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bwj3zRrodwQ
|
Idea: My friend's Instagram feed was nothing but my leftovers, so I served her something she couldn't
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Neil",
"views": 211140,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
1BDZsiVLow4
|
Idea: Why did your wife get 25 years?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
Why did your wife get 25 years for
keeping children safe? When little Emily
went missing from our neighborhood
playground last spring, my wife Allison
fell to her knees right there on the
sidewalk and started sobbing. She kept
saying, "Oh god, not Emily. Not that
sweet baby." Someone took her. I had to
physically hold her up while we joined
the search party. Thankfully, we found
Emily sleeping under a tree 36 hours
later. Allison pulled me aside in our
kitchen that night and whispered through
tears that anyone could have taken her.
That we got lucky this time. At first, I
thought we were handling things normally
like everyone else. Allison created a
Facebook group for the neighborhood
watch and started organizing these
safety workshops at school. She gave
passionate stranger danger talks to
rooms packed with worried parents. Other
moms started calling her a hero at
pickup, which honestly made me proud,
but it also felt a little intense. I
spent my weekends helping her install
Ring cameras around our house. I went
door to door passing out flyers for her
buddy system. Supporting her felt like
protecting our daughter Millie, and
that's all that mattered to me. Then one
night, I found her hunched over her
laptop making this concerning person
spreadsheet. She had screenshots and
detailed notes about every delivery
driver and jogger. When I asked if this
was really necessary, she looked
exhausted and said, "We need to know who
doesn't belong here." The changes
started slowly when Allison organized
patrol schedules and recruited
stay-at-home parents to watch during
school hours. It wasn't until our
landscaper Carlos became her target that
I realized something was seriously
wrong. Carlos had worked in our
neighborhood for 8 years, and suddenly
he was being reported 47 times in one
week just for eating lunch in his truck.
I watched from our kitchen window as he
came to our driveway asking Allison why
she was destroying his reputation and
she immediately called 911 while backing
away like he was dangerous. She told the
dispatcher he was threatening her and I
stood frozen knowing she was lying but
too shocked to move. After Carlos lost
six clients including us, Allison turned
on Mr. Kumar who'd been our neighbor for
15 years and given Millie birthday
presents since she was born. She posted
that he stared too long at the
playground during his daily walks. She
took it a step further when she followed
a teenage boy home from the playground
and posted his address online calling
him a potential threat. His terrified
mother showed up at our door screaming
about a restraining order while Allison
hit upstairs. When I finally confronted
her that night, she looked at me with
tears in her eyes and asked if I even
cared about keeping Millie safe.
Everything exploded when a house on our
street sold to a single father with two
young kids. Allison spent days
researching him online and discovered
his wife had died of cancer 2 years
earlier. But by breakfast, she was
telling me no man recovers that quickly
unless he wanted her gone. The next
morning, I drove to work thinking she
seemed calmer until my neighbor texted
about a mob for me. My hands shook as I
raced home, wondering who she was
accusing now. When I got home, I burst
through 30 parents to find Allison
holding up a pink hair clip. She claimed
she'd found it in the widowerower's
yard, but I recognized it immediately
because I'd helped Millie put it in
yesterday. My stomach dropped, realizing
my own wife had planted evidence on an
innocent man. She was sobbing to the
crowd that predators always target
single parent neighborhoods while
mothers gased and fathers clenched
fists. This monster had my baby's hair
clip," she wailed, waving it like proof
of unspeakable crime. The crowd erupted
in angry shouts and started moving
toward the widowerower's house at the
end of the street. Allison led them with
the hair clip raised like a weapon while
I ran alongside her begging her to stop.
Through his window, I could see him
clutching his two children who were
sobbing into his chest. A rock flew
through the glass and shattered it while
people cheered. Someone appeared with a
gas can from their garage and the crowd
started chanting about protecting their
babies. "Allison, please." I grabbed her
arm. "Those are innocent children in
there. You're going to kill them." She
shoved me away with wild eyes. So is
Millie. He had her hair clip. I won't
let him hurt another child. Before I
could stop her, she grabbed the gas can
and started dousing the front porch.
You're making a mistake. I screamed,
trying to tackle her, but two fathers
held me back. Let me go. She's lost her
mind. Allison pulled out matches with
shaking hands. "I'm saving our
children," she cried. "This is what
happens to predators." She threw the lit
match and flames erupted up the siding.
"I'm protecting every child in America."
I broke free and ran around back where I
helped the terrified father escaped with
his kids through the smoke. Police
sirens wailed as Alison spotted me and
shrieked, "You're helping him. You're
choosing a predator over your own
daughter." They arrested her while she
screamed that I was a traitor. The
police arrested Allison and 11 others
that night while she screamed that I was
a traitor. She ended up getting 25 years
for arson, inciting violence and
harassment. The widowerower's family
also moved away, and their burned house
still stands empty. 6 months later, I
brought Millie to visit her mother at
the state facility. Allison smiled at us
through the glass like nothing had
happened. And when I told her the
neighborhood was still recovering, she
leaned forward and whispered, "I'd do it
again."
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 47115,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
hL3uTPA4Vnc
|
Idea: What insane thing did you have to do to stay in your community?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What insane thing did you have to do to
stay in your community? My town required
all wives to compete in monthly beauty
pageantss where their husbands scored
them against each other and the ugliest
wife had to leave town forever.
Apparently, ugly women brought down
property values. And when Dennis and I
first moved to the town, the real estate
agent bragged about how it maintained
exceptional aesthetic standards that
kept home values high. She explained
that the community had strict guidelines
about resident quality that made it the
most desirable place to live in the
county. Dennis was thrilled because he
had always been obsessed with status and
appearances. The homeowners association
packet included rules about everything
from mailbox styles to acceptable dog
breeds. But buried in the fine print was
a section about spousal presentation
standards that I didn't pay much
attention to. Dennis kept saying how
proud he was to have a wife who would
fit right in with the community's high
standards. But it turned out the
residents had developed a sick culture
of judging women like livestock. The
monthly beauty pageantss were mandatory
for all married women. And husbands
would rate their wives on a scale of 1
to 10 across categories like facial
symmetry and body proportions. We had to
wear bikinis and walk on a makes a shift
runway while our husband sat in the
audience with scorecards shouting out
numbers and making comments about our
appearances. Town council members would
compile the scores and announce the
rankings publicly with the lowest
scoring wife receiving a formal notice
that she had 30 days to improve her
presentation or face community
relocation. The mayor would always end
these ceremonies by saying, "Beautiful
wives mean beautiful neighborhoods, and
beautiful neighborhoods mean valuable
real estate." I watched my friend
Samantha get exiled after coming in last
place three months in a row and I'll
never forget the look of terror in her
eyes when they read her name. The next
month, I started having panic attacks
during the competitions, and the stress
made me gain weight, which sent my
scores plummeting. Dennis would wake me
up at 5 in the morning to practice my
runway walk, critiquing every step while
I stumbled around our living room in
high heels. I became obsessed with
checking my reflection in every mirror,
terrified that I was developing new
flaws that would cost me points. When I
came in last place, Dennis didn't even
look upset, but just said coldly, "I
warned you what would happen if you
couldn't meet community standards." Now
you know what's next. Exile. I tried to
fight the exile by appealing to the town
council, arguing that forcing wives to
leave based on their appearance was
discriminatory and probably illegal. I
felt hopeful when I found a lawyer who
specialized in civil rights cases, and
was willing to challenge the town's
beauty pageant system in court. The
lawyer filed an emergency injunction to
stop my exile and scheduled a hearing
where I could present evidence about the
town's unconstitutional practices. But
Dennis couldn't wait for me to kicked
out so he could find a higher scoring
wife. And he and the town council
weren't going to let me expose their
system without a fight. They argued that
I had signed a community standards
agreement when we bought our house that
made the beauty pageantss legally
binding. Dennis testified that I had
enthusiastically participated in the
pageantss for years and that I was only
complaining now because I was bitter
about losing. The town council produced
fake medical records suggesting that I
was suffering from delusional think
caused by cosmetic surgery addiction.
And they got several husbands to testify
that I had been increasingly unstable.
My lawyer started doubting my case when
faced with all this manufactured
evidence and the judge ruled that the
town's beauty standards were voluntary
community guidelines that I had agreed
to follow. But then two days before my
exile was invoked. There was another
pageant and the mayor's own wife ranked
last after gaining weight during cancer
treatment. The mayor was forced to
choose between exiling his s wife or
admitting the whole system was cruel and
arbitrary. When he tried to make excuses
for why his wife should be exempt, the
other husbands turned on him and
demanded that he follow the same rules
he had imposed on everyone else. The
resulting fight split the town council
apart with some members trying to
protect their own wives while others
insisted on maintaining the exile
system. The chaos exposed how the beauty
pageantss had always been about power
and control rather than property values.
The town council fell apart and the
pageantss were disbanded. Dennis was
devastated and tried to make things
right with me. But I left town
immediately, this time on my own terms.
Now I'm living in a normal town where
women aren't judged like show dogs. But
I still have anxiety attacks when I see
beauty pageantss on television.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 67295,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
Ko3wQKX2kFQ
|
Idea: My ex husband gaslit our children about me, so I lit him up in court.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Neil",
"views": 578706,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
aToB2Kjt_mM
|
Idea: When did you realize you were being groomed to replace someone?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
When did you realize you were being
groomed to replace someone? My mother
expected me to marry my deceased
sister's husband on my 18th birthday
because grief must stay in the family.
Addison died eight months ago during
childbirth and left behind baby Rose and
her husband Zach, who spent most nights
drinking himself unconscious on our
couch. Mom had been dropping hints since
the funeral, but I thought she was just
processing grief in weird ways until she
sat me down with photo albums. "Your
great-grandmother married her sister's
widowerower," Mom explained. "It's how
we keep the family whole." I laughed,
thinking it was a dark joke, but her
face stayed serious as she explained how
I'd been chosen since birth as the
backup plan. "The younger daughter
always served as insurance in our
family." Mom's eyes went distant as she
touched her own wedding ring and
whispered that she'd been Aunt
Caroline's replacement 30 years ago.
She'd already talked to Zach about it
and he was grateful for the solution
because Rose needed a mother who shared
Addison's blood. The preparation started
immediately even though my birthday was
four months away. Mom moved into our
house claiming she needed to help with
my training and brought boxes of
Addison's things for me to study. She
made me watch hours of home videos to
learn Addison's laugh and the way she
tilted her head when confused. I had to
practice her signature until my hand
cramped because I'd need to sign legal
documents as her. Mom corrected me
constantly saying Addison would never
hold a coffee cup that way or cross her
legs to the left. Zach started coming
for dinner every night with Rose and
calling me by Addison's name when mom
wasn't looking. He'd apologize
immediately but then do it again 5
minutes later like he couldn't help
himself. The baby screamed whenever I
held her because apparently I smelled
wrong and mom would take her away
clicking her tongue about how I needed
to use Addison's perfume. She threw out
all my clothes claiming Addison was
allergic to synthetic fabrics and made
me quit my job because Addison never
worked outside the home. My friend
stopped calling after mom told them I
was having a breakdown and needed space
to heal. My boyfriend George found out
when he showed up unexpectedly and saw
me and Addison's clothes practicing her
walk in the mirror. He stood frozen in
the doorway while mom explained this was
about family duty and love. She made me
eat Addison's favorite foods even though
they made me sick and scheduled
appointments to dye my hair to match
Addison's exact shade. I'd catch myself
responding to Addison's name and
forgetting my own birthday because mom
insisted we only celebrate Addison's
dates now. The worst part was finding
myself humming Addison's favorite songs
without realizing it like she was slowly
taking over my brain. The breaking point
came when I found wedding invitations in
mom's desk drawer with Addison's name
and Zach listed as the happy couple
getting married on my birthday. My hands
shook as I read the calligraphy
announcing Addison's renewal of vows
because death couldn't stop true love.
That night, I stood in front of the
bathroom mirror practicing what I'd say
and George held my hand as I dialed
Mom's number. "I'm not doing this," I
said, and my voice cracked but stayed
firm. "I won't erase myself for anyone."
Mom went silent for so long, I thought
she'd hung up before the screaming
started. You're destroying this family.
She shrieked while I heard glass
breaking in the background. She called
her sisters who all had stories about
sacrifice and duty. Dad video called
from his business trip to say I was
being selfish and to think about baby
Rose. Mom hired a private investigator
to follow George and manufactured
evidence he was dealing substances. She
called my job pretending to be concerned
about my mental health and got me put on
mandatory leave. Child services showed
up asking questions about whether I was
stable enough to be around Rose
unsupervised. The first family court
judge seemed sympathetic to mom's
grieving family story and suggested
mediation might help us heal together. I
almost signed the papers when mom
threatened George would go to prison for
the planted substances. My aunts formed
a human chain blocking the courthouse
exit, saying I couldn't leave until I
agreed to honor Addison's memory. But
Zach testified that mom had been
coaching him on how to make me fall in
love with him. The judge ordered
psychiatric evaluations, and mom's
sisters finally admitted they'd been
forced into similar arrangements. We
won, but I lost my entire family in the
process. Mom still sends letters about
how I killed our family legacy. George
and I moved three states away and
changed our phone numbers, but sometimes
I wake up terrified she's found us
again. The wedding dress showed up on
our doorstep last month with a note
saying, "Tradition always wins
eventually." And I burned it in the
backyard while George held
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 325138,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
gtxXZXifnJw
|
Idea: My boyfriend controlled what I could post while his feed was full of thirst traps,
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My boyfriend controlled what I could
post while his feed was full of thirst
traps. So, I gave him exactly what he
liked to see. My boyfriend had one rule
about my Instagram, no skin. And I don't
mean that in a protective way. I mean,
Jake would preview every single photo
before I posted it, scrolling through
like he was looking for evidence of a
crime. Tank tops showed too much collar
bone. Sundresses showed too much leg.
That beach photo where I was laughing,
my mouth was too inviting. He'd hover
over my phone with his finger on the
delete button, telling me guys would
think I was easy. That my body was for
his eyes only. Stupid me. I actually
thought it was sweet, like he was
guarding something precious that
belonged only to him. It started with my
Cancun trip. I posted a photo of me and
my girls at sunset, fully clothed, just
our faces visible. Jake called screaming
because we were glowing and that meant
we were drunk and advertising
availability. Then my company headsh
shot for LinkedIn. He made me retake it
because my smile showed teeth and that
was flirty. By month three, he was
timing my gym sessions. If I took longer
than an hour, I was clearly flirting
with trainers. But still, I just thought
he was looking out for me. That's when
his Instagram told me what he never
would. I'd catch glimpses when we were
scrolling together, his quick swipes
past certain accounts, the way he'd
suddenly need the bathroom with his
phone. One night, I woke up at 3:00 a.m.
and he was deep in some fitness models
feed, double tapping photos of her in a
thong doing squats. It's just fitness
content, he said when I called him out.
She has good form. Stop being insecure.
The next week, I found him following
accounts with names like Gym Bunnies and
Yoga Pants Daily. His entire explore
page looked like a Victoria's secret
catalog had exploded. When I brought it
up again, he actually laughed. It's just
Instagram, babe. You're being dramatic.
They're not real people. Then a charge
popped up while he was showing me
something on his phone. Three different
Only fan subscriptions, 50 bucks a month
each. When I confronted him, he didn't
even try to deny it. It's not cheating.
I'm just supporting content creators.
They're entrepreneurs, babe. But when
I'd worn a sleeveless dress to my
cousin's wedding, he'd made me bring a
cardigan because my arms were too toned
and might give people ideas. The
hypocrisy was suffocating. Thursday was
the day it all blew up. I'd left work
early with a migraine. The kind that
makes you want to crawl into a dark cave
and die. Used my key, walked into our
apartment, and heard it immediately. The
unmistakable rhythm of our bed frame
hitting the wall. breathy moans, skin on
skin. I stood there frozen, migraine
forgotten. When I pushed open the
bedroom door, there was Jake with Mia
from his gym. They scrambled for sheets,
but I'd already seen everything. His
first words weren't, "I'm sorry." They
weren't, "Let me explain." He looked me
dead in the eye, still sweating, and
said, "If you actually put effort into
being sexy for me, if you gave me
something to look at instead of dressing
like a nun, maybe I wouldn't need to
find it somewhere else." Mia actually
nodded like this made sense. That's when
something inside me crystallized into
perfect clarity. I moved back with my
parents that night. Jake immediately
switched to damage control mode. Flowers
on my car, texts about how he'd do
better, voicemails saying I was the only
one who mattered. But sandwiched between
every sweet apology was something else.
I'm sorry, babe, but you know no other
guy will put up with your prudish
attitude. Then five minutes later, I
love you, but you're too uptight for
most men. I'm just being honest. My
favorite was the 2 a.m. drunk text. Good
luck finding someone who accepts that
you dress like a librarian. Each message
confirmed what I already knew. He
genuinely believed I was the problem.
Perfect. He'd given me exactly what I
needed. I called my photographer friend
Sophie. I need you to make me look like
one of those Instagram models Jake loves
so much, I said. She knew the whole
story and was more than ready. We shot
at Golden Hour on the beach. Me and a
metallic gold bikini that cost more than
Jake's monthly only fans budget.
Triangle top, Brazilian cut bottom, the
kind of swimsuit his favorite accounts
wore. Sophie captured everything. Water
drops on sun-kissed skin, that
over-the-shoulder pose, the arch of my
back as waves crashed behind me. I
posted the full set on Friday at 800
p.m. peak Instagram hours. Caption: The
nun grew wings. Jake's reaction was
immediate. The texts came flooding in.
What the hell are you doing? Take those
down now. You look like a wire. My mom
follows you. I responded once. It's just
Instagram. Don't be dramatic. By
midnight, he was at my parents house
pounding on the door so hard the frame
shook. We need to talk about this
disrespect. My dad called the cops and
Jake spent the night in holding for
trespassing and disturbing the peace. I
filed for a restraining order the next
morning. He violated it within a week of
being granted. Showing up at my yoga
class, screaming about his reputation.
This time he got 30 days in county. Hope
the guys in there look at him the way he
looked at those Instagram models.
|
{
"writer": "Lucis L",
"views": 458619,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
KzXb4sfBaLQ
|
Idea: The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 1057017,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
q7G51kTJCEw
|
Idea: 🕳️UNMUTE AND FALL INTO THE CHAOS VOID.
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What's the most disturbing thing your
family tried to normalize? My mother
forced me to breastfeed my grown-ass
stepfather every morning because she
said my milk was the only thing that
could keep his diabetes under control.
My stepfather Chaz moved in when I was
15. And from day one, he was filthy,
obnoxious, and never hesitated to lay a
hand on my mother or me. He claimed he
was too sick to work because of his
diabetes, but somehow he was healthy
enough to drink beer and yell at the
television for 16 hours a day. When I
was 19, I had a baby and my mother
started making weird comments about how
nutritious my breast milk looked and how
it was liquid gold that shouldn't be
wasted. 3 months after I gave birth, she
told me that Chaz's diabetes was getting
worse. She researched alternative
treatments and discovered that breast
milk from young mothers could supposedly
regulate blood sugar better than
insulin, but only if it was still warm
from the body and not pumped. So, she
expected me to breastfeed Chaz every
morning to stabilize his blood sugar for
the day. I told my mother that this was
insane and that breast milk doesn't cure
diabetes, but she had printed out dozens
of articles from conspiracy websites
that said otherwise. He's the only
father you've ever had, she said. Don't
you want to help him live long enough to
see his granddaughter grow up? If I
didn't do it, she said she'd kick me and
my baby out of the house in the middle
of winter so I was trapped.
Breastfeeding my stepfather was the most
degrading experience of my life. Every
morning, Chaz would lumber into the
kitchen where I was forced to feed him
while my mother watched to make sure I
was doing it right. Chaz would make
disgusting comments about my taste. Take
your time, he'd say with this creepy
smile. I need to make sure I'm getting
all the nutrients. I will never forget
how his beard felt against my chest. And
I spent so many hours sobbing and
apologizing to my baby that she had to
nurse right where that man had been a
few hours before. My milk production
dropped from the stress, which made my
mother furious because she said I was
sabotaging Chaz's help. She forced me to
stop nursing my baby and only give her
formula because Chaz needed it more and
my baby would scream and cling to me,
begging for milk I wasn't allowed to
give her. Then one, breastfeeding once a
day wasn't enough for Chaz anymore. He
started claiming he was having blood
sugar emergencies and expect me to lift
up my shirt for him to latch on demand.
The way he'd catch my mom's eye and
snicker made me realize that this had
never been about his health. They were
just using his diabetes as an excuse to
control and humiliate me. I knew I had
to find a way to get out. So, I started
secretly recording their conversations.
One day, I caught Chaz complaining to my
mother about how I wasn't grateful
enough for the opportunity to help him.
She should be thanking me for letting
her feel useful. My mother laughed and
said, "Who cares what she thinks? It's
not like she has a choice. If she's
going to act like a cow, keep treating
her like one." I contacted a domestic
violence hotline and played them the
recordings I had made. The counselor was
horrified and immediately connected me
with emergency housing for me and my
daughter. She explained that what my
family was doing was medical and sexual
abuse and that Chaz's diabetes was being
used as a weapon to control me. Within
two days, I was moved to a safe house
where I could finally think clearly
about how insane my situation had
become. I started nursing my daughter
again and really felt like there was a
light at the end of the tunnel. But my
mother had a plan, too. She went to
social services and told them through
fake tears that she'd just discovered
I'd been willingly breast breast breast
breast breast breast breast breast
breast breast breastfeeding Chaz in
exchange for money and that I was
depriving my own baby of breast milk so
I could give it all to a sick, confused
old man. She painted me as a sexual
deviant who was exploiting both my
stepfather and my infant daughter. The
court ordered a psychiatric evaluation
and threatened to give my mother custody
of my baby. I hadn't thought things
could get any worse than being trapped
in that house breastfeeding my
stepfather. But now I was going to lose
the only person left who mattered to me.
If they took my baby, I was planning to
take my own life. I couldn't take it
anymore and I knew I couldn't survive
losing her to the monsters who' stolen
my body from me. But I had one last
idea. Once we got to court, I asked my
mother one simple question. Where's the
money? If I had been willingly
breastfeeding Chaz for payment, there
should have been evidence of money
changing hands. But when the courts
looked at my financial records, there
was nothing. No unexplained income, no
cash deposits, no evidence of any
payment whatsoever. And my financial
records showed I had been desperately
broke the entire time, surviving on food
stamps and WIC benefits. Since it was
clear I hadn't benefited from this
arrangement at all. Mom's story
completely fell apart. Both her and Chaz
were arrested for child abuse and
conspiracy. And I was finally free to
raise my daughter in peace. We're living
in a group home now and doing okay, but
I still have panic attacks sometimes
when my daughter latches. imaging a
grown man on me instead.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 12905,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
KVO8crX2HZo
|
Idea: My manager thought I was just a worthless intern until the board meeting revealed I was the CEO.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My manager thought I was just a
worthless intern until the board meeting
revealed I was the CEO. I had just been
hired as the new CEO, but the board
wanted me to start officially in three
months. I decided to go undercover first
by getting hired as a regular intern. I
wanted to see how people really treated
each other when they thought no one
important was watching. My first day, I
walked into the office wearing my
cheapest suit and carrying a beat up
messenger bag. Department manager
Williams took one look at me and figured
I was just another desperate intern.
"Hope you're ready to learn what real
work looks like," he said without
shaking my hand. He dumped filing on my
desk and walked away. That became the
pattern. Williams started treating me
like his personal servant from day one.
Every morning he'd snap his fingers and
point at his empty mug, wanting coffee
with two sugars and one cream. When I
asked about client meetings, he laughed
and brushed me off. "In turns fetch
coffee, not make decisions," he'd tell
me while other employees watched. "I
could feel my face getting hot, but kept
my mouth shut." The coffee ritual became
his daily power play. When I brought his
coffee back, he'd take a sip and make a
face like I'd poisoned him. "Too much
sugar," he'd say, even though I'd made
it exactly how he asked. "Do it again.
Each time I returned with a fresh cup,
he'd find something wrong with it,
enjoying the spectacle of sending me
back and forth. William saw that I
wouldn't push back, and that's when he
got bolder about embarrassing me
publicly. During team meetings, he'd
wait until the room was quiet before
attacking how I looked. "Did you fish
that suit out of a donation bin?" he'd
say while everyone stared at me. He'd
point out my cheap tie and discount
shoes while the room laughed. "Maybe
when you get a real job, you can afford
clothes that fit." Once he realized the
room would laugh along, he started
getting creative with his insults. "I
bet that suit has seen more job
interviews than actual jobs," he'd say
during our weekly meetings. "Are those
shoes from the kids section?" "The room
would crack up while I sat there with my
jaw tight," Williams would lean back
with this satisfied look like a cat
playing with a mouse. But the appearance
jokes were just the beginning. Williams
saw how easily he could make me the
office joke and decided to target my
intelligence and work next. When I
turned in detailed reports about company
problems, he'd wave them off like
garbage in front of others. "This is
cute, but you clearly don't understand
how real business works," he'd say,
while telling me to stick to making
copies. He'd make comments about my
education and math skills publicly,
always with an audience. What made it
worse was that he started presenting my
exact ideas to executives as his own
work. He'd stand there confidently
explaining concepts I'd researched and
written about, taking all the credit
while I filed papers in the corner. I
watched him take my reports and
literally cross out my name, writing his
own in front of me. "Thanks for the
rough draft," he'd say with a smirk.
