for a full year. I built my escape while he swallowed fertility supplements and Googled sperm counts. Then after 12 months of this torture, I told him I couldn't do it anymore. I let him think the fertility struggle had broken us that watching him fail month after month had killed my love. The coolest part was watching him just sit there as I packed Emma's toys. He had to let us walk away because claiming Emma meant confessing to assault and potentially going to prison. So, he watched his biological child leave forever, trapped by his own crime. Last week, Emma said something that confirmed I made the right choice. "Mom," she asked, "why did dad only love me when people were watching? My seven-year-old saw what I'd missed for", "metadata": {"writer": "Lucis L", "views": 103126, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "ImcN3RKRZlA", "prompt": "Idea: When did you realize your family’s medical beliefs were dangerous?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did you realize your family's medical beliefs were dangerous? My parents refused to let me sleep for more than 2 hours per night from age 12 onward because they believed that excessive rest weakens the spirit and could eventually kill you. My parents were both former military who had been dishonorably discharged for conducting unauthorized sleep deprivation experiments on their own soldiers. They became obsessed with the idea that most humans were wasting their lives sleeping when they could be achieving greatness through constant consciousness. Dad would brag about staying awake for weeks during special ops missions and claimed that sleep was a psychological weakness that separated winners from losers. Mom had read somewhere that successful CEOs only slept 4 hours per night. my whole life. They were weird about sleep and constantly showed me articles about people dying in their sleep and said it was because sleep was inherently dangerous. They even converted our garage into a monitoring station where they could watch me through cameras and make sure I wasn't secretly napping. Once I turned 12, they really got serious. They handed me a schedule showing that I would sleep from 2:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. every single night with no exceptions for illness, weekends, or holidays. Mom said, "Sleep is for the week, and we didn't raise a weak child." They explained that any attempt to sleep outside these hours would result in immediate physical punishment because they needed to break my addiction to unconsciousness before it killed me. Living on 2 hours of sleep per night turned me into a walking zombie. I would fall asleep standing up during conversations and wake up with bruises from hitting the floor. So, my parents installed motion sensors in my room that would trigger air horns if I laid down during unauthorized hours. They forced me to do jumping jacks whenever I yawned and made me drink so much coffee that I'd feel my teeth vibrating. School became impossible because I couldn't focus on lessons or remember basic information and my grades plummeted from A's to failing marks across every subject. My parents didn't care because school is useless if you're dead from oversleeping. When I started hallucinating from sleep deprivation and began seeing shadow people in my peripheral vision, I begged my parents to let me sleep more. I told them I was afraid I was going crazy, but dad laughed and said, "H Hallucinations just mean your brain is finally learning to work harder." That's when I realized they would rather drive me completely insane than admit their beliefs about sleep were baseless and dangerous. I couldn't survive another day of this torture, so I started secretly sleeping at school during lunch breaks and after classes in empty classrooms. For three glorious weeks, I managed to get an extra hour of sleep each day by hiding in the library and convincing teachers I was staying late for academic help. I felt like a human being again, and my grades started improving immediately. My parents noticed the change and said it meant my body was finally detoxed from the poison of excess sleeping. Not realizing I was cheating their rules, I started planning to run away to my aunt's house in another state where I could sleep normally and attend school without falling over from exhaustion. But my parents discovered my secret sleeping when they installed GPS tracking on my phone and realized I was staying at school longer than necessary. They ambushed me at school and found me drooling on a library book. They pulled me out of school immediately and hired a private sleep deprivation specialist who they claimed was a consultant, but was actually a guy who had been kicked out of medical school for conducting illegal experiments on patients. This man moved into our house and began monitoring me 24 hours a day, using painful electric shocks to keep me awake whenever I showed signs of fatigue. My parents told everyone I was being homeschooled by a gifted education expert, but really I was being tortured by a maniac who believed that eliminating sleep would unlock superhuman abilities. But then I finally collapsed from complete exhaustion during one of the consulting sessions and had a seizure that lasted several minutes. The specialist panicked and called 911, thinking I was dying. And when the paramedics got teamed to the hospital, I told them everything. My parents tried to convince hospital staff that I had a rare neurological condition that made me reject sleep. But doctors ran tests that proved I was perfectly healthy except for chronic sleep deprivation. The specialist was arrested for practicing medicine without a license and my parents lost custody permanently. Now I live with my aunt who's always reminding me that it's okay for me to sleep as much as I need. But now I have chronic insomnia from years of sleep deprivation.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 117189, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "tqXOk1iPztY", "prompt": "Idea: What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year? My twin brother Matus and I had been fighting to survive ever since dad left three years ago. The same week mom got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The medical bills crushed us. Some days we come home from school to find the electricity cut off again. Matias would study by candle light, desperate to keep his grades perfect. It was the only thing left he could control. Then on the day the school announced a new validictorian scholarship, Matus looked at me like he'd found a new spark, vowing, "I'll get us out low. I'll do it for mom." Throughout high school, Matus always came out on top. Then during senior year, our teacher announced that Vienna had transferred to our school with a higher GPA. Nobody clapped. I felt Matus slouched down like someone punched him until the class started cheering him on. It's only 0.03 difference. You got this, Matt. That night, he stayed up creating spreadsheets, tracking every assignment's point value, calculating what scores he'd need. When our AP teacher saw it, she bragged about it to other students. Within days, I noticed Matas had Vienna's entire schedule written in his planner. "Healthy competition," he explained when I asked. Even mom encouraged him to skip meals to study, saying, "My fighter." The day he got a 98 on our calculus test, he literally cried in the hallway. Everyone assured him it was still amazing. When first quarter rankings showed Vienna's name on top, Matus didn't come home for 2 days. After Christmas break, my brother became someone I barely recognized. He started spreading rumors about her cheating on SATs, then turn around and comfort her when people gave her dirty looks. I know you'd never cheat. Things only got worse. Her assignments went missing. I watched Matias find it behind the cafeteria dumpster 2 days later, making sure others saw. Vienna, you really should be more careful, he'd say, handing it back with pages torn out. She just stared at the ruined paper with an expression like she knew exactly who'd taken it. After school, I saw Matias shove Vienna against the lockers and snatch her textbook. He disappeared into the boy's bathroom and walked out with a smirk. Vienna stared at the door while I offered, "I'll get it for you." I opened the door and spotted the textbook hanging from a urinal, completely soaked in urine. I felt sick. Vienna held my arm and said, "Don't. I'll just buy a new one." Matias's face went dark. Must be nice. Some of us can't even afford electricity. He spat. Later at home, I confronted him. You're losing. He grabbed my shoulders and screamed. Every A she gets is another month of chemo mom can't afford. You know this. For the first time, I felt afraid of the person he had to become just to keep us afloat. During the second term, Matus stopped bothering her and put all his attention into studying for the AP calculus final, the test that would determine the validictorian. I sat two rows behind Matus, watching his whole body vibrate with anxiety. He finished with 40 minutes left, practically running to submit for the bonus first to submit points. But as he walked past Vienna's desk, his face visibly crumbled. I leaned forward and squinted my eyes to see what he was looking at and noticed Vienna's completed work on the bonus impossible questions that my teacher put for fun. I held my breath and glanced back at my brother just as he breathed, "How dare you?" Then I watched my twin grab Vienna's right hand and slam it against the metal desk edge. The crack echoed. Vienna screamed, "You're killing my mother. Every point you steal is another day she suffers." He snatched the graphing calculator on her desk and started hammering her fingers one by one like vegetables on a chopping board. The wet crushing sounds kept us in our seats, but the sight of blood spraying across her arm, across his face, and desk had us screaming for help. Vienna sobbed, trying to pull away, but he had her wrist locked. He continued pounding her fingers to dust while spitting. "You can't write without fingers. Mom needs this scholarship." Her pinky had bent completely sideways before I found the courage to lunge at him. "Mia, stop!" He shoved me into the desks and held the calculator over my head like he wanted to hurt me, too. "You want mom to die, too?" Three guards burst in and pinned him down. Even then, he tried to reach for Vienna's blood soaked test. Tell them I'm a hero. I cried out at the horrible sight of my brother and shook my head at him. Stop it, Matt. It's over. As they dragged him away, he screamed, "I did it for mom. I'm not the villain here." The guards dragged him away after restraining him. Our teacher picked up Vienna, who had passed out from the pain, and took her to the nurse's office for immediate care. The rest of us hugged the corners of the room, sobbing and traumatized, until another teacher walked into Clare's out and sent us home early. No one from our class attended graduation. Not when one student was injured and another charged with felony assault. They removed the scholarship from the school's program and used the money to pay for Vienna's hospital bills. We lost the house and mom ended up passing away weeks later. When I visit him, he shows me letters he writes to validictorians across the state, explaining they need to know they're stealing from families like ours. Last week, he told me excitedly, "When I get out, I'll work at a tutoring center.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 639768, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "TzsoXZaFdeo", "prompt": "Idea: What made you call the police on your own mother?