messages
listlengths 3
3
|
|---|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Lost Souls or a New Year?\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2986\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with one or more characters shouting “Happy new year!”"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Note: Contains Sexual and physical violence\n\nLost souls or a New Year?\nBy, Cal Kirby\nSusie was born on a plantation on July 4, 1836, in rural North Carolina. She was the daughter of the slave Anna and possibly her Master, James Ryan. Master Ryan was a drunkard, abusive and an owner of 120 acres of tobacco land in North Carolina. Susie was a lighter-skinned daughter Anna never really wanted, but fell in love with when the baby first opened her eyes. Anna never knew whether James or his brother, Needham, was the father.\nAnna had served Master Ryan since she was purchased from Master Ryan’s brother, Needham, when she was thirteen. She was raped by Master Ryan and Needham when she was brought to the Ryan Plantation for the sale. Both the men were staggeringly drunk. That’s when Susie was conceived.\nSusie was a very bright and curious child and was well thought of by the Mistress of the house, Rachel Ryan. Little did Rachel know that Susie could possibly be her husband’s child? On the sly, when Master Ryan wasn’t home, Rachel taught Susie to read and also write. Susie was a quick learner.\nWhen Susie was six, Anna met Luther Briggs, a free Negro and sharecropper from the farm next to the Ryan Plantation. Luther brought his vegetable crop to the plantation to sell and that is when he fell in love with the vision of Anna hanging wash on the clothes line. “She’s the most beautiful thing I ever seen,” Luther thought to himself. “Massa Ryan, is she for sale?” Luther queried. “Hell no, she’s ain’t for sale,” the belligerent slave owner exclaimed. “She’s worth more than you cud ever afford!” Anna was immediately smitten with Luther’s looks and physique.\nOver the next three years Luther worked as hard as he could and saved every penny he could to purchase Anna’s freedom. Luther also started trapping beaver and selling their pelts to earn more money. Every week when Luther went to the plantation to sell his crops, he made sure he got more and more acquainted with Anna and, to find out later, Susie. He loved Susie as well. Susie thought Luther was the nicest and handsomest man she ever saw.\nFinally, the day came when Luther came to the plantation to purchase of Anna and Susie. Luther approached Master Ryan and queried how much it would take to buy Anna and her daughter. “You ain’t got enuf money you low-down black bastard,” the sloppily drunk white slaver shouted. Luther didn’t bat an eye and just said, “How much?” “Nine hunnered dollas!”\nLuther counted out exactly $900.00 and held it up to Master Ryan and said, “Deal!” Luther grabbed Anna and Susie and headed his wagon down the back road to where he dreamed he and his new family would live happily ever after. James Ryan stood in the wake of the dust and was stupefied.\nLuther, Anna and Susie were in for a big surprise. The next day, the Sherriff, another one of James Ryan’s brothers, went to Luther’s house and arrested him for theft of two slaves. Sherriff William Ryan didn’t want to listen to Luther’s and Anna’s protests that Luther had purchased the two slaves and “paid nine hundred dollars to Master Ryan.”\nJames Ryan’s cousin, Judge Thomas Hartley, read to himself the verdict for the trial of Luther Briggs. The jury foreman then stood and announced loudly, “Guilty.” Judge Hartley, slammed the gavel on his podium and stated loud and clear, “Ten years hard labor.” Anna and Susie were returned to the Ryan Plantation and they never saw Luther again.\nNow, at the age of 9, Susie was helping her mother with the household chores and stealing some time with Rachel on her reading and writing. Rachel was very kind and so unmatched with the crude, slovenly James Ryan. Maybe when he was younger he may have been a catch for Rachel. Who knows?\nThis way of life continued for the next three years and then tragedy again struck the lives of Anna and Susie. When James Ryan came home, unexpectedly, he caught Rachel teaching Susie her multiplication tables. He went into a rage and then slapped Susie and threw her out of the house. Rachel tried to protect Susie but to no avail. James was too strong and shoved Rachel hard and she flew back into the open fireplace and cracked her head on the stone mantel. She couldn’t survive until the doctor arrived.