"I'll clean it up." As time went on,
Williams was getting drunk on power and
started attacking my personal life with
even more cruelty. He'd whisper loud
enough for me to hear that I probably
couldn't even afford lunch. During lunch
meetings, he'd make sure I wasn't
included and would tell me to grab
something from the vending machine
instead. Then he'd wonder out loud,
"What kind of girl would date someone
like me?" The comments about my family
hit different than the work stuff. He
was attacking who I was as a person, not
just my job performance. I could feel my
chest getting tight every time he
brought up my personal life, but I
forced myself to stay calm. Williams
noticed my reactions and started pushing
harder. "Did I hit a nerve? Are mommy
and daddy disappointed in their little
boy?" he'd say, watching for cracks in
my composure. The quarterly board
meeting started like usual. I sat in my
corner spot while executives came in
looking important. That's when the head
of legal walked in and saw me. "What are
you doing sitting over there?" she
asked, looking confused. "Shouldn't you
be at the head of the table?" Williams
looked puzzled until she continued.
"Everyone, this is our CEO. He's been
working undercover to check out company
culture." Williams' face went completely
white. He looked like he was going to be
sick. Williams' hands started shaking
and he couldn't form words. "I had no
idea," he stammered, his voice cracking.
"Please, I'm so sorry. I was just trying
to teach you the ropes. His face went
red and sweaty. Please don't fire me. I
have a mortgage. Kids in college. I've
been here for 12 years." He was
practically begging. I'll do anything.
I'll work for free. Your resignation
letter can be on my desk tomorrow
morning, I said calmly. The supply chain
fixes he'd made fun of saved us $12
million.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 801800,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
1D1uWbY1seo
|
Idea: 🛑THE SOUND STARTED A GROUP CHAT WITHOUT ME.
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 423385,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
Oai7F2cn9t4
|
Idea: My misogynistic coworker treated women like we only existed to serve him
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Lucis L",
"views": 1346076,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
VV7P4WK6VzE
|
Idea: What ultimatum destroyed your relationship?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 514308,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
KVO8crX2HZo
|
Idea: My manager thought I was just a worthless intern until the board meeting revealed I was the CEO.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My manager thought I was just a
worthless intern until the board meeting
revealed I was the CEO. I had just been
hired as the new CEO, but the board
wanted me to start officially in three
months. I decided to go undercover first
by getting hired as a regular intern. I
wanted to see how people really treated
each other when they thought no one
important was watching. My first day, I
walked into the office wearing my
cheapest suit and carrying a beat up
messenger bag. Department manager
Williams took one look at me and figured
I was just another desperate intern.
"Hope you're ready to learn what real
work looks like," he said without
shaking my hand. He dumped filing on my
desk and walked away. That became the
pattern. Williams started treating me
like his personal servant from day one.
Every morning he'd snap his fingers and
point at his empty mug, wanting coffee
with two sugars and one cream. When I
asked about client meetings, he laughed
and brushed me off. "In turns fetch
coffee, not make decisions," he'd tell
me while other employees watched. "I
could feel my face getting hot, but kept
my mouth shut." The coffee ritual became
his daily power play. When I brought his
coffee back, he'd take a sip and make a
face like I'd poisoned him. "Too much
sugar," he'd say, even though I'd made
it exactly how he asked. "Do it again.
Each time I returned with a fresh cup,
he'd find something wrong with it,
enjoying the spectacle of sending me
back and forth. William saw that I
wouldn't push back, and that's when he
got bolder about embarrassing me
publicly. During team meetings, he'd
wait until the room was quiet before
attacking how I looked. "Did you fish
that suit out of a donation bin?" he'd
say while everyone stared at me. He'd
point out my cheap tie and discount
shoes while the room laughed. "Maybe
when you get a real job, you can afford
clothes that fit." Once he realized the
room would laugh along, he started
getting creative with his insults. "I
bet that suit has seen more job
interviews than actual jobs," he'd say
during our weekly meetings. "Are those
shoes from the kids section?" "The room
would crack up while I sat there with my
jaw tight," Williams would lean back
with this satisfied look like a cat
playing with a mouse. But the appearance
jokes were just the beginning. Williams
saw how easily he could make me the
office joke and decided to target my
intelligence and work next. When I
turned in detailed reports about company
problems, he'd wave them off like
garbage in front of others. "This is
cute, but you clearly don't understand
how real business works," he'd say,
while telling me to stick to making
copies. He'd make comments about my
education and math skills publicly,
always with an audience. What made it
worse was that he started presenting my
exact ideas to executives as his own
work. He'd stand there confidently
explaining concepts I'd researched and
written about, taking all the credit
while I filed papers in the corner. I
watched him take my reports and
literally cross out my name, writing his
own in front of me. "Thanks for the
rough draft," he'd say with a smirk.
"I'll clean it up." As time went on,
Williams was getting drunk on power and
started attacking my personal life with
even more cruelty. He'd whisper loud
enough for me to hear that I probably
couldn't even afford lunch. During lunch
meetings, he'd make sure I wasn't
included and would tell me to grab
something from the vending machine
instead. Then he'd wonder out loud,
"What kind of girl would date someone
like me?" The comments about my family
hit different than the work stuff. He
was attacking who I was as a person, not
just my job performance. I could feel my
chest getting tight every time he
brought up my personal life, but I
forced myself to stay calm. Williams
noticed my reactions and started pushing
harder. "Did I hit a nerve? Are mommy
and daddy disappointed in their little
boy?" he'd say, watching for cracks in
my composure. The quarterly board
meeting started like usual. I sat in my
corner spot while executives came in
looking important. That's when the head
of legal walked in and saw me. "What are
you doing sitting over there?" she
asked, looking confused. "Shouldn't you
be at the head of the table?" Williams
looked puzzled until she continued.
"Everyone, this is our CEO. He's been
working undercover to check out company
culture." Williams' face went completely
white. He looked like he was going to be
sick. Williams' hands started shaking
and he couldn't form words. "I had no
idea," he stammered, his voice cracking.
"Please, I'm so sorry. I was just trying
to teach you the ropes. His face went
red and sweaty. Please don't fire me. I
have a mortgage. Kids in college. I've
been here for 12 years." He was
practically begging. I'll do anything.
I'll work for free. Your resignation
letter can be on my desk tomorrow
morning, I said calmly. The supply chain
fixes he'd made fun of saved us $12
million.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 801800,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
-Y0rsgfHVjY
|
Idea: My cousin said I was a loser until he realized I owned his company.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My cousin said I was a loser until he
realized I owned his company. I was
sitting at my family's barbecue eating
my burger and minding my own business.
My relatives always saw me as the guy
who did computer stuff all day instead
of having a real job. They had no idea I
actually owned a software company that
I'd built from nothing over the past 8
years. We specialized in productivity
tools for large corporations and had
just acquired a major firm 3 months ago.
Brad settled into his usual routine,
looking me up and down with obvious
disgust. He gestured at my faded clothes
while adjusting his expensive watch,
lecturing me about how I needed to dress
like an adult instead of shopping at
thrift stores. He said people would
never take me seriously looking like a
teenager. My jaw clenched, but I stayed
quiet. The family nodded along like he
was delivering profound wisdom. My aunt
chimed in about how I couldn't live off
my parents forever while most people my
age had real careers. She turned to Brad
with admiration, asking about his
promotion. Brad's chest puffed out as he
launched into his success story, then
pivoted to complaining about his new
management. The company had been
acquired by some tech startup and the
new CEO was a complete joke. He called
the guy a 20some who probably learned
business from YouTube videos. My uncle
leaned forward with interest as Brad
explained how the CEO never showed up to
meetings, probably too busy playing
video games in his mom's basement to
actually run a company. He looked
directly at me with a knowing smirk. My
face burned, but I kept my expression
neutral. Brad continued warming to his
audience, explaining how this CEO
probably made decisions based on Tik Tok
trends. He said, "These startup kids
thought they were geniuses, but didn't
understand real business, probably
burning through investor money on fancy
coffee and ping- pong tables." My aunt
laughed about how at least Brad had
actual skills, unlike these computer
nerds who thought clicking buttons all
day made them entrepreneurs. Brad
explained how the CEO probably couldn't
even afford a real office, betting he
was running the whole company from some
cramped apartment, eating ramen noodles
and pretending he was Steve Jobs. I
gritted my teeth as the attacks got more
personal. My uncle joined in about how
these tech bros were what was wrong with
America, thinking playing on the
internet was a real job. Brad leaned
back smuggly, explaining how he'd been
doing the actual work while this CEO
took credit for everything. The guy
probably didn't even know how to read a
financial statement, just another
basement dweller who got lucky. My hands
trembled slightly as I set down my
burger. Brad noticed and smirked. He
reached over and grabbed my burger,
taking a big bite while explaining how
this CEO was so incompetent, he probably
couldn't even run his own life, let
alone a company. He chewed my food while
speculating that the guy had never even
been on a real date, asking what woman
would want to be with some loser who
played video games all day. The family
erupted in laughter. My aunt wiped tears
from her eyes as Brad continued his
performance. He kept talking about how
pathetic it would be to live in your
parents' basement with no real job, no
girlfriend, no future, just sitting
there in pajamas thinking you were
important. He tossed the rest of my
burger in the trash, explaining how the
company would probably fail within 6
months because the leadership was so
weak. He was already looking for a new
job before this ran everything
into the ground. My chest burned as I
watched him wipe his hands on a napkin.
He pointed at me with a condescending
smile. This is why you need to get
serious about your life before you end
up like these fake entrepreneurs who
think they're hot stuff but actually
know nothing. I pulled out my phone and
opened my email. I scrolled until I
found the acquisition announcement from
3 months ago and turned the screen
toward Brad. His face went white as he
read the email from me to all employees,
welcoming his former company to our
organization. My signature sat at the
bottom with my title as CEO and founder.
Wait, that's not possible, he whispered,
his voice cracking. I shrugged. I
founded the company 7 years ago. We
acquired your firm in March. The
backyard went dead silent. Brad stared
at the phone like it might explode.
You're telling me you're my boss? I
nodded. Have been for 3 months. I've
been reading your performance reviews.
His face cycled through five different
colors. He started stuttering apologies,
but I cut him off, telling him not to
worry about it, and that he was actually
doing great work. My aunt's mouth hung
open, asking if I really owned a
company. I explained that I owned the
company that owned Brad's company, about
200 employees now. Brad looked like he
wanted to disappear.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 158288,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
M25_0JYQ2Fk
|
Idea: When did hugging trees turn into a criminal activity?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 17943,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
zeAfajyFWmU
|
Idea: My husband's manager think I was just arm candy until he realized I was the one fixing his mistakes.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 145061,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
roLUV0M1Xe0
|
Idea: How did your family mess you up for life?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 31201,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
W13T6WtmFRA
|
Idea: My girlfriend spent eight months pretending to be someone's soulmate for entertainment,
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My girlfriend spent eight months
pretending to be someone's soulmate for
entertainment. So, I spent her birthday
pretending to be someone who cared.
Sarah had a way of making you feel like
you'd won the lottery just by being with
her. Four months in, and I was
completely hooked. This beautiful
psychology major who could make a trip
to the grocery store feel like the best
date ever. She'd laugh at all my stupid
jokes, surprise me with my favorite
coffee, and make every day feel like an
adventure worth having. But, I should
have realized anyone who seemed that
perfect was just better at hiding the
rot than the rest of us. The truth came
out at dinner with her college friends,
some upscale place downtown where they
were already three drinks deep, swapping
war stories from sophomore year. Then,
her friend with the pixie cut started
giggling. Oh my god, remember the Emma
thing? Sarah's whole face changed. She
lit up like someone had just mentioned
her favorite movie. Holy crap, I haven't
thought about that in forever. She
leaned forward and suddenly I was
looking at a stranger. So there was this
girl Emma in our dorm, super quiet,
overweight, basically lived in her room
playing World of Warcraft or whatever.
At this point, the whole table was
already laughing and I felt my smile
freeze on my face. Sarah was getting
into it now, hands moving like she was
telling the funniest story in the world.
I was so bored that semester and Emma
was just there. So I made this fake
profile, Jake Morrison, and found photos
of some goth gamer dude with tattoos,
which was exactly her type. She
explained how she'd spent eight months
building this fake relationship,
messaging Emma every single day as Jake,
morning texts to make her smile, late
night conversations when her anxiety
kept her awake, constant reassurance
that she was beautiful and worthy of
love. Emma had believed every word,
pouring her heart out in return with
poetry about her dead mother and
confessions about being 20 years old and
never even holding hands with a guy. The
best part, Sarah said, wiping tears from
her eyes was when Jake convinced her to
buy lingerie. This girl who wore the
same hoodie every day actually went to
Victoria's Secret and she sent photos.
The table exploded with laughter. Sarah
waited for them to quiet down just
enough to deliver her punch line. Then I
set up the meeting. Told her to get a
hotel room at the Marriott downtown.
Said Jake wanted their first time to be
special. I had to know what happened
next even though my stomach was already
turning. Sarah shrugged like it was
nothing. She waited there for like 7
hours. Kept texting Jake that she was
scared he'd gotten in an accident. I
finally told her the truth around
midnight. One of her friends, the
redhead, jumped in eagerly. She tried to
unalive herself 2 days later. Pills. The
RA found her during room checks. The
table went quiet for exactly 2 seconds.
Then Sarah said, "She should thank me."
I gave her more attention than any real
guy would have. That's when I realized I
didn't win the lottery. I was dating a
monster. I could have walked out that
night and never looked back. But that
felt too clean for someone who tortured
a girl for entertainment. Sarah loved
her perfect romantic moments. Great. Her
23rd birthday was in 3 weeks and she'd
been dropping hints about wanting
something magical and kept showing me
Instagram posts of elaborate surprises.
Perfect. The morning of her birthday, I
woke her with breakfast in bed and told
her I'd planned an all day treasure hunt
leading to a special dinner. She
practically squealled. I knew you'd do
something amazing. She'd already booked
a professional makeup and hair
appointment and bought a new dress
specifically for her big day. The first
clue sent her to a fancy hotel downtown
where I'd supposedly left a gift with
the concierge. She spent over an hour
there texting me increasingly frantic
messages. Next, a jewelry store across
town where she had to ask for the
special package. More confused texts.
They don't know what I'm talking about.
Is this right? By the third stop, a
packed amusement park in 90°ree heat.
She was falling apart. I can't find
whatever I'm looking for. My makeup is
ruined. My feet are bleeding. Please
just tell me where to meet you. That's
when I texted back. I'm so sorry, baby.
I made this way too complicated. I
needed to keep you busy all day to set
up your real surprise. Just come to
Leernan at 8:00 p.m. and tell the
hostess birthday princess. Can't wait to
see you. She completely bought it. Her
texts went from angry to excited in
seconds. OMG, I knew something was up.
See you soon. At 8:15, the call started.
First, confused. They don't know what
I'm talking about. Then, frantic. Are
you sure it's Lea Dan? The hostess is
looking at me like I'm crazy. By 8:30,
she was sobbing. Where are you?
Everyone's staring. It's my birthday.
That's when I sent the final text. Now
you know how Emma felt waiting for
someone who was never coming. Happy
birthday. We're done. She showed up at
my apartment at midnight, hysterical,
makeup destroyed, hair flat, that
expensive white dress, wrinkled and
stained. You humiliated me. She screamed
through the door. I didn't even answer,
just let her scream until the neighbors
called the police. Word about Emma
spread through campus like wildfire. I
ran into Sarah's old roommate months
later, who told me Sarah was in therapy
now. Not to work on hers, but because
she genuinely couldn't understand why
her entire world had abandoned her. She
apparently spent every session insisting
she was the victim of a conspiracy, that
I'd brainwashed everyone against her,
and even suggested Emma had planned the
whole thing to ruin her life.
|
{
"writer": "Lucis L",
"views": 334939,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
LQK3bh4Jaqc
|
Idea: An entitled Disney adult thought he ruled Magic Kingdom, so I got him permanently banned forever.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Lucis L",
"views": 327843,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
9ruMhDrkPIE
|
Idea: What made you never touch a game again?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What made you never touch a game again?
I taught my little brother, Maui, how to
play Counter-Strike the day our parents
bought him his own computer for his 13th
birthday. He'd wait by the door every
day for me to get home, desperate to
escape the empty house while our parents
work double shifts. For a kid who ate
lunch alone and never got invited to
parties, gaming was everything. After we
won our first local tournament, Maui
hugged me with tears in his eyes and
said, "We're going to make it together,
right? Promise me." At first, Maui's
dedication made me proud. Over summer
break, he'd disappear straight into his
room, emerging only for bathroom breaks.
Mom would ruffle his hair when she
brought him dinner plates, saying, "My
little pro gamer." Then one afternoon, I
knocked to ask if he wanted pizza and
got no answer. I peeked in and saw him
hunched over, headset on, surrounded by
cool blue Gatorade bottles filled with
dark yellow liquid. My stomach turned.
Dude, you Maui shrugged. Whatever.
Bathroom breaks cost me ranked matches.
All the Korean pros do this. He pulled
up the leaderboard. See, I'm ahead of
you. I nodded, fully convinced this
meant he was serious about our dream and
placed the pizza on an empty corner of
the floor. When I moved out for my IT
job, I left thinking he'd be fine. He
had gaming. He had our parents. He'd be
okay. I visited the house at the end of
summer break and expected to come home
to a happy family. Instead, I witnessed
something much darker. The first thing
that hit me was the sweet sick smell of
sweat when I opened his door. Moldy
pizza boxes stacked like Jenga blocks.
Fruit flies circled around like a
wasteland wonderland. and Maui clearly
hadn't showered in weeks. In fact, I
swore he wore the same shirt I saw just
before I had left. Mom approached me
with tears staining her face. "He's a
monster." Later that night, Mom finally
snapped and pulled his power cord during
a ranked match. I heard the crash from
downstairs as Maui's fist went through
his monitor. "You just cost me my
promotion," he screamed, and I ran up to
find mom pressed against the hallway
wall, clutching the power cord while
Maui towered over her, his whole body
shaking with rage. After that incident,
he installed deadbolts in his room. I
tried confronting him about it, but he
barely opened the door a crack. When I
tried to push it open to air out the
toxic room, he body slammed it shut from
inside, my fingers barely escaping. "You
don't visit enough to have opinions. I'm
about to go pro." Just like we planned,
remember? Or did you forget about our
dream, too? He hissed through the crack.
I left after that, but guilt ate me. So,
2 weeks later, I packed up my old gaming
peripherals and returned, thinking maybe
I could get the entire family to play
together and fix things. When I entered
the house, everything felt wrong. No
lights or home-cooked meals, just
silence, except for the rapid clicking
of mechanical keys and Maui's laughter
drifting from upstairs. Mom, dad, I
called out. Nothing. I found Maui in our
parents bedroom. His entire setup moved
there. Monitors glowed in the darkness.
"Why are you in here?" I asked. He
didn't turn around. "My room's under
renovation. Don't go in there." His
voice was flat. Mechanical. "Where's mom
and dad?" he shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe
they abandoned me just like you." I
frowned, heartbroken by his cold
replies. At the same time, something in
my gut screamed suspicion. While he was
busy ranking up, I slipped down the hall
to his old room. The smell this time was
overwhelming. The dirty, rotting smell
now mixed with Lysol and bleach, like
someone was trying to mask it
unsuccessfully. I pushed inside and
froze. At the corner of the room, I
spotted mom and dad's bodies bloated and
discolored. I fell to my knees and threw
up. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't
think. Then I heard breathing behind me.
I told you not to go in there. Maui
stood in the doorway holding his
corabit, the collectible knife I bought
him for Christmas. They kept trying to
take my computer during a tournament.
Can you believe that? His eyes were
empty. They said I was sick. They tried
to send me away. He stepped forward and
I scrambled backward, knocking over
empty bottles. I bolted past him,
running for the nearest exit. He caught
my shirt and we crashed into the parents
room where his setup was. I grabbed his
monitor to steady myself and it toppled,
taking his tower with it. No. Maui
dropped the knife and dove for his
computer like it was a dying child. My
rank, my matches. You destroyed
everything. He cradled the exposed
motherboard, rocking back and forth.
Sparks flew from a loose power supply
cable. The wire touched his wet hands
and his body went rigid. I called 911
with shaking hands, staring at my little
brother's body, twitching on the floor,
surrounded by the broken pieces of his
obsession. The paramedics and police
arrived and wrapped the house in yellow
tape. They recovered my parents' bodies
and said they'd been lifeless for a
week. Maui survived the electrocution,
but suffered permanent nerve damage in
his hands. He's in a psychiatric
facility now, unable to hold a mouse
properly, but still writes me letters
about getting back to gaming, saying,
"Once my hands heal, we'll finally go
pro together. Brothers forever, right?
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 2947742,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
CJ6kjtDAtmc
|
Idea: My Bully Used Me to Guarantee His Grade, So I Guaranteed His Failure.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Neil",
"views": 183856,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
mzHz6DKMjwg
|
Idea: I let doctors report my parents for neglect after they spent eleven years calling my illness fake.
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Lucis L",
"views": 977546,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
fEicUOhwy9U
|
Idea: My ex best friend copied my entire personality for years until I gave her something original
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My ex- best friend copied my entire
personality for years until I gave her
something original to copy. I've had a
human mirror since freshman year of
college, my ex- best friend, Delaney.
And I don't mean that in the flattering,
we're so alike kind of way. I mean it
like if I changed my major, she'd be in
the adviser's office the next day. If I
dyed my hair green, she'd show up to
class with the exact same shade. If I
started yoga, she'd appear at my studio
with a better mat, newer gear, and
already knowing the instructor's name
like they were old friends. We met
freshman year, living in the same dorm,
and bonding over late night study
sessions and shared pizza. She seemed
cool, maybe a little eager to fit in,
but who wasn't back then? I remember
thinking it was sweet when she asked
where I got my favorite sweater and
showed up wearing the same one. But by
junior year, it got unsettling. I
switched from business to marketing.
Delaney announced her switch 2 weeks
later. I started dating this guy named
Justin and she suddenly developed an
interest in his roommate. She started
using my catchphrases, my hand gestures,
ordering my exact Starbucks drink. The
worst part was how she'd gaslight me
about it. Great minds think alike. She'd
laugh when someone pointed out we were
basically twins. Meanwhile, she was
literally becoming me piece by piece.
After graduation, she started dating
Justin, my ex Justin. She took him to
our restaurant, ordered our appetizer,
even used the nickname I'd given him.
She showed up to our friend group's
reunion wearing my perfume, styling her
hair like mine, telling my stories about
my grandmother as if they were hers.
People actually started calling her by
my name sometimes. The final straw came
when she posted on Instagram about
getting into Colombia for her masters.
The caption was word for word the
personal statement I'd written about my
grandmother's death and how it inspired
me to pursue marketing. My grandmother
who raised me, my grandmother, who died
holding my hand and telling me I was
destined for great things. Delaney had
met her once. When I confronted her, she
tilted her head and said, "It's not like
you own words. We've been through
similar things." That's when I knew
she'd never stop. Not until she'd
completely absorbed everything that made
me who I was. So, I made a plan. I'd
noticed her pattern. She always waited
exactly 2 to 3 weeks before copying
whatever I did, like clockwork. So, I
started dropping hints about getting a
meaningful tattoo. I posted inspiration
pics on my stories of the worst designs
imaginable, but acted like they were
profound. There was a butterfly emerging
from barbed wire that was
transformative, a misspelled quote in
cursive that spoke to my soul and tribal
patterns that meant absolutely nothing.
I researched the absolute worst reviewed
tattoo artist in town and found some guy
who worked from his garage and had
reviews warning people to stay away. I
posted about booking with him and gushed
about his raw talent and how he
understood my vision like no one else
could. Delaney hearted every post. So
beautiful, she'd comment. Can't wait to
see the final result. I wore temporary
tattoos for weeks and showed them off at
every gathering like they were real. The
massive design on my forearm said,
"Strength throw adversity." With clip
art butterflies and random tribal swirls
that looked like something from a bad
'90s flash sheet. I told everyone it
represented my journey, my growth, my
authentic self, and I even staged photos
at that sketchy tattoo parlor to make it
believable. 2 weeks later, right on
schedule, Delaney posted about her
tattoo appointment with the caption,
"Finally taking the plunge," and thanked
me for inspiring her to be brave. She
went to the same sketchy garage artist
I'd pretended to use because she thought
his raw talent was worth the risk.
Throughout the day, she posted stories
of the process, showing the stencil on
her arm and telling everyone how
meaningful this moment was for her. Her
meltdown 3 hours later was spectacular
when someone commented that she'd
misspelled strength and through and
adversity. She tried to delete it all,
but screenshots were already circulating
through our friend group. She posted
five different stories trying to explain
it was an artistic choice before finally
going dark and disappearing from social
media. Our mutual friends started
texting me the screenshots, asking if
I'd seen what happened to Delany's new
tattoo. She blocked me on everything
after realizing I'd only ever had
temporary tattoos and started telling
people I tricked her and manipulated
her. She called me toxic, but she
couldn't explain why without admitting
she'd been copying me all along.
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 559006,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
9ruMhDrkPIE
|
Idea: What made you never touch a game again?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What made you never touch a game again?
I taught my little brother, Maui, how to
play Counter-Strike the day our parents
bought him his own computer for his 13th
birthday. He'd wait by the door every
day for me to get home, desperate to
escape the empty house while our parents
work double shifts. For a kid who ate
lunch alone and never got invited to
parties, gaming was everything. After we
won our first local tournament, Maui
hugged me with tears in his eyes and
said, "We're going to make it together,
right? Promise me." At first, Maui's
dedication made me proud. Over summer
break, he'd disappear straight into his
room, emerging only for bathroom breaks.