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you call the police on your own mother? My seven-year-old sister Dianiela was singing in the backseat behind me when a truck ran the red light and slammed into us at top speed. By the time the car stopped flipping, Dianiela became permanently silent. After hours trying to save her, the doctors told us she was gone. Mom climbed into the hospital bed and pulled Daniela against her chest, rocking her for 3 hours. Mommy's here, baby. Dad just stood frozen when the nurses pried my sister from mom's arms. And while they fought, I threw up knowing I survived, and Daniela didn't. The first few weeks blurred together with mom crying in Daniela's room for hours. Dad would hold her shoulders and whisper that everything would be okay. I kept making her chamomile tea, but the cups always went cold on the nightstand. She couldn't stop staring at Daniela's things long enough to drink them. Our grief therapist said this was normal and everyone processes loss differently. So, we didn't worry when mom started making Daniela's bed every morning or arranged the stuffed animals in perfect rows just how Daniellea liked them. We thought maybe this ritual was helping her cope with the loss. On the day would have turned nine, mom showed up with a wrapped birthday present saying she'd already bought it before the accident. An obvious lie, but dad and I let it slide because what harm could one gift do to an already broken family. A month later, mom walked through the door carrying a life-sized doll that looked exactly like Dianiela with real human hair in her exact shade. She sat me down to show how she could brush his hair just like Daniela's bedtime routine. I forced myself to nod, my heartbreaking from the desperate sight. The next few days spiralled out of control. Mom dressed the doll in new outfits every morning and took it everywhere in Daniellea's wagon. She did both voices like the doll could actually respond. People at the mall grabbed their children and hurried away from us. Dad found the $3,000 credit card charge. When he confronted her, she clutched the doll, screaming, "You can't put a price on our daughter." He started sleeping on the couch that night. Things got worse when she pulled me out of school, claiming it was too dangerous. She set up homeschooling with three play settings at our kitchen table. Week after week, I sat there watching her teach that doll alongside me until one morning I couldn't take it anymore. One morning, I finally snapped and said, "Stop it. Daniela is gone. Mom sobbed." "You abandoned her in that car, and now you're doing it again." The guilt hit me so hard I couldn't breathe. "I'm here, too," I mumbled while she cradled that doll like a real child while tears streamed down her face. Two weeks after dad left, mom started acting strange. She'd leave the doll behind and disappear, returning with stories about her wonderful new friend and the woman's precious daughter. "I found her phone with Daniellea's photo replaced by a stranger's child." "She has Daniellea's exact laugh," Mom said behind me, her eyes glittering. At noon, the doorbell rang and mom flew to answer feverishly. An exhausted woman stood there clutching her purse, thanking mom over and over for babysitting. Behind her, a girl about 11 with dark hair hung back, clearly uneasy. "Take all the time you need," Mom purred in a voice I'd never heard before. "The second their car turned the corner, something in mom's face shifted into pure predator. She grabbed the girl's wrist hard enough to leave marks and dragged her toward Daniela's room." "Welcome home, baby." The girl's confusion turned to fear. "My name's not Daniela, it's Katie," she whispered. The sound of mom's palm hitting her face made me flinch. "You are Dianiela!" Mom shrieked. Everything accelerated into a nightmare. Mom commanded Katie to undress, but when she shook her head, mom grabbed the scissors from Daniellea's desk. Katie tried to bolt, but mom caught her by the hair. I watched, frozen in horror as she cut through Katie's clothes with violent precision, humming Daniellea's lullabi. Katie stood there exposed and sobbing while mom forced Daniela's tiny dress over her head. The bathroom became a torture chamber. Mom dragged the screaming girl in while I watched in horror. Through the mirror, I watched mom slather bleach on her hair. "I want my mommy," she wailed. "I am your mommy?" Mom cooed. "God gave you back to me." In one desperate moment, when mom turned for more dye, Katie scooped bleach and smeared it across mom's eyes. Mom's scream was inhuman as she clawed at her face. Katie sprinted out and yelled for help. I flew downstairs and dove into the pantry with my phone. I whispered frantically to 911 while Katie's sobbs mixed with mom's rage above us. Those minutes waiting for sirens felt like ours. When they finally broke down Daniela's door, they found mom sitting calmly on the bed, brushing both Katie's hair and the dolls. "My two Dianielas have finally met," she announced proudly. Katie threw herself at the officers while mom fought like a wild animal, screaming, "Don't take my babies again." Even as they wrestled her into handcuffs, the little girl's mom placed a restraining order on her family, and mom's been institutionalized 8 months now. "Last time I visited, she grabbed my hand and whispered, "I forgive you for sending Dianiela away again." She smiled and for a moment I thought I saw a glimpse of mom I had before the crash until she mentioned another patient had Daniellea's exact laugh.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 1390355, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "lGHhzWM3sgE", "prompt": "Idea: My ex turned our intimacy into ammunition, until I showed everyone what was in his arsenal.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My ex turned our intimacy into\nammunition until I showed everyone what\nwas in his arsenal. I was 24 when I\nlearned that love could be weaponized\nagainst you. It wasn't just the betrayal\nthat hurt. It was realizing that every\nintimate moment we shared had been\nammunition he was storing for later. It\nstarted with Julian, my boyfriend of 2\nyears. He was the one who made me feel\nsafe enough to be vulnerable. He worked\nat a prestigious tech startup, always\ntalking about innovation and ethics. He\ndocumented everything about us. Said he\nwanted to capture every memory. I\nthought it was romantic, but 3 weeks\nafter I broke up with him for cheating,\nmy co-orker Rachel pulled me aside. She\nlooked sick, kept glancing around the\noffice. You need to see this, she\nwhispered. She handed me her phone.\nThere I was on a revenge corn site.\nPhotos I trusted him with plastered\neverywhere with my full name and\nworkplace. The room tilted. People were\nstaring. My boss called me into her\noffice an hour later. Someone had\nemailed HR the links. They put me on\nadministrative leave while they\ninvestigated. I sat in my car in the\nparking lot, numb. The site had fake\nstories about me, crude comments, my\ncontact information. I'd become a thing\nfor strangers to consume. The police\nsaid they couldn't help since the site\nwas overseas. That night, I got a text\nfrom a mutual friend. Julian was\nbragging at a bar about his upcoming\npresentation on digital privacy and\nethics. That's when I snapped. He\ndestroyed my privacy while preparing to\npreach about protecting it. I decided\nhe'd learn what consequences meant.\nJulian had forgotten about our shared\ncloud account from when we lived\ntogether. I still had access. I started\ndigging through his files that night. I\nfound folders labeled with women's\nnames, photos of his exes, screenshots\nof group chats where he bragged about\nhis collection. He'd raided us, shared\nintimate details, talked about us like\ntrophies. Five other women were named in\nthose chats. I found their social media\nprofiles and reached out anonymously.\nWithin days, I heard back from all of\nthem. They'd found their photos online,\ntoo. We formed a group chat, sharing our\nstories. Julian had done this to every\nwoman he dated. We compared timelines,\npatterns, tactics. One woman, Kate, was\na lawyer. She helped us organize our\nevidence. Another, Harper, worked in PR.\nShe knew exactly how to package our\nstory. We spent two weeks preparing,\ngathering screenshots, documenting\neverything. The night before his TechCon\npresentation, we were ready. I sent an\nanonymous email to every registered\nattendee at 11 p.m. The subject line\nread, "Your digital ethics speaker has\nsomething to hide." Attached were\nscreenshots of his group chats, "The\nrevenge corn links, testimonies from six\nwomen." I made sure his CEO and the\nentire executive team were on the email.\nThen I waited. The next morning, Julian\nwalked into that conference room at the\nMarriott downtown. I know because Kate\nwas there. Bad and all, sitting in the\nthird row. She texted our group in real\ntime. Julian strutdded in wearing his\nusual uniform, designer jeans and a\nblazer, AirPods in like always. He\npulled them out when he saw the room.\nEvery seat had papers on them. His face\nchanged. Kate said he picked up one of\nthe printouts, his hand shaking\nslightly. It was a screenshot of him in\nthe group chat. Added another one to the\ncollection, boys. This one's a seven.\nfive, but she does anything I want with\nmy photo attached. The CEO of his\ncompany stood up from the front ill, we\nneed to talk. Julian tried to play it\ncool. Sat down his laptop bag slowly.\nWhat's this about? He asked, voice\npitched too high. The head of HR held up\nanother printout. Is this you discussing\nhow you secretly record intimate\nmoments? Julian's mouth opened and\nclosed. Kate said he looked like a fish\ngasping for air. He tried deflecting.\nThis is taken out of context. Someone's\ntrying to sabotage me. Then Harper stood\nup from the back. Hi, Julian. Remember\nme? His face went white. Another woman\nstood up, too. How about me? Then Kate.\nContext. Let's talk about context. The\nCEO read from his phone. Just bagged the\nbrunette from marketing. Already got the\nphotos backed up in she tries anything.\nHe looked up at Julian. That brunette\nfiled a police report yesterday. So did\nfive other women. Julian started backing\ntoward the door, but two security guards\nwere already there. He tried one more\ntime, switching to victim mode. This is\na witch hunt. These women are just\nbitter exes trying to ruin me. The CEO\nshook his head. Clear out your desk.\nWe'll mail you your things. The word\nspread through the company like\nwildfire. By the end of the day,\neveryone at every major startup had\nheard. His company sent out an internal\nmemo denouncing his actions. Other women\nstarted coming forward in our group\nchat. Turns out we weren't the only\nones. By the end of the week, 12 women\nhad shared their stories. The conference\nbanned him permanently. His professional\nnetwork disappeared overnight. He tried\nreaching out to industry contacts, but\nno one would return his calls. The\nlawsuit started rolling in. Last month,\nI saw him at a phone repair kiosk in the\nmall. He was helping some teenager fix a\ncracked screen, wearing a uniform polo\nwith a name tag. He saw me and quickly\nlooked down, but not before I caught the\nlook in his eyes. He was angry, bitter,\nlike somehow this was everyone else's\nfault but his. He'd wanted to expose and\nhumiliate me. Now everyone knows exactly\nwho he", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 146050, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "tqXOk1iPztY", "prompt": "Idea: What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year? My twin brother Matus and I had been fighting to survive ever since dad left three years ago. The same week mom got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The medical bills crushed us. Some days we come home from school to find the electricity cut off again. Matias would study by candle light, desperate to keep his grades perfect. It was the only thing left he could control. Then on the day the school announced a new validictorian scholarship, Matus looked at me like he'd found a new spark, vowing, "I'll get us out low. I'll do it for mom." Throughout high school, Matus always came out on top. Then during senior year, our teacher announced that Vienna had transferred to our school with a higher GPA. Nobody clapped. I felt Matus slouched down like someone punched him until the class started cheering him on. It's only 0.03 difference. You got this, Matt. That night, he stayed up creating spreadsheets, tracking every assignment's point value, calculating what scores he'd need. When our AP teacher saw it, she bragged about it to other students. Within days, I noticed Matas had Vienna's entire schedule written in his planner. "Healthy competition," he explained when I asked. Even mom encouraged him to skip meals to study, saying, "My fighter." The day he got a 98 on our calculus test, he literally cried in the hallway. Everyone assured him it was still amazing. When first quarter rankings showed Vienna's name on top, Matus didn't come home for 2 days. After Christmas break, my brother became someone I barely recognized. He started spreading rumors about her cheating on SATs, then turn around and comfort her when people gave her dirty looks. I know you'd never cheat. Things only got worse. Her assignments went missing. I watched Matias find it behind the cafeteria dumpster 2 days later, making sure others saw. Vienna, you really should be more careful, he'd say, handing it back with pages torn out. She just stared at the ruined paper with an expression like she knew exactly who'd taken it. After school, I saw Matias shove Vienna against the lockers and snatch her textbook. He disappeared into the boy's bathroom and walked out with a smirk. Vienna stared at the door while I offered, "I'll get it for you." I opened the door and spotted the textbook hanging from a urinal, completely soaked in urine. I felt sick. Vienna held my arm and said, "Don't. I'll just buy a new one." Matias's face went dark. Must be nice. Some of us can't even afford electricity. He spat. Later at home, I confronted him. You're losing. He grabbed my shoulders and screamed. Every A she gets is another month of chemo mom can't afford. You know this. For the first time, I felt afraid of the person he had to become just to keep us afloat. During the second term, Matus stopped bothering her and put all his attention into studying for the AP calculus final, the test that would determine the validictorian. I sat two rows behind Matus, watching his whole body vibrate with anxiety. He finished with 40 minutes left, practically running to submit for the bonus first to submit points. But as he walked past Vienna's desk, his face visibly crumbled. I leaned forward and squinted my