\nJames was distraught and said to the jury, “I didn’t mean for her to die.” With his cousin, Judge Hartley presiding, James Ryan was pronounced not guilty in the death of his wife, Rachel.\nSusie was growing and becoming more beautiful every day. Now at the age of 16, she had attracted the glances and comments from the field hands and Master Ryan. One day Master Ryan came home earlier than usual from his daily rounds of the plantation. He saw Susie leaning over the woodpile in a bin next to the stove, getting wood to stoke the fire, and knew he had to have her.\nWhile Anna was outside, James snuck up behind Susie and grabbed her around the waist and covered her mouth so she couldn’t scream. He wrestled her into the bedroom, threw her on the bed and lifted her skirt with one hand while still covering her mouth with his other hand. Anna returned to the house before James had time to penetrate the young girl. Anna saw the two on the bed and screamed. James jumped up and immediately went for Anna, while Susie, crying, ran past her mother and went out the door. Anna, was not so fortunate and the burly James had his way with her again, after many years of her carefully avoiding him. At least she protected her daughter’s virtue.\nJames sobered up, cleaned himself up real nice and started courting Betsy (Shaw) Hartley who had been married to Judge Hartley’s brother, Jed, for 6 years and they had twin boys, aged 4 years. Jed Hartley was killed when he fell out of the upper level of his tobacco barn and was impaled on a pitch fork. Although Betsy didn’t really feel any romantic connection to James, she was getting desperate to find someone to take over the farm responsibilities and provide for her and her boys. They were married 6 weeks after their first date.\nThree weeks after the wedding, James was back to his drunken, slovenly ways. Susie and Anna didn’t care for the new Mistress of the plantation, or the two boys. The boys were spoiled brats and Betsy (Shaw Hartley) Ryan was a horror to deal with. Neither Anna nor Susie could do anything to please her. Anna took the brunt of the Betsy’s vitriol and decided she couldn’t take it much longer. Susie, of course, had to be part of her plan once she figured out what exactly she would do.\nThe plantation Mistress didn’t lift a finger to do anything but crochet, read and sip on the blackberry wine James kept near his easy chair. Because Anna was also responsible for filling the wine bottle from the barrel in the barn, James never paid attention to what his new bride was sipping.\nIn the quiet of their shack, Anna confided to Susie her plan to escape and head north and try to make it to Canada. When Anna had been with Luther during his visits to the plantation, he had told her about the Underground Railroad and Canada. He told her of his plan to purchase her and Susie from Master Ryan, but if it didn’t work out he would help her escape and they would join together in Canada.\nTwo weeks after Anna disclosed the plan to Susie, they each packed a knapsack with as much clothing and food they could carry. They carefully hid the knapsacks behind a large tree near the shack and went to the main house for what they hoped would be their last time.\nSusie took care of dinner for the two boys and then put them down to bed. Anna fixed the most delicious dinner and poured the Ryan’s each a tall glass of Blackberry wine. Anna had earlier laced the bottle of wine with a good amount of arsenic she had found in the barn. Anna said, “We’ll be back to clean up after you finish your suppa, so enjoy your Christmas Eve dinner and relax with your glasses of wine.”\nAnna and Susie left their shack and followed the North Star in the beautifully clear North Carolina sky. Traveling on Christmas Eve would maybe protect them because everyone would be inside celebrating the coming of the Savior.\nThe town of Damascus, Virginia, was the first Underground Railroad station about 45 miles away. They made good time before dawn and were about 11 miles north of the Ryan Plantation. Both women needed rest after working all day the day before and walking all night. They found a small hedge of forsythia bushes along the fence of a dairy farm. They hid and hoped the noises of the cows and other farm animals would protect them from being discovered.