Mom would ruffle his hair when she
brought him dinner plates, saying, "My
little pro gamer." Then one afternoon, I
knocked to ask if he wanted pizza and
got no answer. I peeked in and saw him
hunched over, headset on, surrounded by
cool blue Gatorade bottles filled with
dark yellow liquid. My stomach turned.
Dude, you Maui shrugged. Whatever.
Bathroom breaks cost me ranked matches.
All the Korean pros do this. He pulled
up the leaderboard. See, I'm ahead of
you. I nodded, fully convinced this
meant he was serious about our dream and
placed the pizza on an empty corner of
the floor. When I moved out for my IT
job, I left thinking he'd be fine. He
had gaming. He had our parents. He'd be
okay. I visited the house at the end of
summer break and expected to come home
to a happy family. Instead, I witnessed
something much darker. The first thing
that hit me was the sweet sick smell of
sweat when I opened his door. Moldy
pizza boxes stacked like Jenga blocks.
Fruit flies circled around like a
wasteland wonderland. and Maui clearly
hadn't showered in weeks. In fact, I
swore he wore the same shirt I saw just
before I had left. Mom approached me
with tears staining her face. "He's a
monster." Later that night, Mom finally
snapped and pulled his power cord during
a ranked match. I heard the crash from
downstairs as Maui's fist went through
his monitor. "You just cost me my
promotion," he screamed, and I ran up to
find mom pressed against the hallway
wall, clutching the power cord while
Maui towered over her, his whole body
shaking with rage. After that incident,
he installed deadbolts in his room. I
tried confronting him about it, but he
barely opened the door a crack. When I
tried to push it open to air out the
toxic room, he body slammed it shut from
inside, my fingers barely escaping. "You
don't visit enough to have opinions. I'm
about to go pro." Just like we planned,
remember? Or did you forget about our
dream, too? He hissed through the crack.
I left after that, but guilt ate me. So,
2 weeks later, I packed up my old gaming
peripherals and returned, thinking maybe
I could get the entire family to play
together and fix things. When I entered
the house, everything felt wrong. No
lights or home-cooked meals, just
silence, except for the rapid clicking
of mechanical keys and Maui's laughter
drifting from upstairs. Mom, dad, I
called out. Nothing. I found Maui in our
parents bedroom. His entire setup moved
there. Monitors glowed in the darkness.
"Why are you in here?" I asked. He
didn't turn around. "My room's under
renovation. Don't go in there." His
voice was flat. Mechanical. "Where's mom
and dad?" he shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe
they abandoned me just like you." I
frowned, heartbroken by his cold
replies. At the same time, something in
my gut screamed suspicion. While he was
busy ranking up, I slipped down the hall
to his old room. The smell this time was
overwhelming. The dirty, rotting smell
now mixed with Lysol and bleach, like
someone was trying to mask it
unsuccessfully. I pushed inside and
froze. At the corner of the room, I
spotted mom and dad's bodies bloated and
discolored. I fell to my knees and threw
up. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't
think. Then I heard breathing behind me.
I told you not to go in there. Maui
stood in the doorway holding his
corabit, the collectible knife I bought
him for Christmas. They kept trying to
take my computer during a tournament.
Can you believe that? His eyes were
empty. They said I was sick. They tried
to send me away. He stepped forward and
I scrambled backward, knocking over
empty bottles. I bolted past him,
running for the nearest exit. He caught
my shirt and we crashed into the parents
room where his setup was. I grabbed his
monitor to steady myself and it toppled,
taking his tower with it. No. Maui
dropped the knife and dove for his
computer like it was a dying child. My
rank, my matches. You destroyed
everything. He cradled the exposed
motherboard, rocking back and forth.
Sparks flew from a loose power supply
cable. The wire touched his wet hands
and his body went rigid. I called 911
with shaking hands, staring at my little
brother's body, twitching on the floor,
surrounded by the broken pieces of his
obsession. The paramedics and police
arrived and wrapped the house in yellow
tape. They recovered my parents' bodies
and said they'd been lifeless for a
week. Maui survived the electrocution,
but suffered permanent nerve damage in
his hands. He's in a psychiatric
facility now, unable to hold a mouse
properly, but still writes me letters
about getting back to gaming, saying,
"Once my hands heal, we'll finally go
pro together. Brothers forever, right?
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 2947742,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
d8VfCDD0Ma4
|
Idea: What was the most toxic thing about your friend group?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 40656,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
tqXOk1iPztY
|
Idea: What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 639768,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
xr1RYo7sIgg
|
Idea: When did the cat lady ACTUALLY turn out crazy?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 118554,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
tH8DJvAXl8U
|
Idea: He Followed Me Everywhere I Went, So I Made Sure He'd Never Follow Anyone Again.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Neil",
"views": 108592,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
PlsxsaoVX8c
|
Idea: How did your family frame you for a crime?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 147040,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
M25_0JYQ2Fk
|
Idea: When did hugging trees turn into a criminal activity?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 17943,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
YoHVm5DVM7Q
|
Idea: My business partner put lead in my daughter's drinks for money, so I introduced him to people
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My business partner put lead in my
daughter's drinks for money, so I
introduced him to people who collect
debts in blood. You ever have a business
partner who starts out like family but
turns into your worst nightmare? That
was Derek. We met at a construction site
10 years ago. He was the kind of guy who
could charm clients with a handshake and
close deals over beer. Numbers were his
thing and building was mine. We started
our company in his garage, but that
changed when the money got real. First,
it was small things. Expenses that
didn't add up. Then I caught him at the
casino when he said he was meeting
clients. It became a pattern. Every loss
made him bet bigger. Every confrontation
made him lie smoother. Just one bad
night, he'd say. Then I'd find another
cash withdrawal. His ex-wife called
crying about missed child support.
mentioned something about old gambling
debts to dangerous people. I covered for
him. That's what partners do, right?
When I finally threatened an audit after
finding 200,000 missing, Dererick
panicked. That's when Emma got sick.
Emma was my 8-year-old daughter. She'd
visit the office after school. Dererick
started bringing her special smoothies.
Said he made them at home with protein
powder. Emma loved them. Drank one every
day for 3 months. Then came the
headaches, nose beds. When she collapsed
at school, the hospital found lead
poisoning. Chronic exposure. I
confronted Dererick about the missing
money. Mentioned Emma's kidney damage.
He actually smiled. Shame about Emma.
Kids are resilient, right? I asked about
the smoothies. His face went cold. You
were going to ruin me with that audit. A
sick kid means you'd sell cheap. I mixed
lead paint dust in her drinks. Those
cups are long gone. Good luck proving
anything. That was the moment something
snapped. The police needed evidence.
Dererick had already destroyed
everything. Filed to force a company
sale while I drowned in medical bills. I
sold everything watching my daughter
suffer while Dererick bought a boat. I
spent three months planning. Sold the
house publicly while keeping cash
hidden. Let Derrick think grief broke
me. Agreed to sell my company half for
pennies. Meanwhile, I studied him like a
blueprint. Found his old bookie Tommy
through contractor connections. Dererick
owed $80,000 from before we partnered.
Tommy worked for Victor's crew, the kind
who collected fingers as late fees. I
hired a forensic accountant with a house
money. Had him document every stolen
dollar. Learned Derrick's patterns.
Tuesday poker games where he was getting
deeper in debt. New office he worked
from alone. The boat he kept at the
marina. His custody hearings every
month. I never contacted Victor
directly. Never made threats. Just made
sure information traveled through the
right channels. Phase one started with
the IRS. Had my accountant flag just
enough transactions to trigger an audit.
Not criminal yet, just pressure. Derrick
started sweating, drinking more,
gambling more to cope. Phase two was
Tommy. I made sure Dererick's name came
up at the right poker game. Mentioned to
another player how Dererick was bragging
about stiffing Victor's crew now that he
had money. Word travels fast in those
circles. Tommy heard within a week.
Phase three was beautiful. Victor's guys
visited Dererick's office on a Tuesday.
I watched from the coffee shop as three
men entered. First came shouting, then
crashing furniture. 20 minutes of
screaming. Then Dererick stumbled out,
clutching broken fingers to his chest,
blood on his shirt. He saw me through
the coffee shop window. Our eyes met. He
knew. His mouth opened, but no words
came. Just this look of recognition, of
understanding. He knew exactly who'd
sent them. Victor's guys took his boat
title as partial payment. Said they'd be
back for the rest. Dererick couldn't
work with broken hands. Couldn't sign
contracts. Couldn't even hold a phone.
Clients left within two weeks. He begged
for extensions. Offered his car, his
watch. They wanted cash. Phase four was
the collapse. The IRS freeze hit right
as Dererick needed money most. Couldn't
pay employees. They walked out mid-
project. Business folded in 3 weeks.
Bank foreclosed on his house when he
missed payments. Ex-wife got full
custody when he showed up to court with
broken fingers and no income. No lawyer
would take him without a retainer. He
tried representing himself. Judge wasn't
impressed. Phase five was prison. My
forensic accountant's full report went
to the state prosecutor. Financial
fraud, embezzlement, tax evasion. 15
years minimum. Dererick's old gambling
crew visited him one last time before
trial. Made sure he knew prison wouldn't
protect him from old debts. Guards found
him crying in his cell. I bought our
company name at auction. Used it to
start over. Emma's getting better
slowly. Still draws blueprints, though
her hands shake now. Dererick writes
letters from prison. Says I ruined his
life. still thinks he's the victim.
Still doesn't understand. He poisoned an
8-year-old for gambling money. Now he's
got 20 years to think about that bet.
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 139697,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
kEwiUwx0XzI
|
Idea: The Korean nail salon mocked me in their language not knowing I understood every word
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
The Korean nail salon mocked me in their
language, not knowing I understood every
word. The Korean nail salon mocked me in
their language, not knowing I understood
every word. I'd been going to the same
Korean nail salon every two weeks for a
year. Minjang always did my nails with
that practice smile that never reached
her eyes. "Welcome back, honey," she'd
say, already pulling out my usual basic
polish. She'd chat in English while
filing, then switched to rapid Korean
with her co-workers. "What Minjong
didn't know? I understood every word. My
mother taught me Korean from birth, but
I look exactly like my black father.
People see me and never guess I speak
their language." After years of shocked
reactions, sometimes it's easier to just
smile and nod. I was settling in when
Ming Jung turned to the new girl and
commented in Korean about my fingers
getting chubbier like little sausages,
she said. The new girl giggled and
glanced at me, my jaw tightened. Another
technician joined in, observing how I
made the chair look small. They laughed
together while M Jung suggested charging
me extra for equipment stress. She
pressed harder than necessary while
pushing back my cuticles. I didn't
flinch. Then they started comparing me
to other customers and taking photos of
my hands. M Jung announced I was
definitely their worst dressed regular.
She pointed out dark spots on my
knuckles to new employees. She explained
in Korean it was for the group chat
because the others would die laughing at
how ashy I was. After taking photos, she
made a show of using excessive hand
sanitizer. She pumped it three times and
rubbed her hands dramatically. The other
snickered while one pretended to open
windows for fresh air. Another waved a
magazine like a fan near my direction.
The mockery shifted when they saw my
anxiety medication in my purse. Minjang
announced triumphantly in Korean that I
was on crazy pills. She said it
explained everything about me being both
crazy and ugly. She spoke louder now
while making circular motions near her
temple. The whole salon erupted in
laughter. Other customers looked over
but didn't understand. Another
technician added that no man would
willingly touch hands like mine. Minjang
agreed I probably hadn't been touched in
years. That's why she seemed so
desperate for contact during manicures.
They made vulgar gestures behind my back
reflected in the mirror. One mimicked
groping motions while another pretended
to vomit. As the appointment went on,
they weren't even pretending I was human
anymore. M Jung started referring to me
as it when talking to other customers.
She'd tell them she had to finish with
this thing first. A Korean customer
nodded sympathetically. The manager
suggested charging me a contamination
fee. Minjang would announce she felt
dirty after touching it while scrubbing
her hands. She used the rough side of
the file on my natural nails. She
started using old files and chipped
tools on me. The new polish bottles she
used for others stayed closed for me.
The worst part came when Minjang noticed
my mother's ring. She announced that
pathetic ring I always clutched was
probably from a dollar store. Another
technician suggested I'd stolen it from
someone who died. Someone added, "My
mother probably abandoned me for being
so ugly." They created an entire story
about my imaginary deadbeat family. Each
edition was cruer than the last. The
worst part was when they started making
fun of my mother's death. Minjong
practically shouted in Korean across the
salon about one less generation of
ugliness in the world. Her co-orker
added that the mother probably killed
herself after seeing what she created.
Other employees stopped their work to
laugh. Ming Jung laughed so hard she had
to stop doing my nails. Tears streamed
down her face from laughing. Death was a
relief from having that as a daughter.
My phone rang at that moment. The
university's number flashed on screen. I
looked at the caller ID and decided this
was it. "Yes, this is Professor Prescott
from the Korean studies department." I
answered in perfect Korean. The salon
went completely silent. Someone dropped
a bottle of polish that shattered on the
floor. Pink polish spread across the
white tiles like spilled blood. I looked
directly at Minjong, whose face had
drained of color. Still in Korean, I
explained my mother died alone because
people like them made her feel too
Korean for America, too American for
Korea. I let the words hang in the air.
Minj's hands shook violently. The new
girl covered her mouth. Another
technician backed away. I placed exact
change on the counter. No tip. Keep the
tips. They were my mother's way of
teaching me kindness doesn't require
reciprocation, but I'm done funding your
cruelty.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 437001,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
_bUhxfwtjOk
|
Idea: The rich kid said I'd end up cleaning toilets for people like him, not knowing his dad worked
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
A rich kid said I'd end up cleaning
toilets for people like him, not knowing
his dad worked for my mom. I was the
quiet kid in eighth grade whose mom
always said to keep a low profile at
school. She dropped me off a block away
every morning before heading to her
office, and I knew not to mention that
she meant the executive suite of the
biggest company in town. Bruce's dad
worked there, too. Always bragging about
being a regional sales manager. Bruce
had no idea my mom was the one who
signed his dad's paychecks, though, and
because of that, Bruce made me the
target of his bullying. Everything
started on a Tuesday morning in early
October when Bruce knocked my books out
of my hands in the main hallway. While I
knelt down to gather my scattered
papers, he stood there laughing with his
friends. Later that same day, when I
held the door open for him after lunch,
he shoved past and told everyone I was
probably hoping for a tip like a
doorman. By Thursday of that week, he
had progressed to stealing my lunch
money during second period and
announcing loudly that I was too poor to
afford food anyway. Friday afternoon
brought another escalation when he
shoved me into a locker after PE and
made comments about my clothes smelling
like thrift store while the entire
hallway erupted in laughter. The
following week brought even worse
treatment. Every time I raised my hand
during English class on Monday, he
interrupted to call me stupid and wrong.
When test results came back on Wednesday
and I had earned an A, he grabbed my
paper right off my desk and ripped it
into pieces while telling everyone the
teacher probably felt too sorry for me
to give me the F I really deserved.
During lunch periods throughout that
week, his harassment evolved from simply
knocking over my tray to something more
humiliating. He would grab my sandwich
from my reused grocery bag, take a
dramatic bite, and spit it out while
declaring it was welfare food and
mystery meat before throwing everything
in the trash. On a particularly bad
Thursday, I tried a different approach
and offered him my chips, thinking maybe
kindness would work. He knocked them out
of my hand and ground them into the
cafeteria floor with his heel while
explaining that he didn't want to catch
whatever diseases poor people carry. The
entire cafeteria watched in silence as
he made me clean up the mess with my
bare hands. Physical education class
became my daily nightmare after that. He
would wait until I was changing clothes,
then grab everything I owned and throw
it all in the shower, leaving me
standing there in my underwear. While I
tried to retrieve my soaked clothes, he
would loudly describe to the entire
locker room how skinny and malnourished
I looked from eating dollar store food.
The harassment reached new levels the
day he found my phone with its cracked
screen in early November. He picked it
up and called it ancient junk, then
explained that his dad had told him poor
people always have broken phones because
they can't take care of anything. He
threw it on the ground and stomped on it
repeatedly until the screen went
completely black and the phone wouldn't
turn on anymore. When I wore the same
jacket three days in a row because my
other one was still drying from being
thrown in the shower, he started a rumor
that I only owned one set of clothes. He
would make gagging sounds whenever I
walked past in the hallways and hold his
nose while telling everyone I hadn't
changed my underwear in a week. Career
day arrived in mid- November, and Bruce
had spent the entire week telling
everyone how his dad was going to
present about being successful in
business. The morning of the
presentations, he cornered me in the
bathroom and pushed my head toward the
toilet while his friends held the door
shut. He kept my face inches from the
water and told me I better get used to
cleaning toilets for rich people like
him. His dad went first during the
presentations, strutting around the
classroom talking about sales figures
and leadership while mentioning three
times that he worked for the most
successful company in the state. Then
the classroom door opened and my mom
walked in. Bruce's dad stopped
mid-sentence when he saw her, and his
confident expression transformed into
pure terror within seconds. His hands
shook so badly that he dropped all his
presentation notes while sweat soaked
through his cheap shirt. My mom calmly
told Johnson to finish up and said they
would discuss his quarterly review
afterward. Bruce's smirk disappeared
instantly as his face turned white as
paper, and when someone whispered who
she was, he stared at me with his mouth
hanging open in horror. His whole body
started trembling as he finally
understood that he had spent months
tormenting his dad's boss's kid. After
class ended, Bruce tried to stammer out
an apology, but couldn't even form
complete words. His dad had to formally
apologize to my mom while Bruce stood
there looking like he might throw up at
any moment. Within a week, Bruce had
transferred to a private school across
town, and his dad got demoted to a
different branch in another
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 369091,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
l1PsHtsvC20
|
Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What made you wish Twilight had never
been written? For as long as I could
remember, my friend Tina had been
insecure about being pale. The boys at
school constantly teased her, saying she
looked sickly and called her Casper. She
wore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather
to avoid getting bullied. I felt
terrible watching her suffer. But the
week she discovered Twilight, everything
changed. She walked into class with bare
arms for the first time in years,
quoting from the book, "My skin's like
marble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was
shocked except me. I was just happy
she'd found something that made her feel
powerful instead of pathetic. At first,
Tina's vampire things seemed like
typical teenage fandom. She'd come over
with the books, reading her favorite
passages out loud and giggling. Edward
Cullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter
with sunscreen so both of our skins
would look like thousands of tiny
diamonds embedded, just like in the
series. Our parents thought it was
sweet. When Tina started wearing those
amber contacts to school, even the
counselor was supportive, saying
whatever helps her confidence. The boys
who used to call her Casper now moved
out of her way in the halls, looking
completely intimidated by her
confidence. Her parents bought her the
whole book collection for Christmas and
the Blu-ray disc of the first movie for
her birthday. We were all thrilled at
how much she thrived. Things got out of
hand after spring break. Tina pulled me
aside and opened her mouth. Her canines
had been filed into points like actual
fangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over
them proudly. Cool, huh? They're
permanent. I'll show you something else
after school. At her house, Tina dragged
me to the kitchen and drained blood from
raw meat into a glass. She drank it down
while I watched in horror. Want some?
She asked, holding the glass for my
face. I threw up in the sink while she
laughed. Yeah, I was like that too at
first, but it's actually not that bad.
Before she could pressure me again, her
mom marched in fuming red and waving a
credit card statement. "$3,000. Are you
serious, Tina? That card was for
emergencies only." Tina shrugged and
lied calmly. "It's just teeth
whitening." Her mom grabbed her face,
forcing her mouth open. She saw the
fangs and froze. Tina pulled back,
glaring. "Do you want me to be bullied
again?" After a long silence, Tina
hugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I
just wanted to be beautiful like the
vampires in Twilight." Once her mom
walked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's
wrist and said sternly, "You're going
too far. This isn't right." She frowned
and told me to leave, completely
unwilling to hear me out. After
everything that happened, I avoided Tina
at school. But on Friday, she walked
over after class, begging to be friends
again. "Please, like old times, I've
been avoiding her for weeks, so I
caved." Later that day, while we were
watching a clips in my room, she
suddenly stood up during her favorite
scene and said, "Don't pause it. I just
need the bathroom." But instead of
making a left, she turned down the hall
toward my 8-year-old brother's room. I
got up and followed, pushing the door
open to see what was going on. The
dinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the
worst thing I've ever seen. Tina had
Justin pinned to his race car bed, her
mouth clamped on his neck, not playing.
Feeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound
filled the room. I stood there
paralyzed, watching while the blood ran
from under her lips, soaking his Pokemon
pajamas, pooling on his face themed
sheets. Justin's eyes were huge with
terror, tears streaming as his small
hands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She
whispered between swallows. The burn
means it's working. You're so lucky. I
screamed for help and stumbled in to
switch on the lights. Tina's head jerked
up. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts
reflected like a predator's eyes. Don't
interrupt, she hissed. I can taste his
innocence. It's exactly like the book
said. Sweet and addicting. Justin made
this horrible choking sound. I grabbed
her hair, yanking hard, but she was
impossibly strong. He just needs to die
first, then he'll wake up perfect. My
parents crashed through the door,
yelling curse words when they saw the
sight. Dad ripped her off while she
fought like something possessed. You're
ruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood
spraying from her mouth. Mom pressed
towels to Justin's neck while sobbing
hysterically. The white cloth turned red
instantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina
tried to lunge past D. Let me finish.
He's already half turned. Can't you
smell how his blood's changing? Dad
pinned her down while she thrashed. His
thoughts are in my head now, she moaned,
licking the blood from her lips. He's
scared, but he understands. He wants to
live forever as my Edward. Dad held her
down until the EMTs arrived. When they
got careless, she bit one of them too,
screaming about spreading the gift. They
had to sedate her twice before taking
her away. They took Tina to the state
psychiatric hospital. Justin needed
stitches and one liter of transfusions.
He eventually stabilized but left the
hospital traumatized. Two years have
passed since then, but he still sleeps
with every light on. The puncture scars
on his neck look exactly like fang marks
haunting our family. I visited Tina once
a year later. She smiled with those
pointy teeth and whispered, "Has my
Edward? Has he taken his first victim?"
When I said he wasn't a vampire, she
laughed. The change takes years for
children. Tell him wait.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 2644943,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
l1PsHtsvC20
|
Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What made you wish Twilight had never
been written? For as long as I could
remember, my friend Tina had been
insecure about being pale. The boys at
school constantly teased her, saying she
looked sickly and called her Casper. She
wore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather
to avoid getting bullied. I felt
terrible watching her suffer. But the
week she discovered Twilight, everything
changed. She walked into class with bare
arms for the first time in years,
quoting from the book, "My skin's like
marble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was
shocked except me. I was just happy
she'd found something that made her feel
powerful instead of pathetic. At first,
Tina's vampire things seemed like
typical teenage fandom. She'd come over
with the books, reading her favorite
passages out loud and giggling. Edward
Cullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter
with sunscreen so both of our skins
would look like thousands of tiny
diamonds embedded, just like in the
series. Our parents thought it was
sweet. When Tina started wearing those
amber contacts to school, even the
counselor was supportive, saying
whatever helps her confidence. The boys
who used to call her Casper now moved
out of her way in the halls, looking
completely intimidated by her
confidence. Her parents bought her the
whole book collection for Christmas and
the Blu-ray disc of the first movie for
her birthday. We were all thrilled at
how much she thrived. Things got out of
hand after spring break. Tina pulled me
aside and opened her mouth. Her canines
had been filed into points like actual
fangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over
them proudly. Cool, huh? They're
permanent. I'll show you something else
after school. At her house, Tina dragged
me to the kitchen and drained blood from
raw meat into a glass. She drank it down
while I watched in horror. Want some?
She asked, holding the glass for my
face. I threw up in the sink while she
laughed. Yeah, I was like that too at
first, but it's actually not that bad.
Before she could pressure me again, her
mom marched in fuming red and waving a
credit card statement. "$3,000. Are you
serious, Tina? That card was for
emergencies only." Tina shrugged and
lied calmly. "It's just teeth
whitening." Her mom grabbed her face,
forcing her mouth open. She saw the
fangs and froze. Tina pulled back,
glaring. "Do you want me to be bullied
again?" After a long silence, Tina
hugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I
just wanted to be beautiful like the
vampires in Twilight." Once her mom
walked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's
wrist and said sternly, "You're going
too far. This isn't right." She frowned
and told me to leave, completely
unwilling to hear me out. After
everything that happened, I avoided Tina
at school. But on Friday, she walked
over after class, begging to be friends
again. "Please, like old times, I've
been avoiding her for weeks, so I
caved." Later that day, while we were
watching a clips in my room, she
suddenly stood up during her favorite
scene and said, "Don't pause it. I just
need the bathroom." But instead of
making a left, she turned down the hall
toward my 8-year-old brother's room. I
got up and followed, pushing the door
open to see what was going on. The
dinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the
worst thing I've ever seen. Tina had
Justin pinned to his race car bed, her
mouth clamped on his neck, not playing.
Feeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound
filled the room. I stood there
paralyzed, watching while the blood ran
from under her lips, soaking his Pokemon
pajamas, pooling on his face themed
sheets. Justin's eyes were huge with
terror, tears streaming as his small
hands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She
whispered between swallows. The burn
means it's working. You're so lucky. I
screamed for help and stumbled in to
switch on the lights. Tina's head jerked
up. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts
reflected like a predator's eyes. Don't
interrupt, she hissed. I can taste his
innocence. It's exactly like the book
said. Sweet and addicting. Justin made
this horrible choking sound. I grabbed
her hair, yanking hard, but she was
impossibly strong. He just needs to die
first, then he'll wake up perfect. My
parents crashed through the door,
yelling curse words when they saw the
sight. Dad ripped her off while she
fought like something possessed. You're
ruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood
spraying from her mouth. Mom pressed
towels to Justin's neck while sobbing
hysterically. The white cloth turned red
instantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina
tried to lunge past D. Let me finish.
He's already half turned. Can't you
smell how his blood's changing? Dad
pinned her down while she thrashed. His
thoughts are in my head now, she moaned,
licking the blood from her lips. He's
scared, but he understands. He wants to
live forever as my Edward. Dad held her
down until the EMTs arrived. When they
got careless, she bit one of them too,
screaming about spreading the gift. They
had to sedate her twice before taking
her away. They took Tina to the state
psychiatric hospital. Justin needed
stitches and one liter of transfusions.
He eventually stabilized but left the
hospital traumatized. Two years have
passed since then, but he still sleeps
with every light on. The puncture scars
on his neck look exactly like fang marks
haunting our family. I visited Tina once
a year later. She smiled with those
pointy teeth and whispered, "Has my
Edward? Has he taken his first victim?"
When I said he wasn't a vampire, she
laughed. The change takes years for
children. Tell him wait.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 2644943,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
VooHVVhD6ZQ
|
Idea: What would you do if your husband forced you to train your own replacement?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What would you do if your husband forced
you to train your own replacement? My
husband demanded that I teach his
19-year-old mistress how to cook his
favorite meals and clean our house
properly because good wives prepare for
when they get too old to be desirable.
He found me years before waiting tables
at 22 when he was 41 with three divorces
behind him. His trust fund was large
enough to make him believe women were
just household appliances you upgraded
every decade. He pursued me with jewelry
and promises while telling stories about
his ex-wives who weren't as emotionally
mature as I was. But what he really
meant was they failed to understand that
to him marriage meant complete
surrender. I can't pretend I didn't see
the red flags, but I was on my own
trying to make ends meet while I cared
for my disabled mother. Neil was
charming, rich, and promised me the
world, and I was desperate. But being
married to Neil was hell. He controlled
my every move and constantly reminded me
that I was replaceable. The day after my
30th birthday, Neil brought home Cassidy
from the coffee shop near his office. He
announced she would be living in our
guest room while I taught her how to be
a proper wife. You're going to train her
in everything from my breakfast
preferences to the way I like my
shoulders massage after golf. Good wives
prepare their replacements before they
become too old to perform their duties
properly. He handed me a three- ring
binder containing detailed lesson plans
while casually mentioning that he'd stop
paying for my mother's care if I failed
to complete Cassid's training. Every
morning, I woke Cassidy at 5 while Neil
watched from his leather chair with a
clipboard. He scored our performances by
tracking how quickly we smiled and
whether we maintained the proper pitch
of submission in our voices. I taught
her that his eggs needed exactly 4
minutes and 15 seconds. She had to
practice pouring his coffee from exactly
18 in above the cup because he believed
it improved the aeration. During the
second week when I accidentally broke a
yolk while cooking, Neil made me eat the
raw eggs while explaining to Cassidy
that wasteful wives were worse than
incompetent ones. She watched me choke
down three raw eggs while tears ran down
my face. And I think that's when she
finally understood this wasn't a normal
housekeeping apprenticeship. After 3
months training, I woke up one morning
and just couldn't do it anymore. I
refused to get out of bed for the
training session. Neil dragged me
downstairs by my hair while Cassidy
screamed at him to stop. I was tired of
training my own replacement like a dog
teaching a puppy tricks before being put
down. I told him I was done with his
sick game and if he wanted Cassidy
trained so badly, he could do it
himself. The silence that followed was
worse than screaming would have been.
Neil responded by cutting off my access
to everything. Credit cards canceled,
cell phone disconnected, car keys taken
from my purse while I slept. He had my
mother moved to a cheaper facility an
hour away and told me she'd be moved
again every time I disobeyed somewhere
farther and with worse care. He made me
stand in the corner of the kitchen for
hours reciting everything that was wrong
with me while Cassidy begged him to let
me rest. When I finally collapsed, he
informed us both that tomorrow's lesson
would cover the proper way for a wife to
apologize for her defiance. You're going
to demonstrate complete submission in
front of Cassidy or your mother will
find out exactly what kind of worthless
daughter she raised. But Cassidy had
been learning more than just Neil's
breakfast preferences. It turned out
she'd documented all our training with
her phone hidden in her pocket. That
night, while Neil slept off his bourbon,
she called her older sister who worked
at a women's shelter and played her
three months of recordings. Her sister
arrived at dawn with two counselors and
a lawyer who specialized in domestic
captivity cases. They had paperwork
showing Neil had been sued by two
previous wives for similar treatment and
that the contracts I'd signed were
invalid under duress. His lawyer advised
him to settle quietly unless he wanted
those recordings laid in open court
where his business partners could hear
them. The settlement included continued
care for my mother and enough money for
both me and Cassidy to start over.
Though Neil made sure to drag it out for
months while his lawyer tried to break
me. I run a flower shop now in a town
three states away where I can pretend to
be normal. The freedom to leave my house
whenever I want still feels strange
after 2 years. I test every egg yolk
with a spoon even though nobody's
watching. Last month, Cassidy found me
through social media to tell me she was
engaged. She described her wonderful man
who insisted she quit her graduate
program because academics were making
her too argumentative. She sent photos
of her new kitchen where she practices
cooking his favorite meals. He times her
with the same kind of clipboard Neil
used to carry. I listened to her explain
how much he loved her while my heart
broke for both of us. We'd escaped Neil,
but we'd never really escaped what he
taught us about our worth.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 15113,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
JyYzMfTEeTo
|
Idea: How did your community try to destroy you?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
How did your community try to destroy
you? In my religious community, women
were expected to give birth in the
center of the congregation, while every
member watched and voted on whether you
were worthy to keep your child. Pastor
Elijah controlled our isolated compound
and genuinely believed watching women
suffer was his divine calling. This
creep had convinced 300 families that
witnessing every birth was their sacred
duty. And he'd spent years perfecting
his twisted voting system. He'd
installed stadium seating around the
birthing platform so everyone could get
a clear view. And he handed out
scorecards before each birth like we
were judging a competition. My own
mother had given birth to my younger
sister on that platform when I was 12,
and I still remember her sobbing with
relief that the congregation voted in
her favor. When I got pregnant at 19,
Elijah announced that my birth would be
scheduled and everyone should prepare
for another spiritual evaluation. He
explained that the congregation would
watch my labor and vote on whether I had
resisted demonic influence. Elijah said
mothers who screamed too much were
letting Satan speak through them and
those women would have their babies
taken away. He told everyone that my
pain would reveal my soul's condition
and their votes would determine whether
I deserve to be a mother. Three families
had already volunteered to adopt my
child if I failed the test. Living
pregnant in the community felt like
being a condemned prisoner waiting for
execution. Elijah made me attend
preparation classes where he showed
videos of previous births and critiqued
performances. Other pregnant women and I
would sit in horrified silence as he
paused footage to point out when mothers
showed insufficient faith. The worst
thing I've ever seen was when my friend
Jessica gave birth a month before me.
The community voted that she wasn't
worthy because she'd worn indecent
clothing while she was pregnant. She
screamed and sobbed for her baby to come
back to her as Pastor Elijah handed her
newborn daughter to the adoptive family.
Jessica had fought so hard they'd had to
hold her down and she kept reaching for
her baby while crying. She's mine. She's
mine. Please don't take her from me.
Elijah told her that her desperation
proved Satan had won her soul and
Jessica was dragged out while her
daughter was carried away by strangers.
She disappeared the next day and
everyone said she'd taken her own life
in shame. I couldn't get that image of
her empty arms out of my head, and every
night I'd lie awake terrified that I'd
be next. Every time I felt my baby move
inside me, I wanted to scream. I loved
her so much, and I'd never even met her.
And I didn't know if I'd even be allowed
to. I decided I was holding on to my
baby, no matter the cost. When I went
into labor, I locked myself in my
bedroom because I believed I could give
birth alone and escape before anyone
discovered us. For 6 hours, I labored in
secret, biting pillows to stay quiet
while praying no one would find me. I
imagined running away with my baby and
starting a new life somewhere this evil
community couldn't touch us. But Pastor
Elijah had been monitoring all pregnant
women. And when he realized I was
missing, he broke down my door with half
the congregation behind him. You think
you can steal God's show from his
people? He screamed at me while I was
still contracting. Pastor Elijah was
absolutely enraged that I had tried to
avoid the holy trial and declared my
resistance proved I was corrupted by
demonic forces. The congregation carried
me to the chapel while I was still in
active labor. And Elijah told everyone
my defiance meant they should vote with
extra scrutiny. Several families who had
been neutral now seemed convinced I was
spiritually compromised and I could see
them preparing to vote against me with
their red cards ready. Elijah stood over
me during the final stages of labor and
started the official voting process
before my daughter was even born. Even
through the pain, I looked him dead in
the eye and said, "You're about to find
out what a real mother looks like when
she's protecting her child." That's when
he lost it completely and started
screaming, "She's possessed. Vote her
out. The demons are speaking through her
mouth." Just then, the chapel doors
burst open and Jessica walked in with
six police officers, demanding to know
where her baby was. While all of us
thought she was dead, she'd instead
escaped the compound months earlier and
spent weeks convincing authorities that
Elijah was running a cult that stole
children. "Remember me?" she shouted at
the congregation. "I'm the woman whose
baby you voted to steal, and now I'm
here to return the favor." The police
immediately shut down the birth ritual
and arrested Elijah, while child
protective services removed every child
from families who had won them through
voting. Jessica was reunited with her
baby, and I got to keep mine. But I lost
my parents and siblings who blamed me
for bringing outside attention along
with the only home I'd ever known. I'm
completely now alone with my daughter,
working two jobs while dealing with
severe trauma from giving birth in front
of hundreds of strangers. But at least I
know my baby is mine.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 407619,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
l1PsHtsvC20
|
Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What made you wish Twilight had never
been written? For as long as I could
remember, my friend Tina had been
insecure about being pale. The boys at
school constantly teased her, saying she
looked sickly and called her Casper. She
wore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather
to avoid getting bullied. I felt
terrible watching her suffer. But the
week she discovered Twilight, everything
changed. She walked into class with bare
arms for the first time in years,
quoting from the book, "My skin's like
marble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was
shocked except me. I was just happy
she'd found something that made her feel
powerful instead of pathetic. At first,
Tina's vampire things seemed like
typical teenage fandom. She'd come over
with the books, reading her favorite
passages out loud and giggling. Edward
Cullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter
with sunscreen so both of our skins
would look like thousands of tiny
diamonds embedded, just like in the
series. Our parents thought it was
sweet. When Tina started wearing those
amber contacts to school, even the
counselor was supportive, saying
whatever helps her confidence. The boys
who used to call her Casper now moved
out of her way in the halls, looking
completely intimidated by her
confidence. Her parents bought her the
whole book collection for Christmas and
the Blu-ray disc of the first movie for
her birthday. We were all thrilled at
how much she thrived. Things got out of
hand after spring break. Tina pulled me
aside and opened her mouth. Her canines
had been filed into points like actual
fangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over
them proudly. Cool, huh? They're
permanent. I'll show you something else
after school. At her house, Tina dragged
me to the kitchen and drained blood from
raw meat into a glass. She drank it down
while I watched in horror. Want some?
She asked, holding the glass for my
face. I threw up in the sink while she
laughed. Yeah, I was like that too at
first, but it's actually not that bad.
Before she could pressure me again, her
mom marched in fuming red and waving a
credit card statement. "$3,000. Are you
serious, Tina? That card was for
emergencies only." Tina shrugged and
lied calmly. "It's just teeth
whitening." Her mom grabbed her face,
forcing her mouth open. She saw the
fangs and froze. Tina pulled back,
glaring. "Do you want me to be bullied
again?" After a long silence, Tina
hugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I
just wanted to be beautiful like the
vampires in Twilight." Once her mom
walked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's
wrist and said sternly, "You're going
too far. This isn't right." She frowned
and told me to leave, completely
unwilling to hear me out. After
everything that happened, I avoided Tina
at school. But on Friday, she walked
over after class, begging to be friends
again. "Please, like old times, I've
been avoiding her for weeks, so I
caved." Later that day, while we were
watching a clips in my room, she
suddenly stood up during her favorite
scene and said, "Don't pause it. I just
need the bathroom." But instead of
making a left, she turned down the hall
toward my 8-year-old brother's room. I
got up and followed, pushing the door
open to see what was going on. The
dinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the
worst thing I've ever seen. Tina had
Justin pinned to his race car bed, her
mouth clamped on his neck, not playing.
Feeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound
filled the room. I stood there
paralyzed, watching while the blood ran
from under her lips, soaking his Pokemon
pajamas, pooling on his face themed
sheets. Justin's eyes were huge with
terror, tears streaming as his small
hands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She
whispered between swallows. The burn
means it's working. You're so lucky. I
screamed for help and stumbled in to
switch on the lights. Tina's head jerked
up. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts
reflected like a predator's eyes. Don't
interrupt, she hissed. I can taste his
innocence. It's exactly like the book
said. Sweet and addicting. Justin made
this horrible choking sound. I grabbed
her hair, yanking hard, but she was
impossibly strong. He just needs to die
first, then he'll wake up perfect. My
parents crashed through the door,
yelling curse words when they saw the
sight. Dad ripped her off while she
fought like something possessed. You're
ruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood
spraying from her mouth. Mom pressed
towels to Justin's neck while sobbing
hysterically. The white cloth turned red
instantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina
tried to lunge past D. Let me finish.
He's already half turned. Can't you
smell how his blood's changing? Dad
pinned her down while she thrashed. His
thoughts are in my head now, she moaned,
licking the blood from her lips. He's
scared, but he understands. He wants to
live forever as my Edward. Dad held her
down until the EMTs arrived. When they
got careless, she bit one of them too,
screaming about spreading the gift. They
had to sedate her twice before taking
her away. They took Tina to the state
psychiatric hospital. Justin needed
stitches and one liter of transfusions.
He eventually stabilized but left the
hospital traumatized. Two years have
passed since then, but he still sleeps
with every light on. The puncture scars
on his neck look exactly like fang marks
haunting our family. I visited Tina once
a year later. She smiled with those
pointy teeth and whispered, "Has my
Edward? Has he taken his first victim?"
When I said he wasn't a vampire, she
laughed. The change takes years for
children. Tell him wait.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 2644943,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
8qVHBsmI4gA
|
Idea: My aunt turned every family funeral into her personal show, so I gave her the spotlight she craved.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My aunt turned every family funeral into
her personal show, so I gave her the
spotlight she craved. My aunt Caroline
has been a professional grief vampire
since the day she realized tears got
attention. She would turn every family
tragedy into her personal stage
performance, knowing she could milk
sympathy from anyone watching, and she
would abuse that power. It started at
grandpa's funeral 10 years ago. Caroline
showed up in a Victorian morning dress
and fainted dramatically during the
eulogy. Paramedics had to carry her out
while she wailed about losing the only
father figure who understood her. The
whole service stopped for 20 minutes.
When cousin Lisa miscarried, Caroline
posted about her own sympathetic
pregnancy pains on Facebook before Lisa
could even tell her parents. She started
a prayer chain for her own emotional
trauma and asked for meal donations to
help her cope, but nothing compared to
what she did when my father died. Dad
had a sudden heart attack at 58. Within
2 hours of getting the call, Caroline
had posted glamour shots of herself
crying on Instagram with captions about
being shattered beyond repair. She
created a Facebook group to support her
through the loss before our family could
even make funeral arrangements. She
hired a professional photographer to
document her grief journey, and I later
learned she'd also booked a videographer
for the funeral itself. She started
outlining her book about dad's death and
her journey as a grieving sister. The
viewing was when everything changed.
Caroline arrived in a full Victorian
morning outfit, complete with a black
veil and lace gloves. She set up her own
receiving line separate from her family
so people could come for her
specifically. When my mother walked in
to see her dead husband, Caroline
screamed and threw herself across dad's
casket. She knocked over three flower
arrangements and sent photo crashing to
the floor. My mother collapsed, sobbing
as she tried to gather the scattered
pictures. I helped her pick them up and
found one of dad holding me as a
newborn. In the background, Caroline
glared at us with pure jealousy. That's
when I heard her tell her photographer
to make sure he was getting all of this.
The raw emotion will be perfect for my
grief vlog. I'm thinking 12 chapters for
the book. That was it. Something cold
and calculating clicked into place
inside me. She wanted to perform. I'd
make sure she gave the performance of a
lifetime. That night, I studied Caroline
like preparing for war. She always
escalated at the actual funeral because
that was her grand finale with the
biggest audience. Through Facebook, I
learned about the videographer and her
plan to sing a special tribute. While
going through dad's papers, I found
something perfect. Caroline owed him
$50,000 from her failed essential oils
business. She never paid back a scent.
Then, I remember dad always saved
important voicemails as evidence for
family disputes. I found his old phone
in his desk drawer and scrolled through
them until I found gold. One from six
months ago had dad saying, "Caroline,
I'm disappointed you tried to use my
cancer scare for attention on social
media and you still owe me $50,000." I
called my cousin who worked as a theater
tech and explained what I needed. He had
watched Caroline ruin multiple family
events with her dramatics and
immediately agreed to help. He said he'd
hide a receiver in the podium during
setup the next morning and all I'd need
was a remote in my pocket. The funeral
arrived and Caroline outd. She wore an
even more elaborate morning dress with
pearls and opera gloves. She pushed past
immediate family to claim the front row
and had her videographer set up in the
aisle. During the pastor's opening
prayer, she fainted right on schedule.
When it came time for eulogies, I stood
up and announced that aunt Caroline had
prepared something special to share
about her unique bond with my father. I
handed her the microphone and she
practically glowed as she took center
stage. Caroline launched into her
rehearsed speech about their unbreakable
sibling connection and how dad's death
had torn her soul in half. She was
building to her crescendo when I pressed
the remote. Her own words from the
viewing echoed through the sanctuary,
the part about the grief vlog and her 12
chapter book. The congregation stirred
and whispered. Caroline's face went
white, but I wasn't done. Dad's
voicemail played next through the church
speakers. The church erupted. Caroline
screamed that it was fake, that I'd set
her up, that everyone was jealous of her
grief. Her own videographer kept filming
as she had a real meltdown, cursing at
the family and claiming we'd never
understood her bond with dad. She
stormed out shrieking about ungrateful
relatives. 6 months later, Caroline
still posts daily about being a
misunderstood mourner. She claims the
audio was fabricated and that grief made
her vulnerable to family manipulation.
She's been trying to get grief
counseling groups to let her speak about
toxic family dynamics during loss. Last
week, she crashed our neighbors memorial
service, claiming she needed to practice
processing grief in healthy ways. She
wanted the spotlight. And now she'll
always be remembered as the aunt who
couldn't let her brother rest in peace.
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 54770,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
1BDZsiVLow4
|
Idea: Why did your wife get 25 years?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
Why did your wife get 25 years for
keeping children safe? When little Emily
went missing from our neighborhood
playground last spring, my wife Allison
fell to her knees right there on the
sidewalk and started sobbing. She kept
saying, "Oh god, not Emily. Not that
sweet baby." Someone took her. I had to
physically hold her up while we joined
the search party. Thankfully, we found
Emily sleeping under a tree 36 hours
later. Allison pulled me aside in our
kitchen that night and whispered through
tears that anyone could have taken her.
That we got lucky this time. At first, I
thought we were handling things normally
like everyone else. Allison created a
Facebook group for the neighborhood
watch and started organizing these
safety workshops at school. She gave
passionate stranger danger talks to
rooms packed with worried parents. Other
moms started calling her a hero at
pickup, which honestly made me proud,
but it also felt a little intense. I
spent my weekends helping her install
Ring cameras around our house. I went
door to door passing out flyers for her
buddy system. Supporting her felt like
protecting our daughter Millie, and
that's all that mattered to me. Then one
night, I found her hunched over her
laptop making this concerning person
spreadsheet. She had screenshots and
detailed notes about every delivery
driver and jogger. When I asked if this
was really necessary, she looked
exhausted and said, "We need to know who
doesn't belong here." The changes
started slowly when Allison organized
patrol schedules and recruited
stay-at-home parents to watch during
school hours. It wasn't until our
landscaper Carlos became her target that
I realized something was seriously
wrong. Carlos had worked in our
neighborhood for 8 years, and suddenly
he was being reported 47 times in one
week just for eating lunch in his truck.
I watched from our kitchen window as he
came to our driveway asking Allison why
she was destroying his reputation and
she immediately called 911 while backing
away like he was dangerous. She told the
dispatcher he was threatening her and I
stood frozen knowing she was lying but
too shocked to move. After Carlos lost
six clients including us, Allison turned
on Mr. Kumar who'd been our neighbor for
15 years and given Millie birthday
presents since she was born. She posted
that he stared too long at the
playground during his daily walks. She
took it a step further when she followed
a teenage boy home from the playground
and posted his address online calling
him a potential threat. His terrified
mother showed up at our door screaming
about a restraining order while Allison
hit upstairs. When I finally confronted
her that night, she looked at me with
tears in her eyes and asked if I even
cared about keeping Millie safe.
Everything exploded when a house on our
street sold to a single father with two
young kids. Allison spent days
researching him online and discovered
his wife had died of cancer 2 years
earlier. But by breakfast, she was
telling me no man recovers that quickly
unless he wanted her gone. The next
morning, I drove to work thinking she
seemed calmer until my neighbor texted
about a mob for me. My hands shook as I
raced home, wondering who she was
accusing now. When I got home, I burst
through 30 parents to find Allison
holding up a pink hair clip. She claimed
she'd found it in the widowerower's
yard, but I recognized it immediately
because I'd helped Millie put it in
yesterday. My stomach dropped, realizing
my own wife had planted evidence on an
innocent man. She was sobbing to the
crowd that predators always target
single parent neighborhoods while
mothers gased and fathers clenched
fists. This monster had my baby's hair
clip," she wailed, waving it like proof
of unspeakable crime. The crowd erupted
in angry shouts and started moving
toward the widowerower's house at the
end of the street. Allison led them with
the hair clip raised like a weapon while
I ran alongside her begging her to stop.
Through his window, I could see him
clutching his two children who were
sobbing into his chest. A rock flew
through the glass and shattered it while
people cheered. Someone appeared with a
gas can from their garage and the crowd
started chanting about protecting their
babies. "Allison, please." I grabbed her
arm. "Those are innocent children in
there. You're going to kill them." She
shoved me away with wild eyes. So is
Millie. He had her hair clip. I won't
let him hurt another child. Before I
could stop her, she grabbed the gas can
and started dousing the front porch.
You're making a mistake. I screamed,
trying to tackle her, but two fathers
held me back. Let me go. She's lost her
mind. Allison pulled out matches with
shaking hands. "I'm saving our
children," she cried. "This is what
happens to predators." She threw the lit
match and flames erupted up the siding.
"I'm protecting every child in America."
I broke free and ran around back where I
helped the terrified father escaped with
his kids through the smoke. Police
sirens wailed as Alison spotted me and
shrieked, "You're helping him. You're
choosing a predator over your own
daughter." They arrested her while she
screamed that I was a traitor. The
police arrested Allison and 11 others
that night while she screamed that I was
a traitor. She ended up getting 25 years
for arson, inciting violence and
harassment. The widowerower's family
also moved away, and their burned house
still stands empty. 6 months later, I
brought Millie to visit her mother at
the state facility. Allison smiled at us
through the glass like nothing had
happened. And when I told her the
neighborhood was still recovering, she
leaned forward and whispered, "I'd do it
again."
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 47115,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
BbZs3tgrNnU
|
Idea: What’s the worst name anyone ever called you?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What's the worst name anyone ever called
you? The one my parents put on my birth
certificate. And when I tried to change
it, they threatened to destroy my entire
life. My adoptive parents, Garrett and
Vivian, had always been obsessed with
status and money, and that was true long
before they got me. Vivian, would
literally tell me that they'd shopped
around for the perfect child, rejecting
babies who weren't exotic enough to make
them look charitable, an orphan fit for
Angelina Jolie, she said. They wanted
someone whose story would make them seem
like humanitarian heroes while also
giving them a conversation piece for
dinner parties. When they adopted me
from Nepal when I was one, they knew
they wanted to give me a name of someone
rich, successful, and aspirational. So,
with that in mind, they named me Donald
J. Trump Jr. When I was a kid in the
early 2000s, being named Donald Trump
Jr. wasn't that bad. I had to explain
sometimes that no, I a scrawny brown kid
was not actually related to the orange
yelling guy on the apprentice. But that
was most people's only association with
Donald Trump. Teachers would do double
takes when they called attendance and
kids would ask if I was rich, but mostly
it was just an awkward conversation
starter that I'd gotten used to
navigating. My parents would beam with
pride whenever someone recognized the
name, telling people that they'd chosen
it because they wanted me to have the
mindset of a winner. But then he ran for
president and everything changed
completely. That was when I really
became aware of what Trump's actual
views were and how he felt about people
who looked like me. I remember sitting
on my couch horrified listening to one
of his early speeches while my dad
cheered along. My parents celebrated the
day he won with a party bigger than the
ones they'd thrown for any of my
birthdays. They acted like they'd
personally discovered Trump and kept
saying things like, "We knew he was
presidential material before anyone else
did." But what made it truly sickening
was how they started using my name as
their personal entertainment. It made me
introduce myself as Donald J. Trump Jr.
everywhere we went with special emphasis
on the junior part, expecting everyone
to hail them like heroes when really
most people just looked at me with
either pity or disgust. Isn't that just
the most patriotic thing you've ever
heard, Vivian would say to their shocked
faces. They made me wear Trump
merchandise to school every single day,
including a custom MAGA hat that said,
"Future president." When teachers would
call on Donald in class, other students
would burst out laughing or start
chanting, "Build the wall." And when I
told my parents they thought that was
absolutely fantastic. They'd make me
call local businesses to make
reservations under Donald Trump Jr. And
if the person on the other end didn't
immediately start acting like they were
talking to royalty, they'd snatch the
phone and start insisting they show
respect to the boy, who was basically
the son of our leader. The worst part
was when classmates would come up to me
and say things like, "Hey, Trump, when
are you deporting yourself?" or "Does
your dad know you're not white?" My
parents would coach me to respond with,
"He's not talking about the good ones
like me." But even saying it made me
want to throw up. When I turned 16, I
finally worked up the courage to ask my
parents if I could change my name. I've
been planning this conversation for
months, and I decided to suggest taking
my dad's name with Junior at the end,
thinking that it would feel less like a
slap in the face that way. It's not that
I wanted to be named after Garrett, but
it was better than the hell I was in.