eyes to see what he was looking at and noticed Vienna's completed work on the bonus impossible questions that my teacher put for fun. I held my breath and glanced back at my brother just as he breathed, "How dare you?" Then I watched my twin grab Vienna's right hand and slam it against the metal desk edge. The crack echoed. Vienna screamed, "You're killing my mother. Every point you steal is another day she suffers." He snatched the graphing calculator on her desk and started hammering her fingers one by one like vegetables on a chopping board. The wet crushing sounds kept us in our seats, but the sight of blood spraying across her arm, across his face, and desk had us screaming for help. Vienna sobbed, trying to pull away, but he had her wrist locked. He continued pounding her fingers to dust while spitting. "You can't write without fingers. Mom needs this scholarship." Her pinky had bent completely sideways before I found the courage to lunge at him. "Mia, stop!" He shoved me into the desks and held the calculator over my head like he wanted to hurt me, too. "You want mom to die, too?" Three guards burst in and pinned him down. Even then, he tried to reach for Vienna's blood soaked test. Tell them I'm a hero. I cried out at the horrible sight of my brother and shook my head at him. Stop it, Matt. It's over. As they dragged him away, he screamed, "I did it for mom. I'm not the villain here." The guards dragged him away after restraining him. Our teacher picked up Vienna, who had passed out from the pain, and took her to the nurse's office for immediate care. The rest of us hugged the corners of the room, sobbing and traumatized, until another teacher walked into Clare's out and sent us home early. No one from our class attended graduation. Not when one student was injured and another charged with felony assault. They removed the scholarship from the school's program and used the money to pay for Vienna's hospital bills. We lost the house and mom ended up passing away weeks later. When I visit him, he shows me letters he writes to validictorians across the state, explaining they need to know they're stealing from families like ours. Last week, he told me excitedly, "When I get out, I'll work at a tutoring center.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 639768, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "_uYicEXMI8o", "prompt": "Idea: My family forced me to marry my dead mother’s husband.\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My family forced me to marry my dead\nmother's husband. They said it was my\nspiritual duty because leaving\ndefenseless men without a woman to take\ncare of them is a mortal sin. My\nstepfather, Rick, was the most\ndisgusting human being I'd ever\nencountered. My mother had married him\nwhen I was 12 years old, and from day\none, Rick would walk around our house in\nhis underwear making crude comments\nabout my developing body while demanding\nthat mom and I clean up after him like\npersonal servants. He never worked a day\nin his life, spending his time drinking\nbeer and harassing people online while\nmom worked double shifts to support his\nlifestyle. Whenever I tried to talk to\nher about him, she just sigh and say,\n"That's just how men are, Katie." When\nmom got diagnosed with cancer, Rick\nimmediately started talking about how\nI'd need to step up and take care of the\nhousehold while she was sick. I thought\nhe meant extra chores, but it was my\ngrandmother who spelled it out for me.\nObviously, you'll have to marry Rick so\nhe won't be alone when your mother's\ngone. At first, I thought it was some\nkind of sick joke. Then I found out that\nmy grandmother herself had to do the\nexact same thing when her mother passed.\n"It's our duty," she explained. Men are\nfeeble. Only a monster would leave a man\nwithout a wave to take care of him. "Are\nyou a monster, Katie?" The day my mother\ndied, I was 17 and still processing my\ngrief when my grandmother announced that\nthe wedding would happen within the\nmonth. She reminded the whole family\nthat abandoning Rick would be like\nmurdering him slowly through neglect.\nRick sat there grinning while she\ndetailed how I would move into mom's\nbedroom immediately and begin fulfilling\nall her wely duties, including cooking,\ncleaning, and providing him with\nphysical companionship. Rick cornered me\nwhen I was on the way to the bathroom to\nbe sick and whispered that he was\nlooking forward to teaching me\neverything mom had learned about keeping\nhim satisfied. My family had already\nplanned the ceremony and purchased a\nwedding dress in my size, treating my\nhorror and revulsion as typical\npre-wedding jitters that would pass once\nI accepted my sacred duty. Rick kept\ntelling everyone how excited he was to\nhave such a young and fresh wife, and my\nrelatives praised him for being patient\nenough to wait until the wedding night\nto claim me. I spent every night\nthrowing up from anxiety while Rick\nwould knock on my bedroom door and\nremind me that soon there would be no\nbarriers between us. He would follow me\naround the house making disgusting\ncomments about our upcoming wedding\nnight and how he was going to break me\nin properly, just like he had with my\nmother. With the wedding day drawing\ncloser and no way out in sight, I knew I\nhad to do something drastic and that me\nRick had to die. I started acting like\nthe perfect submissive wife to be,\ncooking his favorite meals and praising\nhim constantly. But secretly, I was\nmixing bleach into his beer and\nantifreeze into his coffee, all while\nsmiling sweetly and asking if there was\nanything else I could do to make him\ncomfortable. Rick was so thrilled to\nhave his teenage bride to be waiting on\nhim that he never suspected I was\nliterally trying to murder him with\ncleaning products and rat poison mixed\ninto everything he ate or drank every\nsingle day. But Rick eventually realized\nwhat I was doing when he caught me\npouring drain cleaner into his morning\ncoffee, and he completely lost his mind\nwith rage. He started screaming about\nhow I was trying to kill him, and that\nhe wasn't going to wait for the wedding\nceremony to claim what belonged to him,\ngrabbing me and trying to drag me into\nmy mother's bedroom. I fought back as\nhard as I could, clinging to every\nsurface in the kitchen. Pots and pans\ncame crashing down around me as he tried\nto pull me out my hair. And all that\nnoise was exactly what alerted the\nmailman, who had come to deliver a\npackage and heard Rick screaming about\nforcing himself on his 17-year-old\nstepdaughter. The mailman was a military\nveteran who recognized an assault in\nprogress and immediately called 911\nwhile Rick was still ranting about his\nlegal right to write me as his future\nwife. When the police arrived, Rick was\nso confident in his family's religious\nauthority that he actually explained the\nentire forced marriage tradition to the\nofficers, bragging about how he was\ngoing to teach me proper submission. The\nofficers arrested Rick for attempted\nsexual assault and several other members\nof my family for child endangerment, and\nI was placed in a foster home until I\nturned 18. I'll never forget that a man\nwho was supposedly so helpless that he\ncouldn't survive without a wife was\nsomehow powerful enough to drag me\nthrough the kitchen kicking and\nscreaming. My family never saw the irony\nin that. They all disowned me and I'm\ncompletely on my own now. I have to\nstart over from scratch and every day I\nrealize how much I don't know about the\nreal world because I was locked in their\ntwisted reality my whole life. But I'd\nrather be alone than be Rick's child\nbride.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 417318, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "TAqZMFmBAD4", "prompt": "Idea: My immigrant mother groomed me to be invisible, so I became the spotlight that locked her up.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My immigrant mother groomed me to be\ninvisible, so I became the spotlight\nthat locked her up. My mother controlled\nevery detail of my life from the moment\nshe birthed me on American soil. And I\ndon't mean normal immigrant parents\nstudy hard. Make us proud. I mean she\ncut my hair herself so no stylist would\nremember my face. She made me switch\nbetween three pairs of identical shoes\nso I'd never develop a recognizable\nwalk. I couldn't have more than two\nfriends because popular children get\nmore attention. By the time I turned 18,\nshe had raised an American with perfect\ngrades, no social media, and no\nquestions. At 19, I mentioned wanting a\ndriver's license, and she burned my\nbirth certificate by accident while\ncooking. When I got accepted to\nBerkeley, she called them crying about\nmy mental health crisis until they\ndeferred my admission. She installed a\nGPS tracker in my shoes, then acted hurt\nwhen I found it. Don't you trust your\nmother? She started putting melatonin in\nmy food so I'd be too tired to go out\nand said I must be getting sick. When my\ngirlfriend came over for dinner, mom\nserved her shrimp knowing she was\nallergic, then screamed at me for not\nmentioning it, while Macy's face swelled\nshut. After that, she changed our locks\ndaily and only gave me the new key after\nI'd proven I deserved it by washing\neveryone's clothes by hand. She forged\nrejection letters from every job I\napplied to. Then comforted me about\nbeing unemployable while booking\nmysterious flights. Good news, Miha. I\nfound you work with a family business.\nJust one quick trip to meet your\ncousins. She'd already packed my bags,\nand that trip is when I discovered why\nshe was like that. At the airport, mom\nkissed my forehead like always. Remember\nMiha? You're just visiting your sick\ncousin. She sewed the lining on the bags\nherself. The TSA pulled me aside at\nrandom. Except it wasn't random. The\ndogs were going insane. Miss, we need to\nsearch your luggage. My stomach dropped\nas they sliced open the lining and white\npowder spilled onto the metal table. 5\nkilos. This isn't mine. I screamed, but\nmom had already disappeared from the\nwaiting area. They cuffed me in front of\nhundreds of travelers while I sobbed her\nname. I got locked up for 2 years. Mom\nnever visited, never wrote, never even\nput money in my commissary, but her\ncousin sure came to rub it in my face.\n"Your mom is heartbroken. After all the\nprecautions she took in raising you, you\nstill ruined her plan. Couldn't you have\nbeen more careful?" So that was it. I\nwas never her daughter. I was just her\ndisposable lottery ticket she'd used to\nsmuggle and get rich. That's when my\ntears stopped. As soon as I got out, I'd\nshow her what disposable really meant.\nTwo years of prison taught me patience.\nWhen I got out, I played broken and\nbegged for forgiveness. Cried about\nneeding family. Mom took me back,\nsuspicious, but desperate since she\nneeded money. I'll give you one more\nchance, Niha. But this time, you'll do\nit right. She scheduled another Columbia\ntrip and started her routine of packing\nmy bags. But she didn't know I'd kept my\nDEA handler number or that I'd learned\nher melatonin schedule for every night.\nThe night before our flight, I made\ndinner while mom supervised my packing.\n"You've learned your lesson?" "Yes," she\nasked, folding clothes around vacuum\nsealed packages. I nodded. The broken\ndaughter acted perfected. Then I brought\nher tea for your nerves, mama. She drank\nit without suspecting anything, and\nwithin minutes, the ambient I crushed\ninside hit her hard. She slumped over my\nsuitcase, and I got to work. First, I\nopened her carry-on, the one she never\nlet me touch, and found her vitamin\nbottles. I emptied them and filled them\nwith the white powder I'd scraped from\nmy own suitcase lining, the one she just\npacked. Then, I made sure my suitcase\nwas clean, and sent my DEA handler a\nshort and simple text. Mom woke up an\nhour later all confused and groggy. I\ntold her, "You just fell asleep, must\nhave been exhausted. I already finished\npacking." She nodded, fooled by my\nperfect daughter act these past few\ndays, and then went back to sleep. The\nnext day at airport security, I went\nfirst as always. Clean. Then, mom walked\nthrough and the scanner beeped. Ma'am,\nplease step aside. Her face went from\ncalm to panicked when they opened her\nvitamin bottles and powder dropped on\nthe table. I was watching everything\nfrom far away. And my mom turned to look\nat me in anger before saying, "Those\naren't mine. My daughter must have." But\nan officer interrupted her by tying her\nhands behind her back. My DEA handler\nwas standing right there and explained,\n"We already know that your passport is\nfake and that you're carrying $20,000\nworth of emergency cash. You're under\narrest." The invisible woman suddenly\nbecame the very center of attention. She\nscreamed my name and then ordered them\nto free her because it was all her\ndaughter's fault. I just turned around\nand went to board my flight. You know,\nsince my bags were already packed. My\nmother was deported and locked up for 20\nyears for grooming a minor into helping\nher illegal business and trying to\nsmuggle items over the border.", "metadata": {"writer": "Neil", "views": 652116, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "0AqkUatWEuw", "prompt": "Idea: My brother in law mocked me for being a stay at home dad not knowing I bought his company.