\nAfter about three hours, Anna and Susie were startled by a nosey dog, who started barking loudly. They ran as fast as they could until they were exhausted. They were able to make another three miles before finding a resting place, among a small grove of trees. They settled in and slept most of Christmas day.\nAnna and Susie made their way from the grove of trees and travelled another 18 miles before settling down in a gully running along a small river. Anna figured they were only about 15 miles from the hopeful safety of the Damascus site.\nThe morning after Anna and Susie’s escape, Luke Jennings, the plantation overseer went to the main house when Master Ryan didn’t show up at his usual time to check on things at the tobacco barn. After knocking on the door, little Jed Hartley opened the door and said “Hi’ya Luke!” Luke said, “Is Master Ryan here?” “He’s sleepin’,” young Jed said. “And so’s momma.” Luke peaked in the door and saw James Ryan slumped over the table and Betsy Ryan lying flat on the floor. After checking their vital signs, Luke realized he had to get hold of the Sherriff and went looking for Anna or Susie to take care of the boys, while he rode to town.\nThe women were not in the shack, and Luke started yelling until one of the colored field hands came running up the dirt road.\nLuke headed to town to the Sherriff’s home, being that it was Christmas day and the Sherriff would be home with the family.\nAfter the coroner examined the bodies, he said “I think they were poisoned.” The Sherriff told Luke and a Sherriff’s deputy to “Go find them bitches!”\n After retrieving some clothing left in Anna’s shack, Luke hitched a horse to the wagon and went to the back of the main house to get the hounds. Luke and the deputy headed out looking for the runaways, with the hounds running ahead. In the daylight the hounds and two men were making good time, but they were quite a few hours behind the slave women.\nWhile the terrain was a little rough for the wagon, Luke held it steady and followed the hounds closely. They made about 10 miles before it got too dark and settled down in the wagon bed for a well-deserved sleep before heading out the next morning. The hounds, stopping and sniffing every few hundred feet, made the travelling slow.\nWhile Anna and Susie had been sleeping during the day in the gully on the second day of their escape, Luke and his hunting team had made good time and were only about two miles behind them. Luke didn’t know for sure how close they were, but had a feeling in his bones that he was about to claim his prize and make them pay.\n\n“Shit,” yelled Luke when his wagon hit a rock and broke the rear axle. They were nowhere near any place to get it fixed. He decided they were going to have to go the nearest farm house and try to borrow a wagon. The farmer had a wagon that they could borrow and gave them a spare bedroom to sleep before starting out again the next day.\n\nAnna and Susie experienced the joy of finding their first station on the Underground Railroad. The station (actually a blacksmith’s stable and house on the edge of town) was run by the “Station Master,” Blacksmith Lewis Delaney, and his wife Rose. Anna had identified the Underground Station from Luther’s description he had given her. The two upside-down horseshoes, on the fence gate of the Blacksmith’s corral, completed Luther’s description. Anna wondered if she’d ever see Luther again?\n\nShortly after arriving, Anna had been transformed into an elderly black man with greying hair and a matching grey mustache. This was done in the secret room that Lewis had built in a space between the house and the stable. Rose had cut Anna’s hair to resemble a man’s cut of the day and used the cut hair to make the mustache and corn flour to put a greying look to the hair. She also bound Anna’s chest to hide her bosom under the vest of the suit she would wear. A cane with a silver handle and a bowler hat completed the new character for Anna. Susie’s disguise was a little simpler in that Rose put her in an oversized dress that Rose had sewn small pillows in to make Susie look dumpy, which was hard to do. Rose also used some of her husband’s shoe black to discolor Susie’s front teeth, so she’d look even homelier.