Now, for just a moment, when I said I
wanted to honor the man who raised me, I
saw Garrett's face soften, and I thought
maybe, just maybe, they'd understand how
difficult this had been for me. I felt
this incredible wave of relief, thinking
that they might actually care more about
my happiness than their weird obsession
with status. But that moment of hope was
shattered instantly. Garrett started
screaming about how ungrateful I was,
how they'd saved me from a life of
poverty and disease, how I was spitting
in the face of the greatest president in
American history. Thiven started
shrieking that I was just another
ungrateful immigrant who doesn't deserve
to be here, and that they should have
left me in that shole country to rot.
Then they dropped a bomb on my life.
They told me that my adoption had been
arranged under the table because they
didn't want the government stealing any
more of their money and that I wasn't
actually a legal citizen. And that if I
didn't stop being so ungrateful, they'd
call ICE and have me deported back to
Nepal. Garrett grabbed me by the shirt
and snarled. That's what the real Donald
Trump would do to a upy brat like you.
Finding out I wasn't documented
terrified me. But it also gave me an
idea. I secretly reached out to a
nonprofit organization that helps people
who didn't realize they weren't here
legally, and they connected me with
lawyers who helped me navigate the
process of becoming a citizen. It took
almost 2 years, but they helped me get
my documentation sorted out. The day I
turned 18, I legally changed my name and
went completely no contact with Garrett
and Vivian. I have a new name now, and
the people in my life don't know about
my past. that I still startle whenever I
hear someone say Trump's
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 13467,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
U1HY3WhZFHU
|
Idea: I refused to get pregnant
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 1061578,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
YoHVm5DVM7Q
|
Idea: My business partner put lead in my daughter's drinks for money, so I introduced him to people
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My business partner put lead in my
daughter's drinks for money, so I
introduced him to people who collect
debts in blood. You ever have a business
partner who starts out like family but
turns into your worst nightmare? That
was Derek. We met at a construction site
10 years ago. He was the kind of guy who
could charm clients with a handshake and
close deals over beer. Numbers were his
thing and building was mine. We started
our company in his garage, but that
changed when the money got real. First,
it was small things. Expenses that
didn't add up. Then I caught him at the
casino when he said he was meeting
clients. It became a pattern. Every loss
made him bet bigger. Every confrontation
made him lie smoother. Just one bad
night, he'd say. Then I'd find another
cash withdrawal. His ex-wife called
crying about missed child support.
mentioned something about old gambling
debts to dangerous people. I covered for
him. That's what partners do, right?
When I finally threatened an audit after
finding 200,000 missing, Dererick
panicked. That's when Emma got sick.
Emma was my 8-year-old daughter. She'd
visit the office after school. Dererick
started bringing her special smoothies.
Said he made them at home with protein
powder. Emma loved them. Drank one every
day for 3 months. Then came the
headaches, nose beds. When she collapsed
at school, the hospital found lead
poisoning. Chronic exposure. I
confronted Dererick about the missing
money. Mentioned Emma's kidney damage.
He actually smiled. Shame about Emma.
Kids are resilient, right? I asked about
the smoothies. His face went cold. You
were going to ruin me with that audit. A
sick kid means you'd sell cheap. I mixed
lead paint dust in her drinks. Those
cups are long gone. Good luck proving
anything. That was the moment something
snapped. The police needed evidence.
Dererick had already destroyed
everything. Filed to force a company
sale while I drowned in medical bills. I
sold everything watching my daughter
suffer while Dererick bought a boat. I
spent three months planning. Sold the
house publicly while keeping cash
hidden. Let Derrick think grief broke
me. Agreed to sell my company half for
pennies. Meanwhile, I studied him like a
blueprint. Found his old bookie Tommy
through contractor connections. Dererick
owed $80,000 from before we partnered.
Tommy worked for Victor's crew, the kind
who collected fingers as late fees. I
hired a forensic accountant with a house
money. Had him document every stolen
dollar. Learned Derrick's patterns.
Tuesday poker games where he was getting
deeper in debt. New office he worked
from alone. The boat he kept at the
marina. His custody hearings every
month. I never contacted Victor
directly. Never made threats. Just made
sure information traveled through the
right channels. Phase one started with
the IRS. Had my accountant flag just
enough transactions to trigger an audit.
Not criminal yet, just pressure. Derrick
started sweating, drinking more,
gambling more to cope. Phase two was
Tommy. I made sure Dererick's name came
up at the right poker game. Mentioned to
another player how Dererick was bragging
about stiffing Victor's crew now that he
had money. Word travels fast in those
circles. Tommy heard within a week.
Phase three was beautiful. Victor's guys
visited Dererick's office on a Tuesday.
I watched from the coffee shop as three
men entered. First came shouting, then
crashing furniture. 20 minutes of
screaming. Then Dererick stumbled out,
clutching broken fingers to his chest,
blood on his shirt. He saw me through
the coffee shop window. Our eyes met. He
knew. His mouth opened, but no words
came. Just this look of recognition, of
understanding. He knew exactly who'd
sent them. Victor's guys took his boat
title as partial payment. Said they'd be
back for the rest. Dererick couldn't
work with broken hands. Couldn't sign
contracts. Couldn't even hold a phone.
Clients left within two weeks. He begged
for extensions. Offered his car, his
watch. They wanted cash. Phase four was
the collapse. The IRS freeze hit right
as Dererick needed money most. Couldn't
pay employees. They walked out mid-
project. Business folded in 3 weeks.
Bank foreclosed on his house when he
missed payments. Ex-wife got full
custody when he showed up to court with
broken fingers and no income. No lawyer
would take him without a retainer. He
tried representing himself. Judge wasn't
impressed. Phase five was prison. My
forensic accountant's full report went
to the state prosecutor. Financial
fraud, embezzlement, tax evasion. 15
years minimum. Dererick's old gambling
crew visited him one last time before
trial. Made sure he knew prison wouldn't
protect him from old debts. Guards found
him crying in his cell. I bought our
company name at auction. Used it to
start over. Emma's getting better
slowly. Still draws blueprints, though
her hands shake now. Dererick writes
letters from prison. Says I ruined his
life. still thinks he's the victim.
Still doesn't understand. He poisoned an
8-year-old for gambling money. Now he's
got 20 years to think about that bet.
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 139697,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
xr1RYo7sIgg
|
Idea: When did the cat lady ACTUALLY turn out crazy?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 118554,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
X5Yi1xh_Fhk
|
Idea: I destroyed my family because I refused to wear a bag over my head.
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 586757,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
kr0mX1hESG0
|
Idea: How did watching Fast and Furious lead to fifteen years of prison?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 34054,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
KzXb4sfBaLQ
|
Idea: The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 1057017,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
zeAfajyFWmU
|
Idea: My husband's manager think I was just arm candy until he realized I was the one fixing his mistakes.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 145061,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
l1PsHtsvC20
|
Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What made you wish Twilight had never
been written? For as long as I could
remember, my friend Tina had been
insecure about being pale. The boys at
school constantly teased her, saying she
looked sickly and called her Casper. She
wore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather
to avoid getting bullied. I felt
terrible watching her suffer. But the
week she discovered Twilight, everything
changed. She walked into class with bare
arms for the first time in years,
quoting from the book, "My skin's like
marble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was
shocked except me. I was just happy
she'd found something that made her feel
powerful instead of pathetic. At first,
Tina's vampire things seemed like
typical teenage fandom. She'd come over
with the books, reading her favorite
passages out loud and giggling. Edward
Cullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter
with sunscreen so both of our skins
would look like thousands of tiny
diamonds embedded, just like in the
series. Our parents thought it was
sweet. When Tina started wearing those
amber contacts to school, even the
counselor was supportive, saying
whatever helps her confidence. The boys
who used to call her Casper now moved
out of her way in the halls, looking
completely intimidated by her
confidence. Her parents bought her the
whole book collection for Christmas and
the Blu-ray disc of the first movie for
her birthday. We were all thrilled at
how much she thrived. Things got out of
hand after spring break. Tina pulled me
aside and opened her mouth. Her canines
had been filed into points like actual
fangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over
them proudly. Cool, huh? They're
permanent. I'll show you something else
after school. At her house, Tina dragged
me to the kitchen and drained blood from
raw meat into a glass. She drank it down
while I watched in horror. Want some?
She asked, holding the glass for my
face. I threw up in the sink while she
laughed. Yeah, I was like that too at
first, but it's actually not that bad.
Before she could pressure me again, her
mom marched in fuming red and waving a
credit card statement. "$3,000. Are you
serious, Tina? That card was for
emergencies only." Tina shrugged and
lied calmly. "It's just teeth
whitening." Her mom grabbed her face,
forcing her mouth open. She saw the
fangs and froze. Tina pulled back,
glaring. "Do you want me to be bullied
again?" After a long silence, Tina
hugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I
just wanted to be beautiful like the
vampires in Twilight." Once her mom
walked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's
wrist and said sternly, "You're going
too far. This isn't right." She frowned
and told me to leave, completely
unwilling to hear me out. After
everything that happened, I avoided Tina
at school. But on Friday, she walked
over after class, begging to be friends
again. "Please, like old times, I've
been avoiding her for weeks, so I
caved." Later that day, while we were
watching a clips in my room, she
suddenly stood up during her favorite
scene and said, "Don't pause it. I just
need the bathroom." But instead of
making a left, she turned down the hall
toward my 8-year-old brother's room. I
got up and followed, pushing the door
open to see what was going on. The
dinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the
worst thing I've ever seen. Tina had
Justin pinned to his race car bed, her
mouth clamped on his neck, not playing.
Feeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound
filled the room. I stood there
paralyzed, watching while the blood ran
from under her lips, soaking his Pokemon
pajamas, pooling on his face themed
sheets. Justin's eyes were huge with
terror, tears streaming as his small
hands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She
whispered between swallows. The burn
means it's working. You're so lucky. I
screamed for help and stumbled in to
switch on the lights. Tina's head jerked
up. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts
reflected like a predator's eyes. Don't
interrupt, she hissed. I can taste his
innocence. It's exactly like the book
said. Sweet and addicting. Justin made
this horrible choking sound. I grabbed
her hair, yanking hard, but she was
impossibly strong. He just needs to die
first, then he'll wake up perfect. My
parents crashed through the door,
yelling curse words when they saw the
sight. Dad ripped her off while she
fought like something possessed. You're
ruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood
spraying from her mouth. Mom pressed
towels to Justin's neck while sobbing
hysterically. The white cloth turned red
instantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina
tried to lunge past D. Let me finish.
He's already half turned. Can't you
smell how his blood's changing? Dad
pinned her down while she thrashed. His
thoughts are in my head now, she moaned,
licking the blood from her lips. He's
scared, but he understands. He wants to
live forever as my Edward. Dad held her
down until the EMTs arrived. When they
got careless, she bit one of them too,
screaming about spreading the gift. They
had to sedate her twice before taking
her away. They took Tina to the state
psychiatric hospital. Justin needed
stitches and one liter of transfusions.
He eventually stabilized but left the
hospital traumatized. Two years have
passed since then, but he still sleeps
with every light on. The puncture scars
on his neck look exactly like fang marks
haunting our family. I visited Tina once
a year later. She smiled with those
pointy teeth and whispered, "Has my
Edward? Has he taken his first victim?"
When I said he wasn't a vampire, she
laughed. The change takes years for
children. Tell him wait.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 2644943,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
KzXb4sfBaLQ
|
Idea: The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 1057017,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
3PEMDM6drys
|
Idea: When did you realize evil wears a friendly face?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
When did you realize evil wears a
friendly face? My husband Shane and I
lost our baby girl at 7 months. And I
spent weeks barely able to get out of
bed while he threw himself into work to
cope. The day after we came home from
the hospital, our neighbor Donna showed
up at our door with a casserole and this
soft, understanding look that made me
cry all over again. She was in her 60s
and lived alone next door where I'd see
her tending her garden with this wistful
expression. Donna sat with me that first
day and held my hand while I sobbed
about the nursery we painted pink and
the tiny clothes still hanging in the
closet. She started coming over every
morning with fresh food and would stay
to chat about anything except babies,
which I thought was considerate. Donna
drove me to appointments when Shane
couldn't leave work and picked up
prescriptions without being asked. She
mentioned losing someone years ago and
understanding that raw emptiness that
made breathing impossible. Shane was
grateful someone was checking on me
since my family lived across the country
and friends disappeared once they
realized grief didn't go away quickly.
When I fainted one afternoon, Donna
insisted on having a spare key for
emergencies, and I was too exhausted to
argue. She'd clean while I rested and
leave encouraging notes that actually
helped. After a month, Donna started
bringing up babies more often and
showing me knitting patterns she was
working on. She'd casually asked about
my therapy schedule to avoid disturbing
me and would arrive minutes after I left
to clean. One day, I came home early and
found her in the closed nursery touching
the crib rails. When she saw me, she
smiled and said she felt such beautiful
energy in this room and knew I'd have
another baby soon because of her dreams.
I noticed she watched from her window
and knew when Shane worked late before I
told her. The comments got stranger when
Donna asked about my cycle and whether
we were trying again while pushing
fertility herbs she'd researched. She
brought special tees and got upset when
I didn't drink them immediately. When I
asked for my key back, she kept
forgetting and would mention baby
clothes she was collecting. She started
showing up at my doctor appointments
claiming coincidence, but always knew
what the doctor said. When my sister
visited, Donna got hostile and told her
I needed consistent care from someone
who understands. I found her going
through our mail and she laughed, saying
she was checking for sympathy cards, but
her hands shook. She told the grocery
clerk I'd be pregnant soon and winked at
me like we shared a secret. When I
finally told Donna she was making me
uncomfortable and needed to give me
space, she smiled sadly and said I was
pushing away the only person who truly
understood my loss. Shane dismissed my
concerns, saying I was being paranoid. 3
months after the miscarriage, I followed
Donna home after she said, "Our baby's
nursery is ready." I crept around and
peeked through her windows. Her spare
room was an exact copy of our nursery
down to the same elephant mobile. The
walls were covered with photos of me
taken through our windows. I slipped
inside through her unlocked door and
found pregnancy tests in her trash and a
journal filled with entries about how
God chose her to raise my next baby.
She'd written about private adoption
arrangements and putting herbs in my
food to help me conceive because the
baby needs to come home to its real
mother. Donna found me reading and
smiled while locking the door behind
her. You understand now, don't you? Your
baby was meant for me. God took mine 40
years ago so I could be ready for
yours," she said calmly. She explained
she'd been documenting my mental
instability and had talked to Shane
about her concerns. I tried to back away
slowly and told her we could talk about
this, but she kept moving closer,
insisting I didn't understand the gift
God was giving us both. When I tried to
leave, she grabbed my arm hard and said
I had my miscarriage because it wasn't
the right baby yet. I shoved past her
and ran home to call police who found
surveillance equipment and files on
three other women who'd lost babies in
our neighborhood. Donna was arrested but
released to a psychiatric facility.
After evaluation revealed she'd lost
custody of a child decades ago for
neglect. The investigation uncovered
she'd been tracking fertility clinic
patients and had boxes of baby items
labeled with different women's names
dating back a decade. Police contacted
her previous victims and found similar
patterns of escalation. Shane finally
believed me, but trust was damaged
between us. We moved two towns away
within a month that I still get
anonymous baby clothes on my daughter's
due date every year. Now I'm pregnant
again, but haven't told anyone because I
can't shake the fear that another Donna
is watching and waiting somewhere.
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 7801,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
3PEMDM6drys
|
Idea: When did you realize evil wears a friendly face?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
When did you realize evil wears a
friendly face? My husband Shane and I
lost our baby girl at 7 months. And I
spent weeks barely able to get out of
bed while he threw himself into work to
cope. The day after we came home from
the hospital, our neighbor Donna showed
up at our door with a casserole and this
soft, understanding look that made me
cry all over again. She was in her 60s
and lived alone next door where I'd see
her tending her garden with this wistful
expression. Donna sat with me that first
day and held my hand while I sobbed
about the nursery we painted pink and
the tiny clothes still hanging in the
closet. She started coming over every
morning with fresh food and would stay
to chat about anything except babies,
which I thought was considerate. Donna
drove me to appointments when Shane
couldn't leave work and picked up
prescriptions without being asked. She
mentioned losing someone years ago and
understanding that raw emptiness that
made breathing impossible. Shane was
grateful someone was checking on me
since my family lived across the country
and friends disappeared once they
realized grief didn't go away quickly.
When I fainted one afternoon, Donna
insisted on having a spare key for
emergencies, and I was too exhausted to
argue. She'd clean while I rested and
leave encouraging notes that actually
helped. After a month, Donna started
bringing up babies more often and
showing me knitting patterns she was
working on. She'd casually asked about
my therapy schedule to avoid disturbing
me and would arrive minutes after I left
to clean. One day, I came home early and
found her in the closed nursery touching
the crib rails. When she saw me, she
smiled and said she felt such beautiful
energy in this room and knew I'd have
another baby soon because of her dreams.
I noticed she watched from her window
and knew when Shane worked late before I
told her. The comments got stranger when
Donna asked about my cycle and whether
we were trying again while pushing
fertility herbs she'd researched. She
brought special tees and got upset when
I didn't drink them immediately. When I
asked for my key back, she kept
forgetting and would mention baby
clothes she was collecting. She started
showing up at my doctor appointments
claiming coincidence, but always knew
what the doctor said. When my sister
visited, Donna got hostile and told her
I needed consistent care from someone
who understands. I found her going
through our mail and she laughed, saying
she was checking for sympathy cards, but
her hands shook. She told the grocery
clerk I'd be pregnant soon and winked at
me like we shared a secret. When I
finally told Donna she was making me
uncomfortable and needed to give me
space, she smiled sadly and said I was
pushing away the only person who truly
understood my loss. Shane dismissed my
concerns, saying I was being paranoid. 3
months after the miscarriage, I followed
Donna home after she said, "Our baby's
nursery is ready." I crept around and
peeked through her windows. Her spare
room was an exact copy of our nursery
down to the same elephant mobile. The
walls were covered with photos of me
taken through our windows. I slipped
inside through her unlocked door and
found pregnancy tests in her trash and a
journal filled with entries about how
God chose her to raise my next baby.
She'd written about private adoption
arrangements and putting herbs in my
food to help me conceive because the
baby needs to come home to its real
mother. Donna found me reading and
smiled while locking the door behind
her. You understand now, don't you? Your
baby was meant for me. God took mine 40
years ago so I could be ready for
yours," she said calmly. She explained
she'd been documenting my mental
instability and had talked to Shane
about her concerns. I tried to back away
slowly and told her we could talk about
this, but she kept moving closer,
insisting I didn't understand the gift
God was giving us both. When I tried to
leave, she grabbed my arm hard and said
I had my miscarriage because it wasn't
the right baby yet. I shoved past her
and ran home to call police who found
surveillance equipment and files on
three other women who'd lost babies in
our neighborhood. Donna was arrested but
released to a psychiatric facility.
After evaluation revealed she'd lost
custody of a child decades ago for
neglect. The investigation uncovered
she'd been tracking fertility clinic
patients and had boxes of baby items
labeled with different women's names
dating back a decade. Police contacted
her previous victims and found similar
patterns of escalation. Shane finally
believed me, but trust was damaged
between us. We moved two towns away
within a month that I still get
anonymous baby clothes on my daughter's
due date every year. Now I'm pregnant
again, but haven't told anyone because I
can't shake the fear that another Donna
is watching and waiting somewhere.
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 7801,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
uWYEJy2sgJs
|
Idea: When was therapy actually torture?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
When was therapy actually torture? My
parents sent me to a conversion camp
where they tried to cure my
left-handedness by tying my left arm
behind my back for months and beating me
whenever they caught me using it because
they believed left-handed people were
possessed by demons. My parents had
always been religious fanatics. But when
I started writing with my left hand in
kindergarten, they completely lost their
minds. They became obsessed with
correcting me before the devil could
take hold. And by the time I was eight,
they were tying my left hand behind my
back during meals and hitting me with
wooden spoons whenever I reached for
things with the wrong hand. Our church
made everything worse by telling them
that left-handedness was a gateway for
demonic possession and that they needed
to take drastic action. The devil enters
through the left side of the body," the
pastor would preach, staring directly at
me. "That child needs intensive
spiritual rehabilitation before it's too
late." When I turned 12, my parents
announced I'd be spending the summer at
Camp Righteous Path, a special facility
that promised to realign left-handed
children with God's natural order. The
director was this guy, Olsen, who
claimed he had personally cast demons
out of over 300 left-handed children.
The first day, he explained my treatment
plan with disturbing enthusiasm. We're
going to break that demonic connection.
Your left arm will be permanently
restrained, and every time you attempt
to use it, you'll receive correction
until your brain learns to obey God's
design. He showed me the leather harness
they would strap to my body, pinning my
left arm completely immobile against my
back. Some children take longer than
others to accept the Lord's will, he
said with a sick smile, but they all
break eventually. Living with my arm
strapped down was pure agony that
consumed every moment of every day. The
leather cut into my skin until it was
raw and bleeding, and my shoulder felt
like it was being pulled out of its
socket constantly. Simple tasks like
eating or writing became torture
sessions where counselors would beat me
with hatles whenever I instinctively
tried to use my left side. Olsen would
force me to practice writing my name
with my right hand for hours while he
stood behind me with a belt, striking me
across the back every time my letters
were crooked. The demon is fighting
back, he would say as I sobbed over my
mangled handwriting. But we're going to
beat it out of you if it takes all
summer. The breaking point came when I
overheard him bragging to another
counselor about his methods. This one's
got a particularly strong demon, he
said, laughing. But I've never met a
demon I couldn't beat to death. One day
during arts and crafts time, I pocketed
a pair of scissors and used them to cut
myself loose. I ran through the woods
and made it to a nearby town where I
used a gas station phone to call my
aunt, who had always seemed relatively
sane. When she picked me up and saw the
condition I was in, she was horrified.
I'm putting a stop to this insanity, she
said. And for two beautiful weeks, I
lived with her and felt normal again.
She told me that being left-handed was
perfectly natural and even bought me
special left-handed scissors and
notebooks. I thought my nightmare was
finally over and that my aunt would
protect me from my parents madness. But
then my parents showed up at my aunt's
house with Olsen, demanding I be
returned immediately. They told her that
I had been making tremendous progress at
camp and that pulling me out early would
undo months of spiritual healing. The
demon is still inside him," Pastor
Williams said, pointing at me like I was
contaminated. "If we don't complete the
treatment now, it will grow stronger and
he'll be lost forever." They convinced
Rebecca that they knew what was best for
my spiritual well-being and made fake
promises that they'd treat me more
gently this time. In reality, my parents
had them escalate my treatment as
punishment for escaping. Convincing
Director Olsen to add leg restraints and
extend my stay through the entire school
year. Since you clearly can't be
trusted, Director Olsson announced,
"You'll now spend 23 hours a day in full
restraints until every trace of
rebellion is beaten out of you." But one
day, the camp nurse was treating my
sores from the restraints and decided
she couldn't watch the abuse anymore.
She snuck into my room and cut my
restraints. She drove me straight to the
police station and testified about
everything she had witnessed at the
camp. The authorities raided Camp
Righteous Path the next day and shut it
down permanently, arresting Olsen and
several counselors for child abuse. I
was placed in foster care because my
parents refused to accept that there was
nothing wrong with being left-handed.