\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My brother-in-law mocked me for being a stay-at-home dad, not knowing I bought his company. My wife's family always assumed I was just living off her income. And my brother-in-law, Kenny, was definitely the worst about it. Every Sunday dinner at my in-laws house, he'd go on about being a vice president at his logistics company, making sure everyone knew how successful he was while giving me these looks. Thing is, he didn't know I'd sold my startup 5 years ago and chose to stay home when our daughter was born with serious health complications. All of that came to a head one particular Sunday when Kenny arrived at our house wasted from corporate golf. He saw me setting the table and chuckled about my apron being very domestic, just loud enough for his mother to hear. I tried redirecting to his golf game, but he waved me off. During appetizers, he asked my opinion on interest rates, then immediately turned away. "Actually, what would you know about the economy?" He explained to everyone how being out of the game made people lose touch. My chest started tightening as family members nodded along. When I cut my daughter's food, he announced loudly that I'd mastered the motherly arts. He explained how modern couples sometimes completely reverse nature and wasn't it interesting. The whole table heard him question my masculinity while I helped my child eat. After the main course arrived, he pulled out his wallet and peeled off 20s. Since money's probably tight, let me pay you for serving dinner. It's what I pay my housekeeper. He held out cash while family members stared at their plates in silence. My wife tried defending me, but Kenny laughed and addressed the table. He said she was basically supporting two children, gesturing at my daughter and me. Most women want partners, not dependence, but love is blind. He spoke about me like I wasn't there. I excuse myself to check dessert and sent a quick text to my CFO about accelerating that acquisition we discussed. My hands shook as I typed, returning to find Kenny mid- lecture. I tried sharing an investment insight. He called it adorable and asked if YouTube University was teaching finance. Now, the physical destruction came next when he accidentally knocked his wine glass onto my laptop bag. Red wine soaked through to my computer while he laughed about me using it for online poker. He made no move to help clean up. Extended family arrived and Kenny introduced me to his cousin as unemployed by choice. When I corrected him, he clarified loudly that I play with spreadsheets using my wife's money. He told everyone I was a kept man who'd never work again. My reputation dissolved in real time. The sacred line came when he pulled my daughter close and stage whispered where everyone could hear. When you grow up, find a real job like Uncle Kenny. Daddy can't teach you about success because he gave up. She asked why uncle was being mean to daddy. My mother-in-law mentioned upcoming medical bills and Kenny's eyes lit up with cruelty. He said, "Thank God she married a doctor since I couldn't provide insurance. Using my kid's sickness to avoid working was low, even for me. He weaponized my daughter's heart condition." His final assault came as a drunken toast to the whole room about my wife proving women can have it all. She's the surgeon, the bread winner, and basically a single mother since her husband is just another child to feed. He raised his glass while calling me a burden. The company rant exploded from him unprompted. Months of anxiety pouring out. He ranted about tech bros who got lucky thinking they're geniuses. Private equity parasites were destroying real businesses built by real men. He admitted not bothering to learn which vultures bought them. But when they fire me, I'll still be more man than Mr. Mom. Maybe you can be my maid. I sat down my coffee and asked what firm was buying his company. He sneered about me applying as their secretary before naming the buyer with disgust. The same tech bros who got lucky once and played CEO, he added. I showed him my phone with the acquisition announcement bearing my signature as CEO. The dining room froze as his face shifted from red to white. My wife's satisfied smile said everything while family members gasped in recognition. Kenny stammered about it not being real while desperately checking his own phone. "Your company is mine now," I said, standing to leave with my family. His apologies tumbled out, but I cut him off with raised hand. "You'll keep your job, but report to my new female CEO starting Monday. My daughter asked if uncle worked for daddy now," and I nodded. The tech bro who got lucky owns your future, Kenny.", "metadata": {"writer": "Antonio Samson", "views": 137938, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "QyFlIxc97vg", "prompt": "Idea: When did your husband’s expectations for your body go way too far?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did your husband's expectations for\nyour body go way too far? My husband\nLars scheduled my first surgery on our\nwedding anniversary. And when I woke up\nmissing two toes, he said, "Happy\nanniversary, Diana. Now you'll always\nfit in your wedding shoes." Our marriage\nhad always revolved around his obsession\nwith perfection. He met me when I was 19\nworking as a fit model, and he would\ntell people that I was anatomically\nperfect. Lars would spend hours taking\nmeasurements of my body with a Taylor's\ntape, recording numbers in a leather\njournal. He made me weigh myself every\nmorning and would celebrate when the\nscale showed the exact same number as\nour wedding day. "Other women let\nthemselves go after marriage," he would\nsay. "But you're going to stay exactly\nas perfect as the day I married you."\nWhen I gained 3 lbs during the holidays,\nLars cried into his pillow for an hour,\nthen hired a personal trainer who made\nme exercise until I collapsed.\nThroughout my pregnancy, I managed to\nkeep him calm by reminding him that any\nweight gain would be reversible. But I\nwasn't prepared for my feet to grow a\nhalf size and not go back to how they\nwere. Apparently, it's normal. Something\nabout your joints relaxing. But Lars was\ninconsolable. He found a doctor who\nspecialized in corrective foot surgery\nfor dancers. Lars told me that removing\nmy two smallest toes would restore my\nfeet to their original size. He\nscheduled the surgery without telling me\nand said it was just a routine checkup.\nBut when I woke up and saw my bandaged\nfeet, I realized what he had done. Don't\nbe upset, he said when I started crying.\nNow they'll always be exactly the same\nsize as when we got married, and we can\nmove on to fixing other areas that have\nchanged. Perfection requires\nmaintenance. And I'm going to make sure\nyou never lose what made me fall in love\nwith you. My feet were deformed and I\ncouldn't walk more than a few steps\nwithout needing something to cling to\nfor sport. Taking care of the baby was\nalmost impossible. But Lars didn't care\nabout that. All that mattered was that\nmy shoes fit again. For the next few\nmonths, Lars became increasingly\naggressive about correcting parts of my\nbody. He scheduled surgeries to remove\nsections of my ribs that he said were\nexpanding my waist measurement. He hired\nmedical professionals who would perform\nprocedures in a makeshift operating room\nin a lab he rented. When I tried to\nrefuse the surgeries, Lars would lock me\nin the basement while our baby sobbed\nupstairs and say, "You're going to thank\nme when you're the only woman in the\nworld who never ages or changes." But\none day, Lars took things too far. He\ncalmly informed me that he'd noticed\nthat my left arm was 2 centimeters\nlonger than my right. He said it was\nruining my symmetry, and he had no\nchoice but to remove the arm. I boked\nasking him how exactly having an arm on\none side but not the other would make me\nmore symmetrical. He couldn't come up\nwith an adequate answer and finally he\nsnapped, "I just don't want you taking\nup so much space." Then he showed me\ndetailed plans for removing various body\nparts over the next few years. That's\nwhen I realized that this had nothing to\ndo with maintaining a perfect figure. He\njust wanted me smaller by any means\nnecessary. When I told him I wouldn't\nlet him cut off my arm, he said, "You\ndon't get to make decisions about your\nbody anymore, Diana. I own you and I'm\ngoing to make you exactly what I want\nyou to be, even if I have to take you\napart piece by piece." I managed to\nescape 2 days later during one of my\nmedical appointments and went straight\nto the police where I showed them my\nmutated feet and told them about Lars's\nplans. The officers were horrified and\nimmediately arrested Lars and the\ndoctors who had been performing illegal\nsurgeries in our makeshift hospital. I\nfelt like I could finally take a breath\nknowing that no more pieces of my body\nwould be stolen and that my baby and I\nhad a shot at freedom. But just when I\nthought my nightmare was over, Lars got\nout on bail and then he completely lost\ncontrol. He showed up at my workplace\nwith a meat cleaver, screaming, "I'm not\ndone fixing you yet." He grabbed my hand\nand chopped off my ring finger before\nsecurity could stop him. Then stood over\nme yelling, "Now you can't wear that\nwedding ring on your disgusting fat\nfinger anymore." As I bled on the floor\nand writhed in pain. The workplace\nattack was witnessed by dozens of people\nand recorded on security cameras, giving\nprosecutors all the evidence they\nneeded. Lars was immediately arrested\nand charged with assault with a deadly\nweapon. And this time there was no bail\nand no way for his family's lawyers to\nexplain away what he had done. The judge\nsentenced him to 15 years in prison and\nI finally felt safe knowing he couldn't\nhurt me anymore. Lars was convicted of\nassault, false imprisonment, and medical\nfraud while I underwent reconstructive\nsurgery to repair some of the damage.\nI'm now 31 years old and learning to\nlive with my permanently altered body\nwhile raising my daughter as a single\nmother. But I still have nightmares\nabout waking up with more pieces\nmissing. And if anyone ever tells her\nshe's taking up too much space, I can't\nbe held responsible for how I react.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 83073, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "tH8DJvAXl8U", "prompt": "Idea: He Followed Me Everywhere I Went, So I Made Sure He'd Never Follow Anyone Again.\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "He followed me everywhere I went, so I made sure he'd never follow anyone again. You ever hear about those stories where a crazy stalker won't hesitate to kill someone if it meant getting his crush's attention? It sounds romantic on paper, but is terrifying in real life. Sergio was just that, a stalker who sent me 10 messages every hour, even when I ghosted him, who blasted romantic songs through a speaker outside my house, who told everyone that I was his soulmate. The first red flag should have been when Sergio showed up out of nowhere at my cafe and stared at my face for 2 hours straight. He came in every Tuesday and Thursday at exactly 3 p.m. when my shift started, asking for drink recommendations, even though he never bought anything. I thought he was just lonely until I saw him at my gym on Saturday morning pretending to struggle with dumbbells while watching me through the mirrors. It escalated quickly as he started appearing everywhere I went. He'd call my work asking for his girlfriend and followed all my friends on Instagram, commenting on every post that had my face. He'd leave flowers at my door with photos of me taken from across the street. When I blocked his number, he used apps to generate new ones and called me 20 times a day. The police said he hadn't done anything illegal, and the detective even asked if I'd let him on. After he showed up at my parents house, saying, "I just wanted to meet my future family. I quit my job overnight and drove three states away to where my cousin lived just so I could escape that maniac." For 6 months, I lived peacefully in that small town, working at a local diner under a fake name. I'd started to feel safe again and made new friends who didn't know anything about my past. But then one morning, I walked into work and there he was sitting at the counter with that same sick smile spread across his face. I finally found you. You can't just disappear on me like that. My hands shook as I tied my apron while Sergio explained how he rented the apartment across from mine and already told my boss we were engaged. He showed me screenshots on his phone of everything I'd done in town for the past 2 weeks, proving he'd been watching without me knowing. The thing that made me snap was when he mentioned babysitting my cousin's kids, how he befriended her whole family by claiming to be my boyfriend, trying to work things out after a fight, fine. If he wanted to be a part of my life so badly, then I'd use exactly that to destroy