\n\nLuke and the deputy arrived in Damascus late in the day and the hounds stopped and started barking at the gate in front of the Blacksmith’s stable. Luke went up to the door of the stable and saw Lewis banging a horseshoe on an anvil. Lewis turned with a start when Luke spoke. “Hey mister, we’ve been trackin’ two runaway slave women from down in Carolina and their scent stopped at your gate.” “Have you seen em?”\n“You durn tootin’ I have,” Lewis exclaimed “and I turned them over to one of them slave hunter fellas, who said he’d give me money when he collected the reward. They left out on the road over there headin’ south about four or five hours ago.”\nLuke said “Giddy up,” and yelled back at Lewis, “Thank ye very much,” and headed south with the hounds tied in the wagon. Luke would be in for a big surprise when he got back to the plantation and no slave women were there.\n\nLewis smiled as Luke was now beyond the rise in the road.\n\nAn Underground Railroad Conductor arrived to guide Anna, now dressed as an elderly gentleman, and his dumpy, spinster daughter, on their trip north. It took Anna and Susie a little getting used to their new looks and names. The thin black woman Conductor, disguised as the elderly gentleman’s wife, left with Anna and Susie after midnight and headed on a long journey north to freedom. The Conductor, Anna and Susie boarded a wagon and made their way to an actual train station in Richmond, Virginia. By morning of the fourth day the two fugitive slaves and the Conductor boarded the train for Philadelphia, where they would transfer and then head to a “safe house” in Rochester, New York.\n\nSherriff William Ryan was at the plantation when Luke and the deputy returned without the two slave women. “Where are the slaves?” the Sherriff screamed at Luke and the deputy. “I was told up in Virginny that a man who caught slaves and returned them to their owners for rewards was bringin’ them here,” Luke tried to explain, while trying to think what he was going to do now that his boss was dead.\n\nThe Conductor, Anna and Susie got close to being discovered outside Baltimore, Maryland. A real train conductor came through the train and stopped in front of Anna, Susie and the Conductor. Anna was slumped over against the window and Susie was rubbing her hands. Their disguises were perfect and the Conductor told the white male conductor that they were traveling back to Rochester, New York, after visiting a dying relative in Richmond. She presented their papers and said her husband was a little weary from the traveling so far. The white male conductor looked over at the “old man,” and said, “Have a good journey Ma’m,” which startled the trio.\n\nTraveling on through Pennsylvania, New Jersey and on to Rochester completed a big part of their mission. Now on to Canada.\n\nAfter a quick stay in a safe house in Rochester, with Frederick Douglass and his family, the Conductor, now back in her home territory and with her regular clothes, met a large man with wild hair and beard by the gate. He was sitting in a two-horse-drawn wagon. “Anna and Susie, this is John Brown, he’ll be taking you the rest of the way to Canada.” Anna and Susie had changed out of their disguises and were now appearing more like themselves, but with new clothes and some money in their pockets.\n\nAs the wagon turned to leave, John Brown yelled, “See you next time Miss Tubman and Happy New Year.” The Conductor yelled back, “Happy New Year and call me Harriet!”\n\nTHE END\n\nNOTE: While some of the characters portrayed in this story were actual true names of historical figures, the actions and circumstances surrounding the figures are purely fictitious renderings from the mind of the author."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Every Time\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1442\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with one or more characters shouting “Happy new year!”"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "December 31st, 1879\n\nAnother life, another New Years. She smiled and danced and kissed cheeks in the Continental way, trading giggles with the other unmarried women as she did. She danced and sang a duet and offered a handsome boy her final dance of the night. She quite liked this style of a New Year's. Parties were such a more preferable way to wait for it all. She was so used to just waiting around that this was a breath of fresh air. She hoped the party tradition continued.