And they still believe I'm possessed by
demons to this day. I'm no contact with
them, but I still flinch whenever
someone comments on my left-handedness.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 489837,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
tqXOk1iPztY
|
Idea: What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 639768,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
kr0mX1hESG0
|
Idea: How did watching Fast and Furious lead to fifteen years of prison?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 34054,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
VU6wCpQuHeA
|
Idea: What’s the worst lie you almost believed?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 54435,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
l1PsHtsvC20
|
Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What made you wish Twilight had never
been written? For as long as I could
remember, my friend Tina had been
insecure about being pale. The boys at
school constantly teased her, saying she
looked sickly and called her Casper. She
wore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather
to avoid getting bullied. I felt
terrible watching her suffer. But the
week she discovered Twilight, everything
changed. She walked into class with bare
arms for the first time in years,
quoting from the book, "My skin's like
marble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was
shocked except me. I was just happy
she'd found something that made her feel
powerful instead of pathetic. At first,
Tina's vampire things seemed like
typical teenage fandom. She'd come over
with the books, reading her favorite
passages out loud and giggling. Edward
Cullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter
with sunscreen so both of our skins
would look like thousands of tiny
diamonds embedded, just like in the
series. Our parents thought it was
sweet. When Tina started wearing those
amber contacts to school, even the
counselor was supportive, saying
whatever helps her confidence. The boys
who used to call her Casper now moved
out of her way in the halls, looking
completely intimidated by her
confidence. Her parents bought her the
whole book collection for Christmas and
the Blu-ray disc of the first movie for
her birthday. We were all thrilled at
how much she thrived. Things got out of
hand after spring break. Tina pulled me
aside and opened her mouth. Her canines
had been filed into points like actual
fangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over
them proudly. Cool, huh? They're
permanent. I'll show you something else
after school. At her house, Tina dragged
me to the kitchen and drained blood from
raw meat into a glass. She drank it down
while I watched in horror. Want some?
She asked, holding the glass for my
face. I threw up in the sink while she
laughed. Yeah, I was like that too at
first, but it's actually not that bad.
Before she could pressure me again, her
mom marched in fuming red and waving a
credit card statement. "$3,000. Are you
serious, Tina? That card was for
emergencies only." Tina shrugged and
lied calmly. "It's just teeth
whitening." Her mom grabbed her face,
forcing her mouth open. She saw the
fangs and froze. Tina pulled back,
glaring. "Do you want me to be bullied
again?" After a long silence, Tina
hugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I
just wanted to be beautiful like the
vampires in Twilight." Once her mom
walked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's
wrist and said sternly, "You're going
too far. This isn't right." She frowned
and told me to leave, completely
unwilling to hear me out. After
everything that happened, I avoided Tina
at school. But on Friday, she walked
over after class, begging to be friends
again. "Please, like old times, I've
been avoiding her for weeks, so I
caved." Later that day, while we were
watching a clips in my room, she
suddenly stood up during her favorite
scene and said, "Don't pause it. I just
need the bathroom." But instead of
making a left, she turned down the hall
toward my 8-year-old brother's room. I
got up and followed, pushing the door
open to see what was going on. The
dinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the
worst thing I've ever seen. Tina had
Justin pinned to his race car bed, her
mouth clamped on his neck, not playing.
Feeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound
filled the room. I stood there
paralyzed, watching while the blood ran
from under her lips, soaking his Pokemon
pajamas, pooling on his face themed
sheets. Justin's eyes were huge with
terror, tears streaming as his small
hands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She
whispered between swallows. The burn
means it's working. You're so lucky. I
screamed for help and stumbled in to
switch on the lights. Tina's head jerked
up. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts
reflected like a predator's eyes. Don't
interrupt, she hissed. I can taste his
innocence. It's exactly like the book
said. Sweet and addicting. Justin made
this horrible choking sound. I grabbed
her hair, yanking hard, but she was
impossibly strong. He just needs to die
first, then he'll wake up perfect. My
parents crashed through the door,
yelling curse words when they saw the
sight. Dad ripped her off while she
fought like something possessed. You're
ruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood
spraying from her mouth. Mom pressed
towels to Justin's neck while sobbing
hysterically. The white cloth turned red
instantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina
tried to lunge past D. Let me finish.
He's already half turned. Can't you
smell how his blood's changing? Dad
pinned her down while she thrashed. His
thoughts are in my head now, she moaned,
licking the blood from her lips. He's
scared, but he understands. He wants to
live forever as my Edward. Dad held her
down until the EMTs arrived. When they
got careless, she bit one of them too,
screaming about spreading the gift. They
had to sedate her twice before taking
her away. They took Tina to the state
psychiatric hospital. Justin needed
stitches and one liter of transfusions.
He eventually stabilized but left the
hospital traumatized. Two years have
passed since then, but he still sleeps
with every light on. The puncture scars
on his neck look exactly like fang marks
haunting our family. I visited Tina once
a year later. She smiled with those
pointy teeth and whispered, "Has my
Edward? Has he taken his first victim?"
When I said he wasn't a vampire, she
laughed. The change takes years for
children. Tell him wait.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 2644943,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
-Y0rsgfHVjY
|
Idea: My cousin said I was a loser until he realized I owned his company.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My cousin said I was a loser until he
realized I owned his company. I was
sitting at my family's barbecue eating
my burger and minding my own business.
My relatives always saw me as the guy
who did computer stuff all day instead
of having a real job. They had no idea I
actually owned a software company that
I'd built from nothing over the past 8
years. We specialized in productivity
tools for large corporations and had
just acquired a major firm 3 months ago.
Brad settled into his usual routine,
looking me up and down with obvious
disgust. He gestured at my faded clothes
while adjusting his expensive watch,
lecturing me about how I needed to dress
like an adult instead of shopping at
thrift stores. He said people would
never take me seriously looking like a
teenager. My jaw clenched, but I stayed
quiet. The family nodded along like he
was delivering profound wisdom. My aunt
chimed in about how I couldn't live off
my parents forever while most people my
age had real careers. She turned to Brad
with admiration, asking about his
promotion. Brad's chest puffed out as he
launched into his success story, then
pivoted to complaining about his new
management. The company had been
acquired by some tech startup and the
new CEO was a complete joke. He called
the guy a 20some who probably learned
business from YouTube videos. My uncle
leaned forward with interest as Brad
explained how the CEO never showed up to
meetings, probably too busy playing
video games in his mom's basement to
actually run a company. He looked
directly at me with a knowing smirk. My
face burned, but I kept my expression
neutral. Brad continued warming to his
audience, explaining how this CEO
probably made decisions based on Tik Tok
trends. He said, "These startup kids
thought they were geniuses, but didn't
understand real business, probably
burning through investor money on fancy
coffee and ping- pong tables." My aunt
laughed about how at least Brad had
actual skills, unlike these computer
nerds who thought clicking buttons all
day made them entrepreneurs. Brad
explained how the CEO probably couldn't
even afford a real office, betting he
was running the whole company from some
cramped apartment, eating ramen noodles
and pretending he was Steve Jobs. I
gritted my teeth as the attacks got more
personal. My uncle joined in about how
these tech bros were what was wrong with
America, thinking playing on the
internet was a real job. Brad leaned
back smuggly, explaining how he'd been
doing the actual work while this CEO
took credit for everything. The guy
probably didn't even know how to read a
financial statement, just another
basement dweller who got lucky. My hands
trembled slightly as I set down my
burger. Brad noticed and smirked. He
reached over and grabbed my burger,
taking a big bite while explaining how
this CEO was so incompetent, he probably
couldn't even run his own life, let
alone a company. He chewed my food while
speculating that the guy had never even
been on a real date, asking what woman
would want to be with some loser who
played video games all day. The family
erupted in laughter. My aunt wiped tears
from her eyes as Brad continued his
performance. He kept talking about how
pathetic it would be to live in your
parents' basement with no real job, no
girlfriend, no future, just sitting
there in pajamas thinking you were
important. He tossed the rest of my
burger in the trash, explaining how the
company would probably fail within 6
months because the leadership was so
weak. He was already looking for a new
job before this ran everything
into the ground. My chest burned as I
watched him wipe his hands on a napkin.
He pointed at me with a condescending
smile. This is why you need to get
serious about your life before you end
up like these fake entrepreneurs who
think they're hot stuff but actually
know nothing. I pulled out my phone and
opened my email. I scrolled until I
found the acquisition announcement from
3 months ago and turned the screen
toward Brad. His face went white as he
read the email from me to all employees,
welcoming his former company to our
organization. My signature sat at the
bottom with my title as CEO and founder.
Wait, that's not possible, he whispered,
his voice cracking. I shrugged. I
founded the company 7 years ago. We
acquired your firm in March. The
backyard went dead silent. Brad stared
at the phone like it might explode.
You're telling me you're my boss? I
nodded. Have been for 3 months. I've
been reading your performance reviews.
His face cycled through five different
colors. He started stuttering apologies,
but I cut him off, telling him not to
worry about it, and that he was actually
doing great work. My aunt's mouth hung
open, asking if I really owned a
company. I explained that I owned the
company that owned Brad's company, about
200 employees now. Brad looked like he
wanted to disappear.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 158288,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
zeAfajyFWmU
|
Idea: My husband's manager think I was just arm candy until he realized I was the one fixing his mistakes.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 145061,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
B089wIE9YP8
|
Idea: A store refused to serve me because of an imaginary companion, so I made them pay
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Lucis L",
"views": 74829,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
4lAaNReEUtM
|
Idea: When did you realize the person you were looking at wasn't human anymore?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 97429,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
kEwiUwx0XzI
|
Idea: The Korean nail salon mocked me in their language not knowing I understood every word
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
The Korean nail salon mocked me in their
language, not knowing I understood every
word. The Korean nail salon mocked me in
their language, not knowing I understood
every word. I'd been going to the same
Korean nail salon every two weeks for a
year. Minjang always did my nails with
that practice smile that never reached
her eyes. "Welcome back, honey," she'd
say, already pulling out my usual basic
polish. She'd chat in English while
filing, then switched to rapid Korean
with her co-workers. "What Minjong
didn't know? I understood every word. My
mother taught me Korean from birth, but
I look exactly like my black father.
People see me and never guess I speak
their language." After years of shocked
reactions, sometimes it's easier to just
smile and nod. I was settling in when
Ming Jung turned to the new girl and
commented in Korean about my fingers
getting chubbier like little sausages,
she said. The new girl giggled and
glanced at me, my jaw tightened. Another
technician joined in, observing how I
made the chair look small. They laughed
together while M Jung suggested charging
me extra for equipment stress. She
pressed harder than necessary while
pushing back my cuticles. I didn't
flinch. Then they started comparing me
to other customers and taking photos of
my hands. M Jung announced I was
definitely their worst dressed regular.
She pointed out dark spots on my
knuckles to new employees. She explained
in Korean it was for the group chat
because the others would die laughing at
how ashy I was. After taking photos, she
made a show of using excessive hand
sanitizer. She pumped it three times and
rubbed her hands dramatically. The other
snickered while one pretended to open
windows for fresh air. Another waved a
magazine like a fan near my direction.
The mockery shifted when they saw my
anxiety medication in my purse. Minjang
announced triumphantly in Korean that I
was on crazy pills. She said it
explained everything about me being both
crazy and ugly. She spoke louder now
while making circular motions near her
temple. The whole salon erupted in
laughter. Other customers looked over
but didn't understand. Another
technician added that no man would
willingly touch hands like mine. Minjang
agreed I probably hadn't been touched in
years. That's why she seemed so
desperate for contact during manicures.
They made vulgar gestures behind my back
reflected in the mirror. One mimicked
groping motions while another pretended
to vomit. As the appointment went on,
they weren't even pretending I was human
anymore. M Jung started referring to me
as it when talking to other customers.
She'd tell them she had to finish with
this thing first. A Korean customer
nodded sympathetically. The manager
suggested charging me a contamination
fee. Minjang would announce she felt
dirty after touching it while scrubbing
her hands. She used the rough side of
the file on my natural nails. She
started using old files and chipped
tools on me. The new polish bottles she
used for others stayed closed for me.
The worst part came when Minjang noticed
my mother's ring. She announced that
pathetic ring I always clutched was
probably from a dollar store. Another
technician suggested I'd stolen it from
someone who died. Someone added, "My
mother probably abandoned me for being
so ugly." They created an entire story
about my imaginary deadbeat family. Each
edition was cruer than the last. The
worst part was when they started making
fun of my mother's death. Minjong
practically shouted in Korean across the
salon about one less generation of
ugliness in the world. Her co-orker
added that the mother probably killed
herself after seeing what she created.
Other employees stopped their work to
laugh. Ming Jung laughed so hard she had
to stop doing my nails. Tears streamed
down her face from laughing. Death was a
relief from having that as a daughter.
My phone rang at that moment. The
university's number flashed on screen. I
looked at the caller ID and decided this
was it. "Yes, this is Professor Prescott
from the Korean studies department." I
answered in perfect Korean. The salon
went completely silent. Someone dropped
a bottle of polish that shattered on the
floor. Pink polish spread across the
white tiles like spilled blood. I looked
directly at Minjong, whose face had
drained of color. Still in Korean, I
explained my mother died alone because
people like them made her feel too
Korean for America, too American for
Korea. I let the words hang in the air.
Minj's hands shook violently. The new
girl covered her mouth. Another
technician backed away. I placed exact
change on the counter. No tip. Keep the
tips. They were my mother's way of
teaching me kindness doesn't require
reciprocation, but I'm done funding your
cruelty.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 437001,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
4jJco4FcVz8
|
Idea: When did you realize your parents genuinely didn't see you as human?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 626036,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
kr0mX1hESG0
|
Idea: How did watching Fast and Furious lead to fifteen years of prison?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 34054,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
Boi9IonqVKI
|
Idea: When did you realize your boyfriend was a monster?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 15866,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
_bUhxfwtjOk
|
Idea: The rich kid said I'd end up cleaning toilets for people like him, not knowing his dad worked
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
A rich kid said I'd end up cleaning
toilets for people like him, not knowing
his dad worked for my mom. I was the
quiet kid in eighth grade whose mom
always said to keep a low profile at
school. She dropped me off a block away
every morning before heading to her
office, and I knew not to mention that
she meant the executive suite of the
biggest company in town. Bruce's dad
worked there, too. Always bragging about
being a regional sales manager. Bruce
had no idea my mom was the one who
signed his dad's paychecks, though, and
because of that, Bruce made me the
target of his bullying. Everything
started on a Tuesday morning in early
October when Bruce knocked my books out
of my hands in the main hallway. While I
knelt down to gather my scattered
papers, he stood there laughing with his
friends. Later that same day, when I
held the door open for him after lunch,
he shoved past and told everyone I was
probably hoping for a tip like a
doorman. By Thursday of that week, he
had progressed to stealing my lunch
money during second period and
announcing loudly that I was too poor to
afford food anyway. Friday afternoon
brought another escalation when he
shoved me into a locker after PE and
made comments about my clothes smelling
like thrift store while the entire
hallway erupted in laughter. The
following week brought even worse
treatment. Every time I raised my hand
during English class on Monday, he
interrupted to call me stupid and wrong.
When test results came back on Wednesday
and I had earned an A, he grabbed my
paper right off my desk and ripped it
into pieces while telling everyone the
teacher probably felt too sorry for me
to give me the F I really deserved.
During lunch periods throughout that
week, his harassment evolved from simply
knocking over my tray to something more
humiliating. He would grab my sandwich
from my reused grocery bag, take a
dramatic bite, and spit it out while
declaring it was welfare food and
mystery meat before throwing everything
in the trash. On a particularly bad
Thursday, I tried a different approach
and offered him my chips, thinking maybe
kindness would work. He knocked them out
of my hand and ground them into the
cafeteria floor with his heel while
explaining that he didn't want to catch
whatever diseases poor people carry. The
entire cafeteria watched in silence as
he made me clean up the mess with my
bare hands. Physical education class
became my daily nightmare after that. He
would wait until I was changing clothes,
then grab everything I owned and throw
it all in the shower, leaving me
standing there in my underwear. While I
tried to retrieve my soaked clothes, he
would loudly describe to the entire
locker room how skinny and malnourished
I looked from eating dollar store food.
The harassment reached new levels the
day he found my phone with its cracked
screen in early November. He picked it
up and called it ancient junk, then
explained that his dad had told him poor
people always have broken phones because
they can't take care of anything. He
threw it on the ground and stomped on it
repeatedly until the screen went
completely black and the phone wouldn't
turn on anymore. When I wore the same
jacket three days in a row because my
other one was still drying from being
thrown in the shower, he started a rumor
that I only owned one set of clothes. He
would make gagging sounds whenever I
walked past in the hallways and hold his
nose while telling everyone I hadn't
changed my underwear in a week. Career
day arrived in mid- November, and Bruce
had spent the entire week telling
everyone how his dad was going to
present about being successful in
business. The morning of the
presentations, he cornered me in the
bathroom and pushed my head toward the
toilet while his friends held the door
shut. He kept my face inches from the
water and told me I better get used to
cleaning toilets for rich people like
him. His dad went first during the
presentations, strutting around the
classroom talking about sales figures
and leadership while mentioning three
times that he worked for the most
successful company in the state. Then
the classroom door opened and my mom
walked in. Bruce's dad stopped
mid-sentence when he saw her, and his
confident expression transformed into
pure terror within seconds. His hands
shook so badly that he dropped all his
presentation notes while sweat soaked
through his cheap shirt. My mom calmly
told Johnson to finish up and said they
would discuss his quarterly review
afterward. Bruce's smirk disappeared
instantly as his face turned white as
paper, and when someone whispered who
she was, he stared at me with his mouth
hanging open in horror. His whole body
started trembling as he finally
understood that he had spent months
tormenting his dad's boss's kid. After
class ended, Bruce tried to stammer out
an apology, but couldn't even form
complete words. His dad had to formally
apologize to my mom while Bruce stood
there looking like he might throw up at
any moment. Within a week, Bruce had
transferred to a private school across
town, and his dad got demoted to a
different branch in another
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 369091,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
kEwiUwx0XzI
|
Idea: The Korean nail salon mocked me in their language not knowing I understood every word
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
The Korean nail salon mocked me in their
language, not knowing I understood every
word. The Korean nail salon mocked me in
their language, not knowing I understood
every word. I'd been going to the same
Korean nail salon every two weeks for a
year. Minjang always did my nails with
that practice smile that never reached
her eyes. "Welcome back, honey," she'd
say, already pulling out my usual basic
polish. She'd chat in English while
filing, then switched to rapid Korean
with her co-workers. "What Minjong
didn't know? I understood every word. My
mother taught me Korean from birth, but
I look exactly like my black father.
People see me and never guess I speak
their language." After years of shocked
reactions, sometimes it's easier to just
smile and nod. I was settling in when
Ming Jung turned to the new girl and
commented in Korean about my fingers
getting chubbier like little sausages,
she said. The new girl giggled and
glanced at me, my jaw tightened. Another
technician joined in, observing how I
made the chair look small. They laughed
together while M Jung suggested charging
me extra for equipment stress. She
pressed harder than necessary while
pushing back my cuticles. I didn't
flinch. Then they started comparing me
to other customers and taking photos of
my hands. M Jung announced I was
definitely their worst dressed regular.
She pointed out dark spots on my
knuckles to new employees. She explained
in Korean it was for the group chat
because the others would die laughing at
how ashy I was. After taking photos, she
made a show of using excessive hand
sanitizer. She pumped it three times and
rubbed her hands dramatically. The other
snickered while one pretended to open
windows for fresh air. Another waved a
magazine like a fan near my direction.
The mockery shifted when they saw my
anxiety medication in my purse. Minjang
announced triumphantly in Korean that I
was on crazy pills. She said it
explained everything about me being both
crazy and ugly. She spoke louder now
while making circular motions near her
temple. The whole salon erupted in
laughter. Other customers looked over
but didn't understand. Another
technician added that no man would
willingly touch hands like mine. Minjang
agreed I probably hadn't been touched in
years. That's why she seemed so
desperate for contact during manicures.
They made vulgar gestures behind my back
reflected in the mirror. One mimicked
groping motions while another pretended
to vomit. As the appointment went on,
they weren't even pretending I was human
anymore. M Jung started referring to me
as it when talking to other customers.
She'd tell them she had to finish with
this thing first. A Korean customer
nodded sympathetically. The manager
suggested charging me a contamination
fee. Minjang would announce she felt
dirty after touching it while scrubbing
her hands. She used the rough side of
the file on my natural nails. She
started using old files and chipped
tools on me. The new polish bottles she
used for others stayed closed for me.
The worst part came when Minjang noticed
my mother's ring. She announced that
pathetic ring I always clutched was
probably from a dollar store. Another
technician suggested I'd stolen it from
someone who died. Someone added, "My
mother probably abandoned me for being
so ugly." They created an entire story
about my imaginary deadbeat family. Each
edition was cruer than the last. The
worst part was when they started making
fun of my mother's death. Minjong
practically shouted in Korean across the
salon about one less generation of
ugliness in the world. Her co-orker
added that the mother probably killed
herself after seeing what she created.
Other employees stopped their work to
laugh. Ming Jung laughed so hard she had
to stop doing my nails. Tears streamed
down her face from laughing. Death was a
relief from having that as a daughter.
My phone rang at that moment. The
university's number flashed on screen. I
looked at the caller ID and decided this
was it. "Yes, this is Professor Prescott
from the Korean studies department." I
answered in perfect Korean. The salon
went completely silent. Someone dropped
a bottle of polish that shattered on the
floor. Pink polish spread across the
white tiles like spilled blood. I looked
directly at Minjong, whose face had
drained of color. Still in Korean, I
explained my mother died alone because
people like them made her feel too
Korean for America, too American for
Korea. I let the words hang in the air.
Minj's hands shook violently. The new
girl covered her mouth. Another
technician backed away. I placed exact
change on the counter. No tip. Keep the
tips. They were my mother's way of
teaching me kindness doesn't require
reciprocation, but I'm done funding your
cruelty.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 437001,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
zeAfajyFWmU
|
Idea: My husband's manager think I was just arm candy until he realized I was the one fixing his mistakes.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 145061,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
FZ3EOETsAa0
|
Idea: My parents starved me and people paid to watch.
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 83896,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
0AqkUatWEuw
|
Idea: My brother in law mocked me for being a stay at home dad not knowing I bought his company.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 137938,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
pbHRzWOZfh4
|
Idea: 🧠THE SOUND UNLOCKED MEMORIES I NEVER LIVED.
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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]
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 94351,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
_bUhxfwtjOk
|
Idea: The rich kid said I'd end up cleaning toilets for people like him, not knowing his dad worked
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
A rich kid said I'd end up cleaning
toilets for people like him, not knowing
his dad worked for my mom. I was the
quiet kid in eighth grade whose mom
always said to keep a low profile at
school. She dropped me off a block away
every morning before heading to her
office, and I knew not to mention that
she meant the executive suite of the
biggest company in town. Bruce's dad
worked there, too. Always bragging about
being a regional sales manager. Bruce
had no idea my mom was the one who
signed his dad's paychecks, though, and
because of that, Bruce made me the
target of his bullying. Everything
started on a Tuesday morning in early
October when Bruce knocked my books out
of my hands in the main hallway. While I
knelt down to gather my scattered
papers, he stood there laughing with his
friends. Later that same day, when I
held the door open for him after lunch,
he shoved past and told everyone I was
probably hoping for a tip like a
doorman. By Thursday of that week, he
had progressed to stealing my lunch
money during second period and
announcing loudly that I was too poor to
afford food anyway. Friday afternoon
brought another escalation when he
shoved me into a locker after PE and
made comments about my clothes smelling
like thrift store while the entire
hallway erupted in laughter. The
following week brought even worse
treatment. Every time I raised my hand
during English class on Monday, he
interrupted to call me stupid and wrong.
When test results came back on Wednesday
and I had earned an A, he grabbed my
paper right off my desk and ripped it
into pieces while telling everyone the
teacher probably felt too sorry for me
to give me the F I really deserved.
During lunch periods throughout that
week, his harassment evolved from simply
knocking over my tray to something more
humiliating. He would grab my sandwich
from my reused grocery bag, take a
dramatic bite, and spit it out while
declaring it was welfare food and
mystery meat before throwing everything
in the trash. On a particularly bad
Thursday, I tried a different approach
and offered him my chips, thinking maybe
kindness would work. He knocked them out
of my hand and ground them into the
cafeteria floor with his heel while
explaining that he didn't want to catch
whatever diseases poor people carry. The
entire cafeteria watched in silence as
he made me clean up the mess with my
bare hands. Physical education class
became my daily nightmare after that. He
would wait until I was changing clothes,
then grab everything I owned and throw
it all in the shower, leaving me
standing there in my underwear. While I
tried to retrieve my soaked clothes, he
would loudly describe to the entire
locker room how skinny and malnourished
I looked from eating dollar store food.
The harassment reached new levels the
day he found my phone with its cracked
screen in early November. He picked it
up and called it ancient junk, then
explained that his dad had told him poor
people always have broken phones because
they can't take care of anything. He
threw it on the ground and stomped on it
repeatedly until the screen went
completely black and the phone wouldn't
turn on anymore. When I wore the same
jacket three days in a row because my
other one was still drying from being
thrown in the shower, he started a rumor
that I only owned one set of clothes. He
would make gagging sounds whenever I
walked past in the hallways and hold his
nose while telling everyone I hadn't
changed my underwear in a week. Career
day arrived in mid- November, and Bruce
had spent the entire week telling
everyone how his dad was going to
present about being successful in
business. The morning of the
presentations, he cornered me in the
bathroom and pushed my head toward the
toilet while his friends held the door
shut. He kept my face inches from the
water and told me I better get used to
cleaning toilets for rich people like
him. His dad went first during the
presentations, strutting around the
classroom talking about sales figures
and leadership while mentioning three
times that he worked for the most
successful company in the state. Then
the classroom door opened and my mom
walked in. Bruce's dad stopped
mid-sentence when he saw her, and his
confident expression transformed into
pure terror within seconds. His hands
shook so badly that he dropped all his
presentation notes while sweat soaked
through his cheap shirt. My mom calmly
told Johnson to finish up and said they
would discuss his quarterly review
afterward. Bruce's smirk disappeared
instantly as his face turned white as
paper, and when someone whispered who
she was, he stared at me with his mouth
hanging open in horror. His whole body
started trembling as he finally
understood that he had spent months
tormenting his dad's boss's kid. After
class ended, Bruce tried to stammer out
an apology, but couldn't even form
complete words. His dad had to formally
apologize to my mom while Bruce stood
there looking like he might throw up at
any moment. Within a week, Bruce had
transferred to a private school across
town, and his dad got demoted to a
different branch in another
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 369091,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
kEwiUwx0XzI
|
Idea: The Korean nail salon mocked me in their language not knowing I understood every word
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
The Korean nail salon mocked me in their
language, not knowing I understood every
word. The Korean nail salon mocked me in
their language, not knowing I understood
every word. I'd been going to the same
Korean nail salon every two weeks for a
year. Minjang always did my nails with
that practice smile that never reached
her eyes. "Welcome back, honey," she'd
say, already pulling out my usual basic
polish. She'd chat in English while
filing, then switched to rapid Korean
with her co-workers. "What Minjong
didn't know? I understood every word. My
mother taught me Korean from birth, but
I look exactly like my black father.