him. I spent the next week carefully planning his downfall. First, I studied his demeanor and discovered he documented everything about me, but revealed nothing about himself and used fake names everywhere, which meant he'd done this before. I researched remote Alaskan towns and wilderness lodges, creating an elaborate fantasy job opportunity. I even printed fake emails about interviews and threw them in the garbage, knowing he went through my trash. I practiced conversations about the move, making sure other my diner customers would overhear and gossip about it. Everything had to be believable enough that he wouldn't question it, but remote enough that he'd be truly stranded. To my surprise, he took the bait immediately and quit his job while telling everyone we were moving to Alaska together as a couple. I played along. I booked bus tickets to Seattle and both our names, but only used mine. then created an elaborate trail by withdrawing cash at specific ATMs and towns heading north. I posted on social media about the beautiful Washington scenery and shared fake excitement about interviewing at lodges near Anchorage. At a Seattle coffee shop, I made sure to say loudly on the phone, "Yes, I'll be in Anchorage by tomorrow." My boyfriend Sergio is so excited about the fresh start. While he followed these breadcrumbs to Seattle and then caught a flight to Alaska, I was actually driving south to Mexico where my cousin had arranged a cash job at her friend's restaurant. Sergio ended up in a remote Alaskan town in the dead of winter with no job and no connections, searching for a woman who was never there. He spent weeks going to every lodge and business asking about me, growing increasingly desperate as his money ran out. The locals became suspicious of this outsider using a fake name and asking about a woman nobody had seen, especially when he couldn't provide consistent details about our supposed relationship. I later learned through my cousin that Sergio had been arrested after he was caught trying to access public records in Alaska, still trying to find where I truly was. Police didn't just arrest him. They connected him to multiple stalking cases across five states.", "metadata": {"writer": "Neil", "views": 108592, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "tsOvSYrZ-sc", "prompt": "Idea: What happened to girls who turned 16 in your community?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What happened to girls who turned 16 in\nyour community? In my religious\ncommunity, parents were required to\nenter their virgin daughters into the\nmarriage lottery at 16, where the oldest\nmen got first pick. I grew up in this\nisolated compound watching the spring\nlottery happened every year since I\ncould remember. The elders would line up\ngirls in white dresses while their\nfathers stood to behind them holding\npaperwork that signed away their\ndaughter's lives. Elder Cyrus ran the\nwhole system at 72 years old and always\ngot to choose first because he had the\nmost righteousness points from decades\nof donations and service to the\ncompound. My mother had gone through\nthis same lottery when she turned 16 and\nended up married to my father who was 27\nyears older than her. The changes in my\nlife started when I turned 15 last\nwinter. My mother began crying at random\nmoments throughout the day and would\ngrab my shoulders while apologizing for\nthings I didn't understand yet. My\nfather started drinking more of his\nhomemade wine after evening prayers and\navoided looking at me directly. They\nenrolled me in wife training where\nSister Ashley taught us girls how to\ncook meals for 20 people and properly\niron men's shirts while practicing\nphrases like yes husband over and over\nuntil the words made me feel sick.\nSister Ashley also taught us basic\ncomputer skills for managing household\ninventories which she said modern wives\nneeded to know. Everything became clear\nwhen my friend Amara visited one night\nafter her husband fell asleep. She had\nwon her lottery the previous year and\nnow carried her second baby at just 17\nyears old. Amara sat on my bed and\nexplained the whole process that nobody\nwould tell us beforehand. The men didn't\nactually draw names like we thought, but\nbid on girls using righteousness points\nthey earned through donations and\nservice work. The girl who got the most\npoints had to marry whoever bid them.\nand Elder Cyrus had been saving his\npoints for four years, specifically\nwaiting for me to turn 16. The horror\ngot worse as Amara described what\nhappened after the selection. After the\nselection, they take you to the\nconsummation chamber that same night,\nwhere an elder witnesses to verify the\nmarriage is binding. Her hands shook as\nshe spoke, and I felt my stomach turn.\nShe explained how the witness sat in the\ncorner reading scripture while the\nmarriage was consummated to make sure it\ncouldn't be an old lady later. 2 weeks\nbefore my 16th birthday, the preparation\nintensified. They took me to the purity\nconfirmation chamber where the compound\ndoctor examined me while my parents and\nseveral elders watched. He announced I\nwas intact, and they marked my name on\nthe lottery roster with a gold star that\nmeant I was verified for marriage. Elder\nCyrus started sending gifts to our\nhouse, including white dresses that\nsomehow fit perfectly and jars of\nblackberry jam I had mentioned liking\nonce years ago. Mom burned the gifts at\nfirst, but dad made her display them\nproperly after the elders complained.\nOne night, mom pulled me aside and\nwhispered, "He's been saving points for\nfour years specifically for you and has\nenough to outid God himself." I finally\nunderstood why she had been crying and\napologizing all year. I also discovered\nmy 13-year-old sister Annabelle had been\nhiding her period for 6 months because\nshe was terrified of entering the\nlottery in 3 years. The night before my\nlottery date arrived faster than I\nwanted. I couldn't sleep and found mom\nin the kitchen at 3:00 a.m. with her car\nkeys on the counter and a full tank of\ngas in the car. She had packed clothes\nand put cash in the glove box along with\na paper showing the email address for a\nwomen's shelter she had copied from her\nfriend who escaped years ago. I woke\nAnnabelle and we left through the back\ndoor, driving 6 hours straight to the\nstate capital where I used a library\ncomputer to email the shelter. The\ncompound's retaliation started\nimmediately after we escaped. They filed\nmissing person reports and had\nconnections throughout our state who\nhelped search for us. We stayed hidden\nfor two months moving between three\ndifferent shelters whenever someone got\ntoo close. Elder Cyrus tracked down the\nsecond shelter and stood outside for\nhours each day. I've waited four years\nand I can wait longer because God always\ndelivers his promises. He brought\nflowers and gifts every time and never\nshowed any doubt that I would eventually\nbe returned to him. The situation\nreached its breaking point when they\nheld an emergency lottery for Annabelle.\nMom called the shelter sobbing that they\nhad married Annabelle off that very\nmorning to brother Otis, who was 55\nyears old as punishment for helping me\nescape. The shelter director had been\ndocumenting our case for months and\nfinally had enough evidence. The federal\ninvestigation took eight months, but\neventually led to Elder Cyrus's arrest\non charges of moneyaundering and\norganizing forced marriages of minors.\nHe got 15 years in federal prison, but\nmost members had already fled to\ncompounds in Mexico. Mom sent one final\nletter saying they were starting fresh\nacross the border and that she had done\nwhat she could by leaving those car\nkeys.", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 485636, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "M25_0JYQ2Fk", "prompt": "Idea: When did hugging trees turn into a criminal activity?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "When did hugging trees turn into a criminal activity? Carl told me about his childhood on our third date. How his parents called him worthless and ugly. The trees were my only friends, he said, describing how he'd escaped to the woods whenever kids threw rocks at him. He showed me a photo of himself as a skinny boy hugging an oak tree. He gave a soft smile. They never judged me. They just let me exist. I held his hand and said, "That's beautiful." He nodded. It saved me and I'll do anything to protect it. After that third date, I saw Carl's activism differently. His environmental work at college wasn't just a hobby, it was his calling. I fell even harder for him during volunteer days, watching him teach kids about the wonders of nature. He brought me out to study under the largest tree on the campus and pointed out the word guardian carved roughly into the bark. When I asked him about it, he explained, "This is where I hid freshman year whenever my anxiety hit. I called this tree guardian because of the way it protects me and others. I thought it was sweet how passionate he was. When he won the sustainability award for his hybrid hydroponics idea, he thanked the trees in his speech for raising him up when others wouldn't. The whole room ate it up. But then he started taking it too far. He started waking at 3:00 a.m. to water the neighbors trees. When I tried to get him inside, he pushed me away saying they were calling to him, that they were thirsty. I laughed it off, thinking he just wanted to help him out. But then I caught him skipping class to follow a lumber truck, screaming that they were taking the lives of innocents. It felt embarrassing having to drag him away from the confused workers." That honestly should have been my wake up call. My image of him completely shattered the day campus maintenance pruned the oak trees. I found him with his hands on the worker's throat, sobbing that he could hear the plants crying. The other workers called security and I physically had to pry him away while he wailed about how nature is our savior. Our life is not ours. The campus suspended him and sent him home to recover. I begged him to see a therapist, but he refused, saying, "You're either with the trees or against us. You better be with us because you don't want to find out what's going to happen to our enemy soon." His threat made the hairs on my arm stand up. I apologized and told him I was on his side while secretly feeling terrified of what he might do next. After his suspension, I insisted Carl move in so I could keep an eye on him. He spent his days guarding the neighborhood trees. He'd patrol at dawn, keeping a journal of potential threats. Lately, he'd been obsessing over our elderly neighbor, Mr. Sullivan, who kept complaining about his maple dropping branches and leaves on his car. That morning, when I heard the chainsaw start, I knew something terrible would happen. Carl's inhuman scream woke the entire block. I chased after him, but he was already beating Mr. Sullivan's face. He shoved me hard into the fence when I tried pulling him off. When he grabbed Mr. Sullivan's chainsaw that was still lying by the fresh stump. I tried wrestling it away, but he was stronger than I'd ever seen him. The roots were destroying my driveway. Mr. Sullivan gasped through bloody lifts. Branches kept falling on my car, but Carl's face stayed blank. "You need to become what you destroyed," he said. I ran for my phone, but Carl smashed it against the sidewalk, warning me not to interfere with justice. I watched horrified as he tied up Mr. Sullivan and started digging. I begged Carl to stop, promised we'd get help together, but he kept digging while humming a lullaby. When he forced Mr. Sullivan into the hole and started packing dirt around his body, I tried pulling the old man out, but Carl backhanded me across the face. He kept packing soil until only Mr. Sullivan's head remained above ground like some horrific human sapling. "You're the tree now," Carl said, filling his watering can. As he poured water over Mr. Sullivan's exposed head, the old man choked and gasped. The water pulled around Mr. Sullivan's chin, forcing him to tilt his head back to breathe. Carl refilled the can methodically. Shh. Seeds need quiet to grow, Carl whispered, pouring another stream directly into the old man's gasping mouth. Mr. Sullivan's body convulsed in the packed earth, but Carl just smiled, adusting the soil around his neck like tucking in a child. I ran barefoot to the neighbor's house, pounding on their door to call 911. I ran back to find Carl still pouring water over Mr. Sullivan's face, telling him the trees were welcoming him home. The maple forgives you. Carl whispered between pores, "But you need to understand its pain first." Mr. Sullivan's eyes rolled back as he struggled for air between the floods of water. Carl just kept refilling the can, humming that haunting lullabi, completely at peace with what he was doing until the police arrived. The cops had to tase Carl to get him off Mr. Sullivan. He kept screaming my name, calling me a traitor, saying the trees would never forgive me. Mr. Sullivan survived but nearly drowned in that dirt. Carl's locked up now, but sends letters saying the trees whispered the names of neighbors who trimmed their hedges, people who built decks, anyone who used pesticides. His last letter had detailed planting instructions for each of them with little drawings showing exactly how deep to bury", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 17943, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "TzsoXZaFdeo", "prompt": "Idea: What made you call the police on your own mother?