\nA few minutes before midnight, she went out to the garden.\nHe was waiting for her, seated on the edge of a fountain.\n\"You're blonde!\" Was the first thing she said.\nHe frowned. \"What's wrong with that?\"\nShe shook her head, her flushed cheeks too warm in the freezing cold of the winter air. \"Nothing. I'm sorry. It's just—\" She paused, slightly embarrassed. \"You've just never been blonde before, is all.\"\nHe huffed at her. \"It's not like I get a say in it, you know.\"\nShe shrugged, embarrassed. \"It's a nice change of pace?\"\nHe glared and shot her.\nShe died laughing as the clock struck midnight.\n\nDecember 31st, 1909\n\nThe Ball would be dropping soon. Such a fun tradition! He hoped it kept up. He kissed his wife on her cheek and excused himself.\n\"Just checking in on a guest,\" he promised, stepping away.\n\"Do you have to?\" She sighed. \"It's nearly midnight.\"\n\"I'll only be a few minutes, darling,\" he said, lying through his teeth as he looked at her lovely, heart shaped face and her warm green eyes. \"I love you.\"\nShe beamed at him. \"I love you too.\"\nThe elevator was surprisingly quiet. Or maybe the noise from the rooftop party was so loud it sounded quiet by comparison. Maybe a bit of both.\nEither way, he went down a floor. Her room was Room 613. He unlocked the door with his master key and stepped inside.\nShe looked up at him, smiling. \"There you are. I was beginning to wonder.\"\n\"One of these days,\" he said, making sure his suit was perfect. \"We'll have to stop this. Or remember why it even started in the first place.\"\nShe let out a low wheeze of laughter. \"What on Earth for?\"\nHe sighed and poured himself a glass of champagne. \"For context, I suppose? Is the name on the registrar even yours?\"\n\"Maybe?\" She shrugged. \"Technically, I suppose. I think it used to be mine.\"\n\"I can't even remember why you're here to kill me,\" he said. \"That seems like it would be an important detail.\"\n\"Do you actually want to know?\" She asked. \"Or are you just delaying the inevitable?\"\n\"Yes?\"\nShe rolled her eyes. \"Just die already.\"\nHe did not. Instead, he returned to the rooftop party and kissed his wife one last time before dying of arsenic poisoning.\n\nDecember 31st, 1939\n\nHer rouge was pink and her skin was brown. She danced with her husband, dress flying out as they did the Lindy Hop.\nFive minutes until midnight!\" The singer announced. \"Here's to the year!\" Cheers went up with glasses.\n\"Hey.\" She pulled her husband's attention and kissed him. \"I'll be right back. Just gotta touch up my powder, ok?\"\n\"Be back before midnight,\" he said, squeezing her waist. \"I wanna get my New Year's kiss.\"\nShe laughed and kissed him again, making her way off the dance floor to the bathrooms. Inside, she touched up her powder. Even though she was about to die, she wanted to look her best.\nHe stepped into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. She glanced at him in the mirror and carefully tapped some lipstick onto her lips.\n\"You look lovely,\" he said quietly.\n\"Thank you.\" She adjusted her hairpins. \"You look rather dashing yourself.\"\nHe looked away, suddenly shy for some reason. \"I'm sorry.\"\nShe shrugged. \"I knew this was coming.\"\n\"I saw you. With him.\" He looked at her in the mirror, brow creased. \"You looked happy.\"\n\"You know.\" She placed her lipstick and powder back in her clutch. \"My life doesn't revolve around you.\"\nHe scowled. \"I never said it did.\"\n\"You implied it.\" She turned to face him, leaning her hip against the sink. \"So. How are we gonna do this?\"\nHe half smiled. \"Want to go out in a cinematic way?\"\nShe smiled.\nAs the clock struck midnight, he stabbed her in the stomach with a shard of the mirror, twisting it this way and that. Then he stood up, pulled the shard out, wiped it clean of finger prints, put it back, and then went out to the dance floor, dazedly announcing that he had found her dead.\nThe whole thing was later made into a movie.\n\nDecember 31st, 1969\n\nThe party was in full swing. She laughed and danced, accepted kisses from everyone and anyone, drank glass after glass of champagne and vodka tonics, her cheeks flushed so warm her makeup felt wet. All the while, her eyes skimmed the faces surrounding her.\nWhere was he?