People see me and never guess I speak
their language." After years of shocked
reactions, sometimes it's easier to just
smile and nod. I was settling in when
Ming Jung turned to the new girl and
commented in Korean about my fingers
getting chubbier like little sausages,
she said. The new girl giggled and
glanced at me, my jaw tightened. Another
technician joined in, observing how I
made the chair look small. They laughed
together while M Jung suggested charging
me extra for equipment stress. She
pressed harder than necessary while
pushing back my cuticles. I didn't
flinch. Then they started comparing me
to other customers and taking photos of
my hands. M Jung announced I was
definitely their worst dressed regular.
She pointed out dark spots on my
knuckles to new employees. She explained
in Korean it was for the group chat
because the others would die laughing at
how ashy I was. After taking photos, she
made a show of using excessive hand
sanitizer. She pumped it three times and
rubbed her hands dramatically. The other
snickered while one pretended to open
windows for fresh air. Another waved a
magazine like a fan near my direction.
The mockery shifted when they saw my
anxiety medication in my purse. Minjang
announced triumphantly in Korean that I
was on crazy pills. She said it
explained everything about me being both
crazy and ugly. She spoke louder now
while making circular motions near her
temple. The whole salon erupted in
laughter. Other customers looked over
but didn't understand. Another
technician added that no man would
willingly touch hands like mine. Minjang
agreed I probably hadn't been touched in
years. That's why she seemed so
desperate for contact during manicures.
They made vulgar gestures behind my back
reflected in the mirror. One mimicked
groping motions while another pretended
to vomit. As the appointment went on,
they weren't even pretending I was human
anymore. M Jung started referring to me
as it when talking to other customers.
She'd tell them she had to finish with
this thing first. A Korean customer
nodded sympathetically. The manager
suggested charging me a contamination
fee. Minjang would announce she felt
dirty after touching it while scrubbing
her hands. She used the rough side of
the file on my natural nails. She
started using old files and chipped
tools on me. The new polish bottles she
used for others stayed closed for me.
The worst part came when Minjang noticed
my mother's ring. She announced that
pathetic ring I always clutched was
probably from a dollar store. Another
technician suggested I'd stolen it from
someone who died. Someone added, "My
mother probably abandoned me for being
so ugly." They created an entire story
about my imaginary deadbeat family. Each
edition was cruer than the last. The
worst part was when they started making
fun of my mother's death. Minjong
practically shouted in Korean across the
salon about one less generation of
ugliness in the world. Her co-orker
added that the mother probably killed
herself after seeing what she created.
Other employees stopped their work to
laugh. Ming Jung laughed so hard she had
to stop doing my nails. Tears streamed
down her face from laughing. Death was a
relief from having that as a daughter.
My phone rang at that moment. The
university's number flashed on screen. I
looked at the caller ID and decided this
was it. "Yes, this is Professor Prescott
from the Korean studies department." I
answered in perfect Korean. The salon
went completely silent. Someone dropped
a bottle of polish that shattered on the
floor. Pink polish spread across the
white tiles like spilled blood. I looked
directly at Minjong, whose face had
drained of color. Still in Korean, I
explained my mother died alone because
people like them made her feel too
Korean for America, too American for
Korea. I let the words hang in the air.
Minj's hands shook violently. The new
girl covered her mouth. Another
technician backed away. I placed exact
change on the counter. No tip. Keep the
tips. They were my mother's way of
teaching me kindness doesn't require
reciprocation, but I'm done funding your
cruelty.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 437001,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
AWB9fMrm09s
|
Idea: When did the last person you expected come to your rescue?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
When did the last person you expected
come to your rescue? On the night of my
wedding, when I was supposed to undergo
our horrific community ritual, the
sacred claiming. In my community, every
bride was expected to spend her wedding
night being broken in by the village
elders because they said virgins belong
to the community before they belong to
their husbands. Elder Elias was our
disgusting 70-year-old leader who
claimed God spoke directly through him
and controlled everything in our
isolated religious settlement. My
parents worshiped him, and whenever he
visited our house, mom would practically
gravel at his feet. "Your daughter has
such pure eyes," he told my parents when
I was 13, running his wrinkled fingers
through my hair while I tried not to
vomit. "He'll make a perfect offering
when the time comes." When I turned 18,
Elder Elias knocked on our door at 6:00
in the morning with a massive grin on
his face. "Congratulations," he
announced to my parents. "I've selected
young Levi as your daughter's husband,
and the ceremony will be next month." My
mother started crying tears of joy while
my father shook Elias's hand repeatedly,
but I felt my stomach drop because I
knew what came next. Elder Elias pulled
me aside and his eyes lit up. "Now, let
me explain your sacred duties as a
bride," he said, licking his lips.
"Before your husband can touch you, all
12 elders will spend your wedding night
preparing your body for marriage." I
stared at him in horror while he
described what each elder would do to
me, how they would strip me bare and
housebreak me into the perfect lover for
my new husband. You should feel honored,
he whispered. Because God has chosen
you. The next month was pure
psychological torture as I watched my
mother plan my wedding while I counted
down the days to my assault. I started
sobbing every time someone mentioned the
ceremony and I would lie awake at night
thinking about the other brides in our
community who came back from their
wedding nights looking like zombies. My
mother tried to comfort me. The pain
only lasts a few hours, she said. But
the spiritual benefits last forever. One
day at dinner, I overheard Elder Elias
talking to the other elders. This is the
most beautiful bride we've had in years,
he was saying practically drooling. I
can't wait to break her in properly
tomorrow night. I imagine that wrinkled
mouth on my body, and I knew I couldn't
go through with this. So that night, I
packed a small bag and escaped through
the community gates. I made it past the
guards and to the main road, where I
flagged down a truck driver who took me
to the nearest town. For three
incredible days, I stayed in a women's
shelter and felt what freedom was like
for the first time in my life. I could
eat what I wanted, sleep without fear,
and nobody was planning to assault me.
But then, Elder Elias showed up at the
shelter, claiming I was his mentally ill
daughter who had run away from home. He
had faked medical documents saying I was
delusional and needed to return for
treatment. The shelter workers believed
him because he seemed so concerned and
fatherly, and they helped load me into
his van despite my screaming protests.
When we got back to my parents house, I
was still fighting. I would rather die
than let you animals touch me. I
screamed. My mother slapped me across
the face so hard the whole world spun.
Elder Elias was furious that I had dared
to defy their sacred tradition. So, he
decided to make an example of me. Since
you tried to run away from your divine
calling, he announced with a sick smile.
You'll now spend an entire week with the
elders, and your wedding ceremony will
be performed publicly so everyone can
witness your submission. They locked me
in the community prayer house, and the
elders took turns visiting me to explain
exactly what they plan to do. But right
when I felt like all hope was lost,
someone came to my rescue, Levi, my
intended husband. He came to the window
of the prayer house the night before we
were supposed to be married, and he was
shaking. I just found out what the
sacred claiming actually is, and I'm
horrified," he said. His family had
moved to our community when he was 12,
so he had never witnessed the ritual
firsthand, and genuinely believed it was
just a blessing ceremony. "I heard Elder
Elias and the others talking about what
they're going to do to you," he said,
"And I can't let this happen. I'm
bringing the police here tomorrow night
to catch them in the act." The next
evening, just as Elder Elias was
entering the prayer house with two other
elders for my first night of
preparation, police burst through the
doors with guns drawn. Levi had led them
straight to the scene, and they caught
Elder Elias in the act of unlocking my
cell while describing what he planned to
do to me. Our entire religious
settlement was disbanded, and I watched
Elder Elias get dragged away in
handcuffs while he screamed that we were
all going to hell. Levi testified
alongside me. I escaped that hell, but I
lost everything else in the process. My
parents disowned me for destroying our
sacred way of life, and I'm now
completely alone with no family or
community. I still have nightmares about
what would have happened if Levi hadn't
overheard the plan and had a conscience.
And I struggle with trusting men because
of what those monsters taught me.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 1123904,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
KzXb4sfBaLQ
|
Idea: The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 1057017,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
i2K8OljlkYQ
|
Idea: My neighbor called the cops on the entire neighborhood, So I let her call the cops on herself.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Neil",
"views": 231044,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
QoO3JMB2U_M
|
Idea: My Best Friend Stole Every Detail of My Life for Eight Years,
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 29571,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
-Y0rsgfHVjY
|
Idea: My cousin said I was a loser until he realized I owned his company.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My cousin said I was a loser until he
realized I owned his company. I was
sitting at my family's barbecue eating
my burger and minding my own business.
My relatives always saw me as the guy
who did computer stuff all day instead
of having a real job. They had no idea I
actually owned a software company that
I'd built from nothing over the past 8
years. We specialized in productivity
tools for large corporations and had
just acquired a major firm 3 months ago.
Brad settled into his usual routine,
looking me up and down with obvious
disgust. He gestured at my faded clothes
while adjusting his expensive watch,
lecturing me about how I needed to dress
like an adult instead of shopping at
thrift stores. He said people would
never take me seriously looking like a
teenager. My jaw clenched, but I stayed
quiet. The family nodded along like he
was delivering profound wisdom. My aunt
chimed in about how I couldn't live off
my parents forever while most people my
age had real careers. She turned to Brad
with admiration, asking about his
promotion. Brad's chest puffed out as he
launched into his success story, then
pivoted to complaining about his new
management. The company had been
acquired by some tech startup and the
new CEO was a complete joke. He called
the guy a 20some who probably learned
business from YouTube videos. My uncle
leaned forward with interest as Brad
explained how the CEO never showed up to
meetings, probably too busy playing
video games in his mom's basement to
actually run a company. He looked
directly at me with a knowing smirk. My
face burned, but I kept my expression
neutral. Brad continued warming to his
audience, explaining how this CEO
probably made decisions based on Tik Tok
trends. He said, "These startup kids
thought they were geniuses, but didn't
understand real business, probably
burning through investor money on fancy
coffee and ping- pong tables." My aunt
laughed about how at least Brad had
actual skills, unlike these computer
nerds who thought clicking buttons all
day made them entrepreneurs. Brad
explained how the CEO probably couldn't
even afford a real office, betting he
was running the whole company from some
cramped apartment, eating ramen noodles
and pretending he was Steve Jobs. I
gritted my teeth as the attacks got more
personal. My uncle joined in about how
these tech bros were what was wrong with
America, thinking playing on the
internet was a real job. Brad leaned
back smuggly, explaining how he'd been
doing the actual work while this CEO
took credit for everything. The guy
probably didn't even know how to read a
financial statement, just another
basement dweller who got lucky. My hands
trembled slightly as I set down my
burger. Brad noticed and smirked. He
reached over and grabbed my burger,
taking a big bite while explaining how
this CEO was so incompetent, he probably
couldn't even run his own life, let
alone a company. He chewed my food while
speculating that the guy had never even
been on a real date, asking what woman
would want to be with some loser who
played video games all day. The family
erupted in laughter. My aunt wiped tears
from her eyes as Brad continued his
performance. He kept talking about how
pathetic it would be to live in your
parents' basement with no real job, no
girlfriend, no future, just sitting
there in pajamas thinking you were
important. He tossed the rest of my
burger in the trash, explaining how the
company would probably fail within 6
months because the leadership was so
weak. He was already looking for a new
job before this ran everything
into the ground. My chest burned as I
watched him wipe his hands on a napkin.
He pointed at me with a condescending
smile. This is why you need to get
serious about your life before you end
up like these fake entrepreneurs who
think they're hot stuff but actually
know nothing. I pulled out my phone and
opened my email. I scrolled until I
found the acquisition announcement from
3 months ago and turned the screen
toward Brad. His face went white as he
read the email from me to all employees,
welcoming his former company to our
organization. My signature sat at the
bottom with my title as CEO and founder.
Wait, that's not possible, he whispered,
his voice cracking. I shrugged. I
founded the company 7 years ago. We
acquired your firm in March. The
backyard went dead silent. Brad stared
at the phone like it might explode.
You're telling me you're my boss? I
nodded. Have been for 3 months. I've
been reading your performance reviews.
His face cycled through five different
colors. He started stuttering apologies,
but I cut him off, telling him not to
worry about it, and that he was actually
doing great work. My aunt's mouth hung
open, asking if I really owned a
company. I explained that I owned the
company that owned Brad's company, about
200 employees now. Brad looked like he
wanted to disappear.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 158288,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
l1PsHtsvC20
|
Idea: What made you wish Twilight had never been written?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What made you wish Twilight had never
been written? For as long as I could
remember, my friend Tina had been
insecure about being pale. The boys at
school constantly teased her, saying she
looked sickly and called her Casper. She
wore hoodies, even in 95 degree weather
to avoid getting bullied. I felt
terrible watching her suffer. But the
week she discovered Twilight, everything
changed. She walked into class with bare
arms for the first time in years,
quoting from the book, "My skin's like
marble, pale, and perfect." Everyone was
shocked except me. I was just happy
she'd found something that made her feel
powerful instead of pathetic. At first,
Tina's vampire things seemed like
typical teenage fandom. She'd come over
with the books, reading her favorite
passages out loud and giggling. Edward
Cullen is so dreamy. She'd mix glitter
with sunscreen so both of our skins
would look like thousands of tiny
diamonds embedded, just like in the
series. Our parents thought it was
sweet. When Tina started wearing those
amber contacts to school, even the
counselor was supportive, saying
whatever helps her confidence. The boys
who used to call her Casper now moved
out of her way in the halls, looking
completely intimidated by her
confidence. Her parents bought her the
whole book collection for Christmas and
the Blu-ray disc of the first movie for
her birthday. We were all thrilled at
how much she thrived. Things got out of
hand after spring break. Tina pulled me
aside and opened her mouth. Her canines
had been filed into points like actual
fangs. I gasped. She ran her tongue over
them proudly. Cool, huh? They're
permanent. I'll show you something else
after school. At her house, Tina dragged
me to the kitchen and drained blood from
raw meat into a glass. She drank it down
while I watched in horror. Want some?
She asked, holding the glass for my
face. I threw up in the sink while she
laughed. Yeah, I was like that too at
first, but it's actually not that bad.
Before she could pressure me again, her
mom marched in fuming red and waving a
credit card statement. "$3,000. Are you
serious, Tina? That card was for
emergencies only." Tina shrugged and
lied calmly. "It's just teeth
whitening." Her mom grabbed her face,
forcing her mouth open. She saw the
fangs and froze. Tina pulled back,
glaring. "Do you want me to be bullied
again?" After a long silence, Tina
hugged her mom and said, "I'm sorry. I
just wanted to be beautiful like the
vampires in Twilight." Once her mom
walked away defeated, I grabbed Tina's
wrist and said sternly, "You're going
too far. This isn't right." She frowned
and told me to leave, completely
unwilling to hear me out. After
everything that happened, I avoided Tina
at school. But on Friday, she walked
over after class, begging to be friends
again. "Please, like old times, I've
been avoiding her for weeks, so I
caved." Later that day, while we were
watching a clips in my room, she
suddenly stood up during her favorite
scene and said, "Don't pause it. I just
need the bathroom." But instead of
making a left, she turned down the hall
toward my 8-year-old brother's room. I
got up and followed, pushing the door
open to see what was going on. The
dinosaur nightlight cast shadows on the
worst thing I've ever seen. Tina had
Justin pinned to his race car bed, her
mouth clamped on his neck, not playing.
Feeding. This wet rhythmic sucking sound
filled the room. I stood there
paralyzed, watching while the blood ran
from under her lips, soaking his Pokemon
pajamas, pooling on his face themed
sheets. Justin's eyes were huge with
terror, tears streaming as his small
hands pushed weakly at her face. Sh. She
whispered between swallows. The burn
means it's working. You're so lucky. I
screamed for help and stumbled in to
switch on the lights. Tina's head jerked
up. Blood covered her chin. Her contacts
reflected like a predator's eyes. Don't
interrupt, she hissed. I can taste his
innocence. It's exactly like the book
said. Sweet and addicting. Justin made
this horrible choking sound. I grabbed
her hair, yanking hard, but she was
impossibly strong. He just needs to die
first, then he'll wake up perfect. My
parents crashed through the door,
yelling curse words when they saw the
sight. Dad ripped her off while she
fought like something possessed. You're
ruining it, she screamed. Justin's blood
spraying from her mouth. Mom pressed
towels to Justin's neck while sobbing
hysterically. The white cloth turned red
instantly. Call 911, she screamed. Tina
tried to lunge past D. Let me finish.
He's already half turned. Can't you
smell how his blood's changing? Dad
pinned her down while she thrashed. His
thoughts are in my head now, she moaned,
licking the blood from her lips. He's
scared, but he understands. He wants to
live forever as my Edward. Dad held her
down until the EMTs arrived. When they
got careless, she bit one of them too,
screaming about spreading the gift. They
had to sedate her twice before taking
her away. They took Tina to the state
psychiatric hospital. Justin needed
stitches and one liter of transfusions.
He eventually stabilized but left the
hospital traumatized. Two years have
passed since then, but he still sleeps
with every light on. The puncture scars
on his neck look exactly like fang marks
haunting our family. I visited Tina once
a year later. She smiled with those
pointy teeth and whispered, "Has my
Edward? Has he taken his first victim?"
When I said he wasn't a vampire, she
laughed. The change takes years for
children. Tell him wait.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 2644943,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
KzXb4sfBaLQ
|
Idea: The TSA agent who mistreated me didn't know I was supposed to save his job.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 1057017,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
TzsoXZaFdeo
|
Idea: What made you call the police on your own mother?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 1390355,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
dJigaUUHuKg
|
Idea: When did your parents use you for money?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
When did your parents use you for money?
What's the most twisted thing your
family ever did to you? When I was 17,
my parents threw me a beautiful funeral
service. The only problem was that I was
very much alive. My parents had always
been obsessed with money in the most
disgusting ways possible. They'd take
out credit cards and dead relatives
names, steal packages from neighbors
porches, and constantly claim products
were defective or damaged so we could
get money back. When I turned 16, they
took out a massive life insurance policy
on me worth half a million dollars,
telling me it was just in case something
happened. They made me sign papers I
didn't understand, and kept talking
about how I was their most valuable
asset. The plan was simple and
horrifying. They were going to fake my
death, collect the insurance money, and
keep me hidden until the investigation
was over. They've been planning it for
months, setting up fake medical records
showing I had a terminal illness,
bribing a corrupt funeral director, and
even arranging for a closed casket
filled with weights. They told me if I
didn't cooperate, they'd make my death
very real and very painful. Living as a
dead person was absolute hell. They
moved me to a basement apartment in a
building they owned across town, where I
was basically their prisoner. They
attached me to the wall with a long
chain so I could get around the
apartment. But I had no hope of getting
out. I couldn't go outside, couldn't
contact anyone I knew. Couldn't even
order food. My parents would visit once
a week to bring groceries and remind me
that if saw me alive, we'd all go to
prison for insurance fraud. Even if I
could have broken free, they'd taken my
phone, my ID, my social security card,
everything that proved I was a real
person. The worst part was that I could
see my old school from the one window in
my apartment. And every day, I watched
my old classmates work on building a
memorial garden in my honor. I wanted
more than anything to break free and run
to my old friends and tell them I was
still alive. But I knew that my parents
threats were legit. Meanwhile, they'd
started a GoFundMe from my end of life
expenses that raised thousands of
dollars from people who actually cared
about me. They came in cracking up one
day, telling me my girlfriend had just
given them $200. After 6 months of this
nightmare, I couldn't take it anymore.
I'd been working on loosening one of the
bolts that held my chain to the wall,
and I finally managed to break free. I
made it to the window and started
screaming as loud as I could, "Help me!
I'm alive. My parents faked my death." I
could see people on the street looking
up, and for a moment, I thought someone
might actually help me. Someone even
came to the building's front door and
started asking questions. I felt this
incredible rush of hope that finally
someone would realize I was really alive
and this nightmare would be over. But my
parents had planned for this, too. They
showed up and told the building manager
that I was their nephew, who was having
a psychotic break and was obsessed with
their dead son. They showed fake medical
documents saying I was schizophrenic and
dangerous, and the manager actually
helped lock me back up. After that, I
was given no leeway at all. They'd go
weeks at a time without a grocery drop
off, and I truly thought I was going to
die there. But then 2 months later, they
came in with a very different energy.
They'd gotten the insurance payout and
were ready to move to another state. But
in light of my recent behavior, keeping
me alive had become too risky. Mom
looked me dead in the eyes and said with
a smile, "You're worth more to us dead
than alive, and frankly, we're tired of
pretending otherwise." They brought a
bottle of pills and said, "At least
it'll be painless." Dad grabbed my arms
while mom tried to force the pills down
my throat. When I fought back, Dad
slammed my head against the wall and
snarled. "We should have done this
months ago instead of wasting money
keeping you fed. Mom was laughing as she
tried to pry my mouth open, saying,
"Just think, in a few hours, we'll be
grieving our poor son who's technically
been dead for almost a year. They
brought a bottle of pills to actually
kill me since no one would ever look for
someone who was already dead. When I
fought back, Dad slammed my head against
the wall and snarled. We should have
done this months ago instead of wasting
money keeping you fed." But just as my
vision was going black, the door burst
open. It was the police, and with them
was my girlfriend, the same one who'd
donated $200 months before, who I'd seen
working in the community garden every
day. That's where she'd been when she'd
noticed my parents returning to this
apartment week after week. She'd been
tailing them ever since, and finally
convinced the police to investigate just
in time. My parents were convicted of
insurance fraud and attempted murder.
I'm now 21 and still with my absolute
hero of a girlfriend. But I struggle
with the fact that for 8 months I was
legally dead and no one believed I
existed. Sometimes I catch myself
checking my reflection just to make sure
I'm really
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 517551,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
bYBP9rMEa0U
|
Idea: My boyfriend accepted praise for raising my daughter as his own, until I discovered she already was.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Lucis L",
"views": 103126,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
zeAfajyFWmU
|
Idea: My husband's manager think I was just arm candy until he realized I was the one fixing his mistakes.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 145061,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
NdU3DJlkPSs
|
Idea: My Roommates Said I Never Cleaned Anything, So I Left Them with Nothing To Clean.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Neil",
"views": 79446,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
qngdUaHDdmA
|
Idea: My boyfriend's racing buddies said women don’t belong on the track, I hold the track record.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 452075,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
xr1RYo7sIgg
|
Idea: When did the cat lady ACTUALLY turn out crazy?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 118554,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
MANu4csQvrY
|
Idea: I put their relationship to bed.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My upstairs neighbor's affair kept me
awake for months, so I put their
relationship to bed. Every night at 2
am, my apartment turned into an
involuntary SX education class, complete
with surround sound and ceiling
vibrations. Courtney was 22, worked at
Hooters, and thought 2 p.m. on a Tuesday
was the perfect time to drag a keg up
the stairs. "Just a small get together,"
she chirped with her fake eyelashes,
practically scraping her eyebrows. "That
small get together turned into a rager
that lasted until 5:00 a.m. I know
because I counted every hour while lying
in bed. Music pounding through the floor
so loud my lamp was dancing on the
nightstand. Then there was the morning I
stepped into my shower and got hit with
a cloud of Ganja smoke so thick I could
taste. It came straight through the vent
like she was hotboxing directly into my
bathroom. But the last straw, when she
passed out in her tub after a night of
partying and flooded my apartment, I
woke up to water dripping through my
ceiling at 5:00 a.m. like a cursed
waterfall. The water stain still looks
like Florida if you squint hard enough.
I tried being reasonable. I left polite
notes and knocked on her door for a
friendly chat, but she called me uptight
and suggested I try some meditation
apps. The landlord was useless, too.
Young people will be young people, he
said. Then the nightly hookup marathons
began. Every single night at 11:00 p.m.,
2:00 a.m., sometimes 4:00 a.m., with her
headboard slamming against the wall like
someone hammering nails into my sanity.
The theatrical moaning sounded like she
was auditioning for a role she'd never
get. The worst part was how they'd
respond when I grabbed my broom and
slammed it against the ceiling. She'd
yell, "Sorry," and then they'd both
burst out laughing before going right
back at it even louder. Three weeks of
this and my work was suffering. I looked
like an extra from The Walking Dead. One
night at 2 a.m., I snapped and stormed
upstairs to pound on her door. And
that's when a man answered in his
boxers, "Older, maybe late 30s, trying
to look dignified while half naked. Can
you please keep it down?" I said, he
smiled. This cold little smile that made
my skin crawl. Maybe you should invest
in better headphones, sweetheart. The
door shut in my face, and that's when I
saw it. The wedding ring on his left
hand catching the hallway light like a
beacon. I stood there for a second
processing. Then I smiled. If she wanted
to screw around with married men, she
was about to find out. The next morning,
I texted my friend Derek from college,
who was a cop now, and owed me a favor
from when I helped him pass statistics.