\nStructure: Obsession\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you call the police on your own mother? My seven-year-old sister Dianiela was singing in the backseat behind me when a truck ran the red light and slammed into us at top speed. By the time the car stopped flipping, Dianiela became permanently silent. After hours trying to save her, the doctors told us she was gone. Mom climbed into the hospital bed and pulled Daniela against her chest, rocking her for 3 hours. Mommy's here, baby. Dad just stood frozen when the nurses pried my sister from mom's arms. And while they fought, I threw up knowing I survived, and Daniela didn't. The first few weeks blurred together with mom crying in Daniela's room for hours. Dad would hold her shoulders and whisper that everything would be okay. I kept making her chamomile tea, but the cups always went cold on the nightstand. She couldn't stop staring at Daniela's things long enough to drink them. Our grief therapist said this was normal and everyone processes loss differently. So, we didn't worry when mom started making Daniela's bed every morning or arranged the stuffed animals in perfect rows just how Daniellea liked them. We thought maybe this ritual was helping her cope with the loss. On the day would have turned nine, mom showed up with a wrapped birthday present saying she'd already bought it before the accident. An obvious lie, but dad and I let it slide because what harm could one gift do to an already broken family. A month later, mom walked through the door carrying a life-sized doll that looked exactly like Dianiela with real human hair in her exact shade. She sat me down to show how she could brush his hair just like Daniela's bedtime routine. I forced myself to nod, my heartbreaking from the desperate sight. The next few days spiralled out of control. Mom dressed the doll in new outfits every morning and took it everywhere in Daniellea's wagon. She did both voices like the doll could actually respond. People at the mall grabbed their children and hurried away from us. Dad found the $3,000 credit card charge. When he confronted her, she clutched the doll, screaming, "You can't put a price on our daughter." He started sleeping on the couch that night. Things got worse when she pulled me out of school, claiming it was too dangerous. She set up homeschooling with three play settings at our kitchen table. Week after week, I sat there watching her teach that doll alongside me until one morning I couldn't take it anymore. One morning, I finally snapped and said, "Stop it. Daniela is gone. Mom sobbed." "You abandoned her in that car, and now you're doing it again." The guilt hit me so hard I couldn't breathe. "I'm here, too," I mumbled while she cradled that doll like a real child while tears streamed down her face. Two weeks after dad left, mom started acting strange. She'd leave the doll behind and disappear, returning with stories about her wonderful new friend and the woman's precious daughter. "I found her phone with Daniellea's photo replaced by a stranger's child." "She has Daniellea's exact laugh," Mom said behind me, her eyes glittering. At noon, the doorbell rang and mom flew to answer feverishly. An exhausted woman stood there clutching her purse, thanking mom over and over for babysitting. Behind her, a girl about 11 with dark hair hung back, clearly uneasy. "Take all the time you need," Mom purred in a voice I'd never heard before. "The second their car turned the corner, something in mom's face shifted into pure predator. She grabbed the girl's wrist hard enough to leave marks and dragged her toward Daniela's room." "Welcome home, baby." The girl's confusion turned to fear. "My name's not Daniela, it's Katie," she whispered. The sound of mom's palm hitting her face made me flinch. "You are Dianiela!" Mom shrieked. Everything accelerated into a nightmare. Mom commanded Katie to undress, but when she shook her head, mom grabbed the scissors from Daniellea's desk. Katie tried to bolt, but mom caught her by the hair. I watched, frozen in horror as she cut through Katie's clothes with violent precision, humming Daniellea's lullabi. Katie stood there exposed and sobbing while mom forced Daniela's tiny dress over her head. The bathroom became a torture chamber. Mom dragged the screaming girl in while I watched in horror. Through the mirror, I watched mom slather bleach on her hair. "I want my mommy," she wailed. "I am your mommy?" Mom cooed. "God gave you back to me." In one desperate moment, when mom turned for more dye, Katie scooped bleach and smeared it across mom's eyes. Mom's scream was inhuman as she clawed at her face. Katie sprinted out and yelled for help. I flew downstairs and dove into the pantry with my phone. I whispered frantically to 911 while Katie's sobbs mixed with mom's rage above us. Those minutes waiting for sirens felt like ours. When they finally broke down Daniela's door, they found mom sitting calmly on the bed, brushing both Katie's hair and the dolls. "My two Dianielas have finally met," she announced proudly. Katie threw herself at the officers while mom fought like a wild animal, screaming, "Don't take my babies again." Even as they wrestled her into handcuffs, the little girl's mom placed a restraining order on her family, and mom's been institutionalized 8 months now. "Last time I visited, she grabbed my hand and whispered, "I forgive you for sending Dianiela away again." She smiled and for a moment I thought I saw a glimpse of mom I had before the crash until she mentioned another patient had Daniellea's exact laugh.", "metadata": {"writer": "Shannen Santiago", "views": 1390355, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "hASs9VHu4K4", "prompt": "Idea: What horrible skill did you learn from your dad?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What horrible skill did you learn from your dad? My father forced me to seduce my female teachers starting in middle school because he believed I needed to practice destroying women before I could properly ruin the ones who'd wronged him. My dad had issues with women. First, my mom left him for another guy, and then his female boss fired him after he hit on her at the office. After that, he saw all women as manipulative predators who deserve to be destroyed, and he decided he was going to teach me to use them before they could use me. He'd drill me for hours on what women wanted to hear, making me practice vulnerable expressions and memorize stories about needing maternal guidance. When I was 12, he started pointing out which female teachers were single mothers or going through divorces. If I resisted his training sessions, he'd take away my games and ground me for months, saying women would destroy me like they destroyed him if I didn't learn to destroy them first. In seventh grade, he picked my English teacher as my first target. He made me stay after class, pretending to struggle with assignments and slowly open up about missing my mom, because apparently female teachers love that emotional crap. I didn't yet understand the full scope of what he was pushing me to do. But I did know it didn't feel right, and I told him I wasn't going to play along. That's when he grabbed me by the shoulders and told me that if I didn't listen, he'd have me shipped off to military school. There are no female teachers there, he said. Just big burly men who want to make a skinny boy like you their Is that what you want? I didn't know what that meant either, but his voice was enough to have me terrified. Dad had a list of targets at my school. my math teacher who just had a messy breakup, the young science teacher everyone had a crush on, or the guidance counselor who tried too hard to connect with students. Dad would research their weaknesses through parent networks and social media, creating detailed psychological profiles. I had to worm my way into their lives and report back to him with every interaction, every moment of emotional vulnerability, and every time they offered extra help. The manipulation made me sick. These teachers genuinely wanted to help what they thought was a struggling kid from a broken home. They'd offer support, share their own experiences, try to be the positive female influence they thought I needed. Meanwhile, I was recording conversations, saving texts, and screenshotting emails that could be taken out of context. Dad called it building leverage, and made me organize everything in folders labeled with each teacher's name. By high school, I had compromising information on eight different teachers. Nothing had happened. A dad had taught me how to frame innocent interactions as inappropriate. A comforting hand on my shoulder became unwanted touching. Staying after school for tutoring became suspicious alone time. He hadn't used any of it yet, saying I was still in training. But I knew his real targets. My mom, her lawyer, the female judge who'd given her full custody, and his former boss. Eventually, he was going to have me claim they'd all tried to take advantage of me, and I'd be well rehearsed in manipulating evidence to make it seem true. Once your training is done, he'd say, "We'll destroy any woman we want." Everything changed when M. Burns, my history teacher, figured out what was happening. I'd been assigned to get close to her, but she recognized my rehearsed emotional revelations and calculated vulnerability. After class one day, she said gently, "Someone's coaching you to do this, aren't they?" She didn't accuse or threaten. She just said she'd seen students forced into inappropriate situations before and wanted to help. I completely broke down and told her everything about my father's revenge plan and the files we built on innocent teachers. She listened without judgment and said we needed to protect everyone involved. We went to the principal together and I handed over all the manufactured evidence, explaining how my father had orchestrated everything. The principal called an emergency meeting with all the teachers I targeted. Sitting in that room, confessing to eight women who'd only tried to help me was the hardest thing I'd ever done. My father exploded when the school contacted him. He showed up with a lawyer, claiming the female teachers had been grooming me, and the school was covering it My son's been victimized by predatory women and now they're silencing him," he shouted. He'd already started posting on men's rights forums about female teachers targeting male students, using carefully edited screenshots as proof. When the school didn't cave, he escalated. He filed complaints with the state board, claiming Ms. Burns had manipulated me. He organized protests with father's rights groups, holding signs about protecting boys from female predators. Two of my teachers resigned immediately rather than fight the accusations. Dad said we were going after my mother, his boss, and the judge now before I could ruin my credibility anymore. Just when I felt totally boxed in, I remembered that my dad had recorded our training sessions because he had big dreams of selling his program to other wronged fathers. I went back to my principal with the recordings and he took them straight to the police. They clearly showed him teaching me to fabricate evidence against innocent teachers. He got 12 years for extortion, conspiracy, and corruption of a minor.", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 24313, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "ghs7SHI7ZrM", "prompt": "Idea: My boyfriend thought I was hiding men under my bed, so I made sure his whole family knew\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My boyfriend thought I was hiding men\nunder my bed, so I made sure his whole\nfamily knew he was hiding his cousin and\nhis. My boyfriend made me pee with the\nbathroom door open so I couldn't\nsecretly call other men. And I don't\nmean that in the cute he had trust\nissues kind of way. I mean it like he'd\nstand outside timing me, convinced\nanything over 90 seconds meant I was\ncheating. 6 months of being interrogated\ndaily when I should have been the one\nasking questions. It started small,\nalmost cute. He'd text just checking in\nevery hour, show up at girls night\nbecause he missed me too much to wait\nand memorize my work schedule so he\ncould surprise me with lunch. I thought\nit was romantic. Finally, a guy who\nactually gave a [ __ ] Looking back,\nthose surprises were surveillance. Those\ncheck-ins were check-ups, and that\nattention was just possession wearing a\nsmile. By month three, he convinced me\nto block every male friend I'd ever had.\nIf you're serious about us, why do you\nneed them? Made me unfriend childhood\nbuddies, college friends, even my best\nfriend's husband while keeping all his\nfemale friends because that's different.\nThen came the night surveillance.