\nOutside, lights shone and parties from other buildings could be faintly observed. The glittering ball suspended over One Times Square flashed its lights, forcing her to blink away the spots.\nFrom the party's location, they'd have the perfect view of its descent, looking down at its journey, ringing in the New Year from a penthouse above the city.\nWhere was—\nA cold hand brushed her elbow and she jumped.\n\"You look flushed. Perhaps you need some air?\"\nShe forced her heart to calm its racing. Found him. Why was she so nervous this time?\n\"Yes,\" she agreed, tilting her head to look up at his handsome face.\n\"Follow me.\"\nWith a hand on her elbow, he carefully guided her out of the main penthouse and to the balcony of the master bedroom. Rose petals were strewn over the bed, an unopened bottle of champagne in a bucket of mostly melted ice sat on the dresser. The lamps were all turned down.\n\nOut on the balcony, she took a look over the city. Far below them in the streets, people gathered, no doubt sharing glasses and flasks and well wishes for the coming new decade.\n\"It's all so much, isn't it?\" He asked, his voice soft, almost impossible to hear.\n\"It is,\" she agreed, turning back around to face him.\nHe was blond again, with brown eyes and a face that she would normally describe as nice to look at. But she knew what was under that face. The agony, and the anger.\n\"Who's turn is it this time?\" She asked. The pin pressed against her scalp suddenly felt cold.\n\"Yours.\" He looked at her with such regret that she felt irritated.\n\"Oh wipe that look off your face,\" she snapped. \"You knew what you were signing up for when you came here. Why are you getting emotional?\"\n\"Because I'm tired.\" His answer was unexpectedly soft.\n\"You're getting weak,\" she muttered, looking away from him. Her heart unexpectedly stung at the thought of him being weak. That... that wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to get weak. Neither of them were.\n\"Come here.\" He tugged her against his chest, her head tucked under his chin. She stared at his pocket square in shock. \"I'm sorry.\"\nHer brow furrowed. What could he possibly be—\nHer mouth dropped open, back arching.\nA dull clatter attracted her attention but he refused to let her turn her head. He grasped her chin and pulled her mouth to his. She felt something warm and wet drop to her cheek as she kissed him. Why was he crying? Why did he change the outcome? Was this what he was tired of? Killing her? Did he think this would stop their cycle of violence?\nShe twisted her hands in his shirt and shook, angry and exhausted in one fell swoop as the weight of centuries fell to her shoulders.\n\"I love you,\" he gasped against her mouth.\n\"No you don't,\" she mumbled, fighting the blood loss.\n\"I do,\" he insisted. \"And I'm sorry.\" He pulled the pin from her hair and leaned her against the railing, wrapping her fingers around it. She focused as much as she could and thrust it forward, catching him in the heart.\nShe slumped against the railing, pin falling from her hand as he fell backwards. She stumbled forward and collapsed into his arms. His blood soaked through her dress as they tumbled to the floor. Distantly, she heard cheers and screams of joy, voices repeating the same words over and over again,\n\"Happy New Years!\""
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Happy New Year Hank\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1406\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with one or more characters shouting “Happy new year!”"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Happy New Year!” I hear from the crowd around me. I sit over a tepid cup of coffee at the local 50’s style diner several hours before the ringing in of 2022. The door behind me swings open to issue the biting sting of the glacial winter breeze and an elderly gentleman. The man, in a knee length, slate colored coat and a matching brimmed hat, both of which are dusted with snowflakes, shakes off the cold and walks haltingly into the bustling room. As he approaches the counter where I am huddled from the cold, he waves to people seated around us.\nI look up from my cup and observe this older gentleman laboriously walk up beside me. In my head I think to myself “he’s 90 if he’s a day” but I return to my brooding and attempt at keeping warm. What a miserable year it has been, and I just want to drown myself in coffee and hope that the next year will be better.