Hey, need you to run a plate for me. 20
minutes later, I had a name, Dr. Michael
Richardson. A quick Google search
revealed he was an English literature
professor at her university, married
with two kids. Facebook was a gold mine
with family vacation photos and
anniversary posts showing his wife Betty
looking happy and clueless. His
university bio mentioned he taught
introduction to modern fiction. Guess
who was probably in that class? I
created a throwaway email because it was
time to compose. Thursday night, they
were especially loud. Perfect timing. I
sent two emails. First to Betty
Richardson, "Your husband has been
visiting my building regularly. Condo
address attached. Unit 4B, late nights,
his car." followed by photos I'd taken
of his BMW in our lot with timestamps
included. Second email went to the
university's ethics department concerned
about inappropriate relationship between
Dr. Richardson and student Courtney
Martinez. Unit 4B along with the same
timestamped photos showing his car here
at 2 a.m. 3:00 a.m. 4:00 a.m. on school
nights. Send. Send. Friday night brought
silence with no BMW in the parking lot.
Saturday afternoon, I heard shouting
from upstairs with things being thrown
and Courtney screaming about her future.
Sunday was even better when her parents
showed up and I could hear her mom
through the floor. How could you be so
stupid? By Tuesday, local news picked it
up. University professor suspended amid
multiple student relations, grade
manipulation scandal. Turns out Courtney
wasn't his first extracurricular
activity, just his loudest. Courtney
lasted two more weeks. I'd hear her
crying at night quietly for once. Then
her parents came back with a U-Haul
after she'd been suspended pending
investigation. The professor, he lost
his tenure and his marriage while facing
potential criminal charges for abuse of
power. According to the news, the
university found a pattern going back
years and other students came forward.
My new upstairs neighbor moved in last
month. Her name's Margaret and she's a
librarian who goes to bed at 9:00 p.m.
Sometimes I don't even remember she's
there. I sleep like a baby now with a
full 8 hours every night. Sweet dreams,
Courtney, wherever you
|
{
"writer": "Lucis L",
"views": 219800,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
bYBP9rMEa0U
|
Idea: My boyfriend accepted praise for raising my daughter as his own, until I discovered she already was.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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
|
{
"writer": "Lucis L",
"views": 103126,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
ImcN3RKRZlA
|
Idea: When did you realize your family’s medical beliefs were dangerous?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 117189,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
tqXOk1iPztY
|
Idea: What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 639768,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
TzsoXZaFdeo
|
Idea: What made you call the police on your own mother?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 1390355,
"is_viral": 1
}
|
lGHhzWM3sgE
|
Idea: My ex turned our intimacy into ammunition, until I showed everyone what was in his arsenal.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My ex turned our intimacy into
ammunition until I showed everyone what
was in his arsenal. I was 24 when I
learned that love could be weaponized
against you. It wasn't just the betrayal
that hurt. It was realizing that every
intimate moment we shared had been
ammunition he was storing for later. It
started with Julian, my boyfriend of 2
years. He was the one who made me feel
safe enough to be vulnerable. He worked
at a prestigious tech startup, always
talking about innovation and ethics. He
documented everything about us. Said he
wanted to capture every memory. I
thought it was romantic, but 3 weeks
after I broke up with him for cheating,
my co-orker Rachel pulled me aside. She
looked sick, kept glancing around the
office. You need to see this, she
whispered. She handed me her phone.
There I was on a revenge corn site.
Photos I trusted him with plastered
everywhere with my full name and
workplace. The room tilted. People were
staring. My boss called me into her
office an hour later. Someone had
emailed HR the links. They put me on
administrative leave while they
investigated. I sat in my car in the
parking lot, numb. The site had fake
stories about me, crude comments, my
contact information. I'd become a thing
for strangers to consume. The police
said they couldn't help since the site
was overseas. That night, I got a text
from a mutual friend. Julian was
bragging at a bar about his upcoming
presentation on digital privacy and
ethics. That's when I snapped. He
destroyed my privacy while preparing to
preach about protecting it. I decided
he'd learn what consequences meant.
Julian had forgotten about our shared
cloud account from when we lived
together. I still had access. I started
digging through his files that night. I
found folders labeled with women's
names, photos of his exes, screenshots
of group chats where he bragged about
his collection. He'd raided us, shared
intimate details, talked about us like
trophies. Five other women were named in
those chats. I found their social media
profiles and reached out anonymously.
Within days, I heard back from all of
them. They'd found their photos online,
too. We formed a group chat, sharing our
stories. Julian had done this to every
woman he dated. We compared timelines,
patterns, tactics. One woman, Kate, was
a lawyer. She helped us organize our
evidence. Another, Harper, worked in PR.
She knew exactly how to package our
story. We spent two weeks preparing,
gathering screenshots, documenting
everything. The night before his TechCon
presentation, we were ready. I sent an
anonymous email to every registered
attendee at 11 p.m. The subject line
read, "Your digital ethics speaker has
something to hide." Attached were
screenshots of his group chats, "The
revenge corn links, testimonies from six
women." I made sure his CEO and the
entire executive team were on the email.
Then I waited. The next morning, Julian
walked into that conference room at the
Marriott downtown. I know because Kate
was there. Bad and all, sitting in the
third row. She texted our group in real
time. Julian strutdded in wearing his
usual uniform, designer jeans and a
blazer, AirPods in like always. He
pulled them out when he saw the room.
Every seat had papers on them. His face
changed. Kate said he picked up one of
the printouts, his hand shaking
slightly. It was a screenshot of him in
the group chat. Added another one to the
collection, boys. This one's a seven.
five, but she does anything I want with
my photo attached. The CEO of his
company stood up from the front ill, we
need to talk. Julian tried to play it
cool. Sat down his laptop bag slowly.
What's this about? He asked, voice
pitched too high. The head of HR held up
another printout. Is this you discussing
how you secretly record intimate
moments? Julian's mouth opened and
closed. Kate said he looked like a fish
gasping for air. He tried deflecting.
This is taken out of context. Someone's
trying to sabotage me. Then Harper stood
up from the back. Hi, Julian. Remember
me? His face went white. Another woman
stood up, too. How about me? Then Kate.
Context. Let's talk about context. The
CEO read from his phone. Just bagged the
brunette from marketing. Already got the
photos backed up in she tries anything.
He looked up at Julian. That brunette
filed a police report yesterday. So did
five other women. Julian started backing
toward the door, but two security guards
were already there. He tried one more
time, switching to victim mode. This is
a witch hunt. These women are just
bitter exes trying to ruin me. The CEO
shook his head. Clear out your desk.
We'll mail you your things. The word
spread through the company like
wildfire. By the end of the day,
everyone at every major startup had
heard. His company sent out an internal
memo denouncing his actions. Other women
started coming forward in our group
chat. Turns out we weren't the only
ones. By the end of the week, 12 women
had shared their stories. The conference
banned him permanently. His professional
network disappeared overnight. He tried
reaching out to industry contacts, but
no one would return his calls. The
lawsuit started rolling in. Last month,
I saw him at a phone repair kiosk in the
mall. He was helping some teenager fix a
cracked screen, wearing a uniform polo
with a name tag. He saw me and quickly
looked down, but not before I caught the
look in his eyes. He was angry, bitter,
like somehow this was everyone else's
fault but his. He'd wanted to expose and
humiliate me. Now everyone knows exactly
who he
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 146050,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
tqXOk1iPztY
|
Idea: What made the smartest kid in school snap during senior year?
Structure: Obsession
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Shannen Santiago",
"views": 639768,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
_uYicEXMI8o
|
Idea: My family forced me to marry my dead mother’s husband.
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My family forced me to marry my dead
mother's husband. They said it was my
spiritual duty because leaving
defenseless men without a woman to take
care of them is a mortal sin. My
stepfather, Rick, was the most
disgusting human being I'd ever
encountered. My mother had married him
when I was 12 years old, and from day
one, Rick would walk around our house in
his underwear making crude comments
about my developing body while demanding
that mom and I clean up after him like
personal servants. He never worked a day
in his life, spending his time drinking
beer and harassing people online while
mom worked double shifts to support his
lifestyle. Whenever I tried to talk to
her about him, she just sigh and say,
"That's just how men are, Katie." When
mom got diagnosed with cancer, Rick
immediately started talking about how
I'd need to step up and take care of the
household while she was sick. I thought
he meant extra chores, but it was my
grandmother who spelled it out for me.
Obviously, you'll have to marry Rick so
he won't be alone when your mother's
gone. At first, I thought it was some
kind of sick joke. Then I found out that
my grandmother herself had to do the
exact same thing when her mother passed.
"It's our duty," she explained. Men are
feeble. Only a monster would leave a man
without a wave to take care of him. "Are
you a monster, Katie?" The day my mother
died, I was 17 and still processing my
grief when my grandmother announced that
the wedding would happen within the
month. She reminded the whole family
that abandoning Rick would be like
murdering him slowly through neglect.
Rick sat there grinning while she
detailed how I would move into mom's
bedroom immediately and begin fulfilling
all her wely duties, including cooking,
cleaning, and providing him with
physical companionship. Rick cornered me
when I was on the way to the bathroom to
be sick and whispered that he was
looking forward to teaching me
everything mom had learned about keeping
him satisfied. My family had already
planned the ceremony and purchased a
wedding dress in my size, treating my
horror and revulsion as typical
pre-wedding jitters that would pass once
I accepted my sacred duty. Rick kept
telling everyone how excited he was to
have such a young and fresh wife, and my
relatives praised him for being patient
enough to wait until the wedding night
to claim me. I spent every night
throwing up from anxiety while Rick
would knock on my bedroom door and
remind me that soon there would be no
barriers between us. He would follow me
around the house making disgusting
comments about our upcoming wedding
night and how he was going to break me
in properly, just like he had with my
mother. With the wedding day drawing
closer and no way out in sight, I knew I
had to do something drastic and that me
Rick had to die. I started acting like
the perfect submissive wife to be,
cooking his favorite meals and praising
him constantly. But secretly, I was
mixing bleach into his beer and
antifreeze into his coffee, all while
smiling sweetly and asking if there was
anything else I could do to make him
comfortable. Rick was so thrilled to
have his teenage bride to be waiting on
him that he never suspected I was
literally trying to murder him with
cleaning products and rat poison mixed
into everything he ate or drank every
single day. But Rick eventually realized
what I was doing when he caught me
pouring drain cleaner into his morning
coffee, and he completely lost his mind
with rage. He started screaming about
how I was trying to kill him, and that
he wasn't going to wait for the wedding
ceremony to claim what belonged to him,
grabbing me and trying to drag me into
my mother's bedroom. I fought back as
hard as I could, clinging to every
surface in the kitchen. Pots and pans
came crashing down around me as he tried
to pull me out my hair. And all that
noise was exactly what alerted the
mailman, who had come to deliver a
package and heard Rick screaming about
forcing himself on his 17-year-old
stepdaughter. The mailman was a military
veteran who recognized an assault in
progress and immediately called 911
while Rick was still ranting about his
legal right to write me as his future
wife. When the police arrived, Rick was
so confident in his family's religious
authority that he actually explained the
entire forced marriage tradition to the
officers, bragging about how he was
going to teach me proper submission. The
officers arrested Rick for attempted
sexual assault and several other members
of my family for child endangerment, and
I was placed in a foster home until I
turned 18. I'll never forget that a man
who was supposedly so helpless that he
couldn't survive without a wife was
somehow powerful enough to drag me
through the kitchen kicking and
screaming. My family never saw the irony
in that. They all disowned me and I'm
completely on my own now. I have to
start over from scratch and every day I
realize how much I don't know about the
real world because I was locked in their
twisted reality my whole life. But I'd
rather be alone than be Rick's child
bride.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 417318,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
TAqZMFmBAD4
|
Idea: My immigrant mother groomed me to be invisible, so I became the spotlight that locked her up.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
My immigrant mother groomed me to be
invisible, so I became the spotlight
that locked her up. My mother controlled
every detail of my life from the moment
she birthed me on American soil. And I
don't mean normal immigrant parents
study hard. Make us proud. I mean she
cut my hair herself so no stylist would
remember my face. She made me switch
between three pairs of identical shoes
so I'd never develop a recognizable
walk. I couldn't have more than two
friends because popular children get
more attention. By the time I turned 18,
she had raised an American with perfect
grades, no social media, and no
questions. At 19, I mentioned wanting a
driver's license, and she burned my
birth certificate by accident while
cooking. When I got accepted to
Berkeley, she called them crying about
my mental health crisis until they
deferred my admission. She installed a
GPS tracker in my shoes, then acted hurt
when I found it. Don't you trust your
mother? She started putting melatonin in
my food so I'd be too tired to go out
and said I must be getting sick. When my
girlfriend came over for dinner, mom
served her shrimp knowing she was
allergic, then screamed at me for not
mentioning it, while Macy's face swelled
shut. After that, she changed our locks
daily and only gave me the new key after
I'd proven I deserved it by washing
everyone's clothes by hand. She forged
rejection letters from every job I
applied to. Then comforted me about
being unemployable while booking
mysterious flights. Good news, Miha. I
found you work with a family business.
Just one quick trip to meet your
cousins. She'd already packed my bags,
and that trip is when I discovered why
she was like that. At the airport, mom
kissed my forehead like always. Remember
Miha? You're just visiting your sick
cousin. She sewed the lining on the bags
herself. The TSA pulled me aside at
random. Except it wasn't random. The
dogs were going insane. Miss, we need to
search your luggage. My stomach dropped
as they sliced open the lining and white
powder spilled onto the metal table. 5
kilos. This isn't mine. I screamed, but
mom had already disappeared from the
waiting area. They cuffed me in front of
hundreds of travelers while I sobbed her
name. I got locked up for 2 years. Mom
never visited, never wrote, never even
put money in my commissary, but her
cousin sure came to rub it in my face.
"Your mom is heartbroken. After all the
precautions she took in raising you, you
still ruined her plan. Couldn't you have
been more careful?" So that was it. I
was never her daughter. I was just her
disposable lottery ticket she'd used to
smuggle and get rich. That's when my
tears stopped. As soon as I got out, I'd
show her what disposable really meant.
Two years of prison taught me patience.
When I got out, I played broken and
begged for forgiveness. Cried about
needing family. Mom took me back,
suspicious, but desperate since she
needed money. I'll give you one more
chance, Niha. But this time, you'll do
it right. She scheduled another Columbia
trip and started her routine of packing
my bags. But she didn't know I'd kept my
DEA handler number or that I'd learned
her melatonin schedule for every night.
The night before our flight, I made
dinner while mom supervised my packing.
"You've learned your lesson?" "Yes," she
asked, folding clothes around vacuum
sealed packages. I nodded. The broken
daughter acted perfected. Then I brought
her tea for your nerves, mama. She drank
it without suspecting anything, and
within minutes, the ambient I crushed
inside hit her hard. She slumped over my
suitcase, and I got to work. First, I
opened her carry-on, the one she never
let me touch, and found her vitamin
bottles. I emptied them and filled them
with the white powder I'd scraped from
my own suitcase lining, the one she just
packed. Then, I made sure my suitcase
was clean, and sent my DEA handler a
short and simple text. Mom woke up an
hour later all confused and groggy. I
told her, "You just fell asleep, must
have been exhausted. I already finished
packing." She nodded, fooled by my
perfect daughter act these past few
days, and then went back to sleep. The
next day at airport security, I went
first as always. Clean. Then, mom walked
through and the scanner beeped. Ma'am,
please step aside. Her face went from
calm to panicked when they opened her
vitamin bottles and powder dropped on
the table. I was watching everything
from far away. And my mom turned to look
at me in anger before saying, "Those
aren't mine. My daughter must have." But
an officer interrupted her by tying her
hands behind her back. My DEA handler
was standing right there and explained,
"We already know that your passport is
fake and that you're carrying $20,000
worth of emergency cash. You're under
arrest." The invisible woman suddenly
became the very center of attention. She
screamed my name and then ordered them
to free her because it was all her
daughter's fault. I just turned around
and went to board my flight. You know,
since my bags were already packed. My
mother was deported and locked up for 20
years for grooming a minor into helping
her illegal business and trying to
smuggle items over the border.
|
{
"writer": "Neil",
"views": 652116,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
0AqkUatWEuw
|
Idea: My brother in law mocked me for being a stay at home dad not knowing I bought his company.
Structure: Looked Down Upon
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Antonio Samson",
"views": 137938,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
QyFlIxc97vg
|
Idea: When did your husband’s expectations for your body go way too far?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
When did your husband's expectations for
your body go way too far? My husband
Lars scheduled my first surgery on our
wedding anniversary. And when I woke up
missing two toes, he said, "Happy
anniversary, Diana. Now you'll always
fit in your wedding shoes." Our marriage
had always revolved around his obsession
with perfection. He met me when I was 19
working as a fit model, and he would
tell people that I was anatomically
perfect. Lars would spend hours taking
measurements of my body with a Taylor's
tape, recording numbers in a leather
journal. He made me weigh myself every
morning and would celebrate when the
scale showed the exact same number as
our wedding day. "Other women let
themselves go after marriage," he would
say. "But you're going to stay exactly
as perfect as the day I married you."
When I gained 3 lbs during the holidays,
Lars cried into his pillow for an hour,
then hired a personal trainer who made
me exercise until I collapsed.
Throughout my pregnancy, I managed to
keep him calm by reminding him that any
weight gain would be reversible. But I
wasn't prepared for my feet to grow a
half size and not go back to how they
were. Apparently, it's normal. Something
about your joints relaxing. But Lars was
inconsolable. He found a doctor who
specialized in corrective foot surgery
for dancers. Lars told me that removing
my two smallest toes would restore my
feet to their original size. He
scheduled the surgery without telling me
and said it was just a routine checkup.
But when I woke up and saw my bandaged
feet, I realized what he had done. Don't
be upset, he said when I started crying.
Now they'll always be exactly the same
size as when we got married, and we can
move on to fixing other areas that have
changed. Perfection requires
maintenance. And I'm going to make sure
you never lose what made me fall in love
with you. My feet were deformed and I
couldn't walk more than a few steps
without needing something to cling to
for sport. Taking care of the baby was
almost impossible. But Lars didn't care
about that. All that mattered was that
my shoes fit again. For the next few
months, Lars became increasingly
aggressive about correcting parts of my
body. He scheduled surgeries to remove
sections of my ribs that he said were
expanding my waist measurement. He hired
medical professionals who would perform
procedures in a makeshift operating room
in a lab he rented. When I tried to
refuse the surgeries, Lars would lock me
in the basement while our baby sobbed
upstairs and say, "You're going to thank
me when you're the only woman in the
world who never ages or changes." But
one day, Lars took things too far. He
calmly informed me that he'd noticed
that my left arm was 2 centimeters
longer than my right. He said it was
ruining my symmetry, and he had no
choice but to remove the arm. I boked
asking him how exactly having an arm on
one side but not the other would make me
more symmetrical. He couldn't come up
with an adequate answer and finally he
snapped, "I just don't want you taking
up so much space." Then he showed me
detailed plans for removing various body
parts over the next few years. That's
when I realized that this had nothing to
do with maintaining a perfect figure. He
just wanted me smaller by any means
necessary. When I told him I wouldn't
let him cut off my arm, he said, "You
don't get to make decisions about your
body anymore, Diana. I own you and I'm
going to make you exactly what I want
you to be, even if I have to take you
apart piece by piece." I managed to
escape 2 days later during one of my
medical appointments and went straight
to the police where I showed them my
mutated feet and told them about Lars's
plans. The officers were horrified and
immediately arrested Lars and the
doctors who had been performing illegal
surgeries in our makeshift hospital. I
felt like I could finally take a breath
knowing that no more pieces of my body
would be stolen and that my baby and I
had a shot at freedom. But just when I
thought my nightmare was over, Lars got
out on bail and then he completely lost
control. He showed up at my workplace
with a meat cleaver, screaming, "I'm not
done fixing you yet." He grabbed my hand
and chopped off my ring finger before
security could stop him. Then stood over
me yelling, "Now you can't wear that
wedding ring on your disgusting fat
finger anymore." As I bled on the floor
and writhed in pain. The workplace
attack was witnessed by dozens of people
and recorded on security cameras, giving
prosecutors all the evidence they
needed. Lars was immediately arrested
and charged with assault with a deadly
weapon. And this time there was no bail
and no way for his family's lawyers to
explain away what he had done. The judge
sentenced him to 15 years in prison and
I finally felt safe knowing he couldn't
hurt me anymore. Lars was convicted of
assault, false imprisonment, and medical
fraud while I underwent reconstructive
surgery to repair some of the damage.
I'm now 31 years old and learning to
live with my permanently altered body
while raising my daughter as a single
mother. But I still have nightmares
about waking up with more pieces
missing. And if anyone ever tells her
she's taking up too much space, I can't
be held responsible for how I react.
|
{
"writer": "Hannah Moskowitz",
"views": 83073,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
tH8DJvAXl8U
|
Idea: He Followed Me Everywhere I Went, So I Made Sure He'd Never Follow Anyone Again.
Structure: Payback Revenge
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
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.
|
{
"writer": "Neil",
"views": 108592,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
tsOvSYrZ-sc
|
Idea: What happened to girls who turned 16 in your community?
Structure: Expectations
Persona: UNKNOWN
### Write a short-form script:
|
What happened to girls who turned 16 in
your community? In my religious
community, parents were required to
enter their virgin daughters into the
marriage lottery at 16, where the oldest
men got first pick. I grew up in this
isolated compound watching the spring
lottery happened every year since I
could remember. The elders would line up
girls in white dresses while their
fathers stood to behind them holding
paperwork that signed away their
daughter's lives. Elder Cyrus ran the
whole system at 72 years old and always
got to choose first because he had the
most righteousness points from decades
of donations and service to the
compound. My mother had gone through
this same lottery when she turned 16 and
ended up married to my father who was 27
years older than her. The changes in my
life started when I turned 15 last
winter. My mother began crying at random
moments throughout the day and would
grab my shoulders while apologizing for
things I didn't understand yet. My
father started drinking more of his
homemade wine after evening prayers and
avoided looking at me directly. They
enrolled me in wife training where
Sister Ashley taught us girls how to
cook meals for 20 people and properly
iron men's shirts while practicing
phrases like yes husband over and over
until the words made me feel sick.
Sister Ashley also taught us basic
computer skills for managing household
inventories which she said modern wives
needed to know. Everything became clear
when my friend Amara visited one night
after her husband fell asleep. She had
won her lottery the previous year and
now carried her second baby at just 17
years old. Amara sat on my bed and
explained the whole process that nobody
would tell us beforehand. The men didn't
actually draw names like we thought, but
bid on girls using righteousness points
they earned through donations and
service work. The girl who got the most
points had to marry whoever bid them.
and Elder Cyrus had been saving his
points for four years, specifically
waiting for me to turn 16. The horror
got worse as Amara described what
happened after the selection. After the
selection, they take you to the
consummation chamber that same night,
where an elder witnesses to verify the
marriage is binding. Her hands shook as
she spoke, and I felt my stomach turn.
She explained how the witness sat in the
corner reading scripture while the
marriage was consummated to make sure it
couldn't be an old lady later. 2 weeks
before my 16th birthday, the preparation
intensified. They took me to the purity
confirmation chamber where the compound
doctor examined me while my parents and
several elders watched. He announced I
was intact, and they marked my name on
the lottery roster with a gold star that
meant I was verified for marriage. Elder
Cyrus started sending gifts to our
house, including white dresses that
somehow fit perfectly and jars of
blackberry jam I had mentioned liking
once years ago. Mom burned the gifts at
first, but dad made her display them
properly after the elders complained.
One night, mom pulled me aside and
whispered, "He's been saving points for
four years specifically for you and has
enough to outid God himself." I finally
understood why she had been crying and
apologizing all year. I also discovered
my 13-year-old sister Annabelle had been
hiding her period for 6 months because
she was terrified of entering the
lottery in 3 years. The night before my
lottery date arrived faster than I
wanted. I couldn't sleep and found mom
in the kitchen at 3:00 a.m. with her car
keys on the counter and a full tank of
gas in the car. She had packed clothes
and put cash in the glove box along with
a paper showing the email address for a
women's shelter she had copied from her
friend who escaped years ago. I woke
Annabelle and we left through the back
door, driving 6 hours straight to the
state capital where I used a library
computer to email the shelter. The
compound's retaliation started
immediately after we escaped. They filed
missing person reports and had
connections throughout our state who
helped search for us. We stayed hidden
for two months moving between three
different shelters whenever someone got
too close. Elder Cyrus tracked down the
second shelter and stood outside for
hours each day. I've waited four years
and I can wait longer because God always
delivers his promises. He brought
flowers and gifts every time and never
showed any doubt that I would eventually
be returned to him. The situation
reached its breaking point when they
held an emergency lottery for Annabelle.
Mom called the shelter sobbing that they
had married Annabelle off that very
morning to brother Otis, who was 55
years old as punishment for helping me
escape. The shelter director had been
documenting our case for months and
finally had enough evidence. The federal
investigation took eight months, but
eventually led to Elder Cyrus's arrest
on charges of moneyaundering and
organizing forced marriages of minors.
He got 15 years in federal prison, but
most members had already fled to
compounds in Mexico. Mom sent one final
letter saying they were starting fresh
across the border and that she had done
what she could by leaving those car
keys.
|
{
"writer": "helin",
"views": 485636,
"is_viral": 0
}
|
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