\nFaceTime all night when I wasn't at his\nplace. Phone popped up so he could watch\nme sleep like a baby monitor. The night\nmy phone died at 3:00 a.m. He showed up\nat my apartment by 3:45 demanding to\ncheck my closets and under my bed for\nthe men I was apparently hiding. Then\nsuddenly everything changed. After\nmonths of suffocating control, he\nannounced he needed mental health time\nand started going to the gym every\nWednesday with his work buddies. One\nnight, his phone buzzed with a text from\nsomeone named Cole. Still sore from last\ntime. Don't go easy on me this round.\nWhen I casually asked who Cole was, he\nbarely looked up from his phone and just\nsaid it was this new guy from work. Over\nthe next few weeks, Cole's text kept\npopping up. You always know how to wear\nme out, lol. And you miss me or what?\nBut when I suggested meeting this\nworkout buddy he'd been spending every\nWednesday with, he exploded. Why are you\nbeing so controlling? What? Do you want\nto screw him? The man who timed my\nbathroom breaks was calling me\ncontrolling. The [ __ ] irony. His\nmom's birthday party came around in\nAugust, a big family BBQ with the whole\nclan gathering. He'd been weirdly\nnervous about me coming and kept asking\nif I was sure I wanted to go, which\nshould have been my first red flag. The\nparty was going fine, meeting all his\nrelatives, who were surprisingly warm\nand welcoming. When his aunt pulled me\naside excitedly, "You have to meet my\ndaughter Nicole. She's home from college\nfor the summer." This beautiful girl in\na sundress came over, all smiles,\nchatting about her classes and\ninternship plans. Seemed like a\nsweetheart. That's when his grandma\nshuffled over, pinched Nicole's cheek,\nand said the words that changed\neverything. "Oh, good. You're meeting\nour Cole. Hasn't she grown up\nbeautiful?" My blood went ice cold, and\neverything clicked into place. He'd been\nscrewing his cousin, but I had to be\nsure. 1 hour later, the party was in\nfull chaos, and my boyfriend was 5 years\ndeep, so I made my move. "Baby, my\nphone's dead and I need to call my mom,"\nI said sweetly. "Can I borrow yours?" He\nhanded it over without a second thought.\n"Too drunk to be suspicious." I walked\nto the quiet front yard and went\nstraight to his messages, finding Cole's\nthread immediately. Nicole in his bed\nwearing the Yankees jersey I bought him\nfor his birthday, last Wednesday's time\nstamp, messages about their next gym\nsession. I quickly forwarded the whole\nsick collection to myself. I stood there\non his parents lawn, fighting the urge\nto vomit, then walked back inside with\nhis phone and a smile frozen on my face.\nGrandma announced we'd play a little\nhigh, little low at dinner. Their\nwholesome family tradition where\neveryone shares their best and worst\nmoment of the day. Usually, I hated this\n[ __ ] Always froze up. Couldn't think of\nanything good on the spot. But tonight,\nI knew exactly what I'd say. I watched\nNicole and my boyfriend carefully\navoiding each other all evening,\nmaintaining their little charade.\nPerfect. I'd use grandma's own game to\ndestroy them. Dinner time arrived, and\neveryone gathered around, going around\nthe table as people shared their best\nand worst moments today. My boyfriend\nhad relaxed by now, probably thinking\nwe'd made it through the party without\nincident. When it finally reached me, I\ntook a breath and smiled sweetly at the\nwhole family. My little high is finally\ngetting to meet Cole, I said, watching\nthe relatives smile and nod, assuming I\nmeant meeting family members. And my\nlittle low, I paused, keeping my voice\nperfectly steady. is that I'm sorry for\nruining this lovely dinner, but I just\ndiscovered my boyfriend has been\ncheating on me with Cole. The silence\nhit like a bomb. They've been screwing\nevery Wednesday since she got back from\ncollege. He saved her as Cole from work\nand his phone. Grandma's fork clattered\nonto her plate as I stood up calmly.\nAnyway, thanks for having me. I walked\nout as the table erupted into chaos\nbehind me. My phone blew up immediately,\nnot with apologies, just rage about\nruining his life. By morning, Grandma\nhad called every relative, and Nicole's\nparents were driving down from Michigan.\nCollege fund gone. Trust fund gone. Both\ngot disowned, evicted, and fired when\nthe scandal spread through their small\nreligious community. They tried denying\nit, but the Cole evidence was\nundeniable. Plus, half the family saw\nthose photos thanks to me. Last I heard,\nthey were living in some shitty\napartment two states away. stuck\ntogether because no one else would touch\nthem.", "metadata": {"writer": "Lucis L", "views": 1172880, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "I01yWcwGnWI", "prompt": "Idea: I refused to fight my brother for food and he never forgave me.\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "I refused to fight my brother for food and he never forgave me. My parents believed that comfort made children weak, so they'd make us fight each other for food, water, and shelter because only the strongest child deserved to survive each day. My parents were obsessed with creating what they called apex humans through extreme survival training that started when we were toddlers. Dad was a former military drill sergeant who'd been dishonorably discharged for abusing recruits. And mom was a self-proclaimed survival expert who'd never actually survived anything more dangerous than a camping trip. They'd read every book about raising warrior children and decided that modern parenting was creating soft, pathetic weaklings who couldn't handle real adversity. Our house was set up like a military compound with no furniture, no toys, and no comfort items because they believed luxury would corrupt our natural fighting instincts. When I turned 10, my parents sat me down with my twin brother, Louisis, and explained the new household rules that would govern our daily survival. Starting tomorrow, you'll earn every single thing you need to live, Dad announced with genuine excitement. Food, water, blankets, even permission to use the bathroom will be awarded only to the child who proves they deserve it most. Mom nodded proudly and added, "Weak children die in the real world, so we're going to make sure you're strong enough to live." They explained that every morning we'd compete in physical challenges, and the winner would get to eat breakfast while the loser would go hungry until the next competition. Living under this system was hell because every basic human need became a battle against my own brother. We'd wake up every morning and have to fight for a single bowl of cereal, wrestle for access to the bathroom, and compete in brutal obstacle courses just to earn the right to sleep indoors instead of in the backyard. I refused to hurt Louie during these competitions, which meant I constantly lost and spent most nights shivering outside while he got to sleep in the warm house. Dad would scream at me for failing to embrace my killer instinct, and mom would lecture me about how my weakness would get me killed in the real world. The worst part was watching Louis slowly transform from my sweet brother and best friend into a vicious competitor who would do anything to win. During one particularly brutal wrestling match for dinner, Lewis bit me so hard that I bled. And when I started crying, Dad cheered and said, "Finally, now you're learning what real hunger feels like. They'd make us compete for water by seeing who could hold their breath longer. And I'd always let Lewis win because I couldn't bear the thought of him being dehydrated. He was my twin. It was still my job to protect him, even if he didn't feel the same way anymore. My parents saw this as proof that I was a genetic failure who lacked the survival drive necessary to live in their perfect world. They'd document our competitions on video and force us to watch the footage afterward, pointing out every moment where I'd chosen compassion over victory and explaining how these choices would kill me someday. I couldn't take watching Lewis become a monster. So, I started secretly giving him my hard-earned food and water when our parents weren't looking. Trying to show him that we didn't have to be each other's enemies just because that's how our parents wanted it. I started trying to win competitions just so that I could slip him half my prize, hoping to keep some humanity alive in both of us. For a few weeks, I thought I was protecting him from the worst parts of their twisted system while keeping us both fed and hydrated. My parents even praised me for finally finding my inner predator until they discovered what I was really up to. It turned out they'd installed hidden cameras throughout the house to monitor our survival progress more closely. They were absolutely furious that I'd been corrupting Louiswis's natural competitive instincts and decided to escalate the challenges to eliminate my ability to sabotage their training. Dad grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed, "You think you're being kind, but you're actually making him weak enough to die." They locked me in the basement for 3 days without food or water while forcing Lewis to compete against neighborhood kids who they'd recruited for increasingly dangerous challenges. When I finally emerged, Lewis had a black eye and a broken finger. But he looked at me with pure hatred and said, "I could have been strong if you hadn't made me soft." But then one day, Lewis collapsed during recess from dehydration. The school nurses who examined him noticed his injuries and called social services. When the social worker arrived, my parents were so proud of their survival training system that they actually demonstrated one of our competitions, making Louis and me fight over a single while explaining their philosophy about creating apex humans. The social worker was horrified and immediately called the police who arrested both my parents for child abuse and neglect. Louis and I were placed in separate foster homes, and I haven't seen him since. I'm almost 18 now, and I'm doing okay. And my foster family is kind, but I miss my twin so much it hurts. Not the monster he grew into, who I hear is in juvie, but the person he used to be before my parents made him an", "metadata": {"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz", "views": 1473240, "is_viral": 1}} {"id": "_bUhxfwtjOk", "prompt": "Idea: The rich kid said I'd end up cleaning toilets for people like him, not knowing his dad worked\nStructure: Looked Down Upon\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "A rich kid said I'd end up cleaning\ntoilets for people like him, not knowing\nhis dad worked for my mom. I was the\nquiet kid in eighth grade whose mom\nalways said to keep a low profile at\nschool. She dropped me off a block away\nevery morning before heading to her\noffice, and I knew not to mention that\nshe meant the executive suite of the\nbiggest company in town. Bruce's dad\nworked there, too. Always bragging about\nbeing a regional sales manager. Bruce\nhad no idea my mom was the one who\nsigned his dad's paychecks, though, and\nbecause of that, Bruce made me the\ntarget of his bullying. Everything\nstarted on a Tuesday morning in early\nOctober when Bruce knocked my books out\nof my hands in the main hallway. While I\nknelt down to gather my scattered\npapers, he stood there laughing with his\nfriends. Later that same day, when I\nheld the door open for him after lunch,\nhe shoved past and told everyone I was\nprobably hoping for a tip like a\ndoorman. By Thursday of that week, he\nhad progressed to stealing my lunch\nmoney during second period and\nannouncing loudly that I was too poor to\nafford food anyway. Friday afternoon\nbrought another escalation when he\nshoved me into a locker after PE and\nmade comments about my clothes smelling\nlike thrift store while the entire\nhallway erupted in laughter. The\nfollowing week brought even worse\ntreatment. Every time I raised my hand\nduring English class on Monday, he\ninterrupted to call me stupid and wrong.\nWhen test results came back on Wednesday\nand I had earned an A, he grabbed my\npaper right off my desk and ripped it\ninto pieces while telling everyone the\nteacher probably felt too sorry for me\nto give me the F I really deserved.\nDuring lunch periods throughout that\nweek, his harassment evolved from simply\nknocking over my tray to something more\nhumiliating. He would grab my sandwich\nfrom my reused grocery bag, take a\ndramatic bite, and spit it out while\ndeclaring it was welfare food and\nmystery meat before throwing everything\nin the trash. On a particularly bad\nThursday, I tried a different approach\nand offered him my chips, thinking maybe\nkindness would work. He knocked them out\nof my hand and ground them into the\ncafeteria floor with his heel while\nexplaining that he didn't want to catch\nwhatever diseases poor people carry. The\nentire cafeteria watched in silence as\nhe made me clean up the mess with my\nbare hands. Physical education class\nbecame my daily nightmare after that. He\nwould wait until I was changing clothes,\nthen grab everything I owned and throw\nit all in the shower, leaving me\nstanding there in my underwear. While I\ntried to retrieve my soaked clothes, he\nwould loudly describe to the entire\nlocker room how skinny and malnourished\nI looked from eating dollar store food.\nThe harassment reached new levels the\nday he found my phone with its cracked\nscreen in early November. He picked it\nup and called it ancient junk, then\nexplained that his dad had told him poor\npeople always have broken phones because\nthey can't take care of anything. He\nthrew it on the ground and stomped on it\nrepeatedly until the screen went\ncompletely black and the phone wouldn't\nturn on anymore. When I wore the same\njacket three days in a row because my\nother one was still drying from being\nthrown in the shower, he started a rumor\nthat I only owned one set of clothes. He\nwould make gagging sounds whenever I\nwalked past in the hallways and hold his\nnose while telling everyone I hadn't\nchanged my underwear in a week. Career\nday arrived in mid- November, and Bruce\nhad spent the entire week telling\neveryone how his dad was going to\npresent about being successful in\nbusiness. The morning of the\npresentations, he cornered me in the\nbathroom and pushed my head toward the\ntoilet while his friends held the door\nshut. He kept my face inches from the\nwater and told me I better get used to\ncleaning toilets for rich people like\nhim. His dad went first during the\npresentations, strutting around the\nclassroom talking about sales figures\nand leadership while mentioning three\ntimes that he worked for the most\nsuccessful company in the state. Then\nthe classroom door opened and my mom\nwalked in. Bruce's dad stopped\nmid-sentence when he saw her, and his\nconfident expression transformed into\npure terror within seconds. His hands\nshook so badly that he dropped all his\npresentation notes while sweat soaked\nthrough his cheap shirt. My mom calmly\ntold Johnson to finish up and said they\nwould discuss his quarterly review\nafterward. Bruce's smirk disappeared\ninstantly as his face turned white as\npaper, and when someone whispered who\nshe was, he stared at me with his mouth\nhanging open in horror. His whole body\nstarted trembling as he finally\nunderstood that he had spent months\ntormenting his dad's boss's kid. After\nclass ended, Bruce tried to stammer out\nan apology, but couldn't even form\ncomplete words. His dad had to formally\napologize to my mom while Bruce stood\nthere looking like he might throw up at\nany moment. Within a week, Bruce had\ntransferred to a private school across\ntown, and his dad got demoted to a\ndifferent branch in another", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 369091, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "HXxmbqK-mbA", "prompt": "Idea: My best friend took a family’s life in a hit and run and said it wasn't her problem\nStructure: Payback Revenge\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "My best friend took a family's life in a hit and run and said it wasn't her problem. So, I made sure it was. The cops watched her get arrested with enough MS to destroy her future and told her it was her own fault. My revenge was this slowb burn trap that took months to execute. Once she got hooked on what she thought was Aderal, she wasn't getting clean until I said so. 21 years of rich girl entitlement I'd been patient. Then, she let me take the fall for her crime and gave me the opportunity I didn't know I was waiting for. I came to in a hospital bed handcuffed to the rail, head pounding, only to find Camila across the room sobbing to cops, not just crying, performing like she'd rehearsed this whole scene. The I was so scared when she grabbed the wheel story might as well have been written by her family's lawyers. I tried to speak, but my throat was raw from screaming. 21 years of being her charity case friend had officially ended. Around noon, detectives questioned me like they'd already decided I was guilty. I explained what really happened. Camila was wasted and high on aderall at her 21st birthday party. She insisted on driving, ran a red light doing 60, slammed into a mother's minivan. The mom died on impact along with her two daughters. Camila had stopped for 10 seconds, looked at the bodies, said they were already dead, and drove off. When I tried to grab the wheel to make her go back, she swerved us into a hole. The detectives just kept writing. Said security footage from the club was corrupted. The valet who Camila stumbling to her car suddenly couldn't remember anything. When I begged them to test her blood, they said the three words that sealed my fate. You killed them. Those words flipped a switch in my brain. 21 years of patience. 21 years of watching her buy her way out of trouble. 21 years of her family's just like that. Excuses, but killing three people and making me take a fall. They arrested me for vehicular manslaughter while Camila's parents comforted her. Through the window, I saw their Mercedes pull away. Perfect. I was ready to play the long game. I got 5 years and served three, studying chemistry books from the prison library. Not for education, for revenge. I learned how methamphetamine micerall at first. How it destroyed you slowly. I lost 30 lbs, dyed my hair, practiced a new voice. When I got out, I wasn't her old friend anymore. I was Serena from Oregon, a transfer student who needed to finish her biochem. The study group at Camila's University accepted me without question. Camila didn't recognize me at all. The prison weight loss and hair color fooled her completely. I became helpful. Serena who understood organic chemistry and always had good notes. When Camila mentioned her doctor got busted for overprescribing aderall, I casually mentioned I had a connection. She jumped at it. For a month, I gave her real Adderall. Became her trusted dealer. Month two, I started mixing in small amounts of Emma. She loved how it made her feel, how she could study for 30 hours straight. By month three, she was fully hooked, hands shaking, paranoid, but still thinking it was just really good aderall. She tried everything to get more. Begged, offered double price, showed up at all hours. Her BMW became a regular site outside my apartment. The night before her MCATs, desperate and shaking, she asked for a bulk buy. I gave her an address, told her to bring cash, sent her straight into a DEA sting operation I'd researched online. They arrested her with enough mass to end any medical career. Her father's lawyers couldn't spin this one. Failed substance tests, possession with intent, the worse. But the best part came during withdrawal. She had a massive seizure that left her with permanent tremors. When they released her on bail, she tried to drive home. Still shaking, brain foggy from withdrawal, she crashed her new Mercedes at the exact same intersection where she'd killed the mom and her daughters. By Sunday, word had spread through the medical school. Her professors discussed revoking her enrollment. Former friends whispered about her math problem. The girl who'd been destined for Johns Hopkins was now a cautionary tale. The brain damage from the crash left her with tremors so severe she couldn't hold a pencil study. No medical school would touch her. No residency program would risk it. Tuesday morning, I visited the mom's grave. Her surviving family had left fresh flowers and photos. Camila would never be able to hold flowers steady enough to place anywhere. We made eye contact once at a coffee shop months later. Her hand shook as she tried to hold her cup. She opened her mouth, probably to accuse me of setting her up, and I couldn't help myself. I mouthed the mom's name. She knew exactly who I was and what I'd done. I'd won without violence, without screaming, without leaving any evidence, just years of careful planning. I never found out what happened to her after that final encounter. But I heard the medical school revoked her enrollment. She posts conspiracy videos sometimes about being set up. But who believes the brain damaged former MFA addict", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 253011, "is_viral": 0}} {"id": "gJidtaRUmYQ", "prompt": "Idea: What made you choose homelessness over your inheritance?\nStructure: Expectations\nPersona: UNKNOWN\n\n### Write a short-form script:", "completion": "What made you choose homelessness over\nyour inheritance? My father required all\nhis sons to sleep with their stepmothers\nafter his death to keep his essence in\nthe family bloodline. Growing up in my\nfather's big house felt like living\ninside a museum about our family name.\nHe'd been married four times by the time\nI turned 25, collecting wives like\nprizes while treating his four sons as\ncarriers of his family name. His current\nwife, Sarah, was only 32, barely older\nthan my eldest brother, Marcus.\nThroughout our childhood, dad made up\nstrange rules that made our skin crawl.\nWe could only date women from families\nhe liked, and he'd make us spend too\nmuch time with our stepmothers to learn\nhow to treat a wife properly. Everything\nchanged the morning dad fell during his\nmorning ride. The doctors found cancer\nall through his body and gave him 6\nmonths to live. 3 days later, he called\nall of us to the estate for an important\nfamily meeting. We gathered in dad's\nstudy where all four stepmothers were\nalready waiting. Patricia, his first\nex-wife, who'd stayed close as our\nfamily helper after their divorce, stood\nin the corner with her notepad, always\nwriting during family meetings like some\nquiet secretary. Dad wheeled himself to\nhis desk and pulled out a leather folder\nfilled with old yellow documents. His\nhands shook as he spread them across the\nwooden surface and began explaining our\nfamily's 200-year-old rule. Each son\nwould have to make a baby with their\nassigned stepmother within one year of\nthe father's death. Marcus would be with\nPatricia, I'd be with Jennifer, Daniel\ngot Rebecca, and Jake was paired with\nSarah. When Jake ran to the bathroom to\nthrow up, dad simply waited for him to\nreturn before adding that any son who\nrefused would lose his entire\ninheritance. The house became a prison\novernight. Dad put cameras in every\nhallway and watched the videos each\nevening. He made us have couples meals\nwhere we had to sit next to our assigned\nstepmothers. Jennifer's hands shook so\nbadly during our first breakfast that\nshe spilled coffee everywhere. Within a\nweek, he added family video sessions.\nDuring one session, Jennifer left, and I\nfound her crying in the kitchen. She\ntold me she'd been trying to get\npregnant with dad for 3 years without\nsuccess, and this felt like her\npunishment. The practice dinners pushed\neveryone past their breaking points. Dad\nhired a wedding planner who set up fake\nceremonies complete with vows and first\ndances. During one evening, he forced\nJake and Sarah to slow dance while he\nwatched and corrected them. Jake's whole\nbody shook as he held Sarah's waist. I\nwatched my baby brother age 10 years in\n10 minutes, his eyes going dead as dad\nyelled corrections. They restarted the\ndance four times, both crying openly by\nthe end. Jake stopped eating after that\nnight. He'd sit at dinner moving food\naround his plate, jumping whenever Sarah\naccidentally touched his arm. 3 days\nlater, I found him in the garage with\nthe car running and the door closed. I\ndragged him out and drove like crazy to\nthe hospital where he stayed for weeks.\nJake's suicide attempt finally gave me\nthe courage to fight back. I refused to\nreturn to the estate and helped Jennifer\nescape to her sister's house three\nstates away. She told me dad had been\nsexually abusing her throughout their\nmarriage. I connected her with a group\nthat helps abused women. Dad went crazy\nwith anger. He hired detectives to find\nJennifer and froze my trust fund\naccounts he still controlled. Marcus\nbecame dad's enforcer, showing up at my\napartment at midnight with threats. The\nwhole family turned against me. Security\nguards walked me out of my office after\ndad called in favors. A week before his\ndeath, dad called me for our final talk.\nHis body had shrunk to bones, but his\neyes burned with anger. He told me my\nmother had tried running away with us\nboys years ago. So, he had her locked up\nin a mental hospital where she\neventually killed herself. I actually\ndrove to the estate gates and sat for an\nhour, my finger over the buzzer. Marcus\nhad texted that one dinner with Jennifer\nwould fix everything. Just one dinner. I\nthought about Jake's hospital bills and\nmy unpaid rent. My hand was reaching for\nthe button when my phone rang. The FBI\nhad raided the estate that morning\nbefore the detectives found Jennifer.\nPatricia, always writing in her notepad,\nhad been an undercover FBI agent\ninvestigating our family's money crimes\nfor 3 years. Dad's obsession with\nbloodlines had led him into major tax\ncheating and moneyaundering. Dad died\nunder house arrest 3 days later. DNA\ntests showed neither Daniel nor I were\nhis real sons. According to Patricia,\nour mother had affairs on purpose to\nweaken his bloodline. I lost my\ninheritance but gained freedom. He\nwanted to preserve his essence through\nour bloodlines forever. He died not\nknowing his precious bloodline was\nalready watered down. His legacy, a lie\nbuilt on lies.", "metadata": {"writer": "helin", "views": 10935, "is_viral": 0}}