\nAs he comes up to the stool next to me he asks politely “Young lady might I sit with you?”\nI mumble something incoherent about “It’s a free country you can sit wherever you want.” I just want to be left alone. It’s been such an abysmal year and I’m not really in the mood for socialization, but regardless, I don’t try to stop him.\nHe begins removing his winter garments, nodding warmly to our waitress. I look up to see “Peg” on her dingy name tag. I think to myself, “I’ve stepped back into the 40’s.” There are quite a few older folks in here tonight. Peg is dressed in a vintage World War II waitress uniform to include one of those period garrison caps. The ancient jukebox resonates a jaunty ballad about a yellow ribbon and an old oak tree. Giving me a feeling of being caught in a moment from a time long past.\nPeg smiles brightly at the old man and greets him saying “Happy New Year Hank, would you like your usual?”\n\n“Danke Schön, Peg, and Happy New Year. Yes, that would be wonderful. May I also have a fresh cup of coffee for our young friend here?” nodding in my direction.\nI notice that Hank speaks with an unusual accent that I can’t really place. It doesn’t really matter. I’m not in a mood for company tonight. I incline my head at Peg and Hank and thank them both for the fresh cup of Java.\n\nWhile he careful removes and folds his hat and coat, diligently laying them on the stool opposite from us, I catch a peek of what looks like writing on his left forearm. Amused to think of such an elderly gentleman with a tattoo. I speculate “maybe he was in the Navy. Weren't tattoos traditional for a sailor of his era?” The thought gives me a moment of amusement. “Maybe he was the sailor from V-J Day, kissing the nurse in Times Square” I muse to myself.\nHe sits down beside me as Peg slides him a fresh, steaming cup of coffee and a very delicious looking piece of apple pie. She turns to go, looking back at us over her shoulder she says to Hank “Happy anniversary as well.”\nHe winks and gives her a genuine smile then turns to me saying “You should try the pie. It is very good. The owner makes them fresh every day. It is almost as good as the piece I had in January 1945.”\nStartled and a bit puzzled, I look up and say “1945? Has it been 77 years since you had a decent piece of pie?” “Peg mentioned it was your anniversary, what are you celebrating?”\n“Yes, on this night 77 years ago I made a resolution to relish and value every new year.” he says, rubbing his forearm where I had noticed the tattoo.\n“That sounds like quite a daunting resolution. I resolved years ago that I wouldn’t make resolutions anymore. They never last more than a day or two after making them anyway So why bother? Have you been able to keep your resolution?” I remark. “That must have taken an enormous amount of will power.”\n“Ja, I did. May I introduce myself? I am Hank. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He holds his right hand out for me to shake.\nTaking his surprisingly warm hand I reply, “Sorry, my name is Colleen. Pleased to meet you Hank. I guess it was rude not to introduce myself.” Motioning to his order, I insist “I’ll leave you to your pie and coffee. I’m sure you want some peace and quiet.”\nHe clears his throat and whispers “Danke but being alone is the last thing I wish to be on this evening.” “It is wonderful to make your acquaintance, vermisst Colleen”. “Ja. This evening is the 77th anniversary of my resolution. In January 1945 I was liberated, set free. Free from a life of brutality, free from certain death. It was then that I determined I would relish every new day, every new year.” \nSomberly he raises his left arm and rolls his sleeve up to the elbow. In its wake I see what I assumed was a tattoo. The remnants of what looks a letter B followed by five extremely faded numbers, a 1, 4, maybe a 7, a 2 and 1. I think to myself “how unusual. I don’t remember ever seeing a tattoo that resembles it.” I hesitantly run my finger across the wrinkled, yet relatively soft skin, then look sheepishly up into his blue eyes.\nAbashedly I pull my hand away and mumble an apology “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”\nHank rolls his sleeve back down, resetting the button with a steady hand. “Kein Madchen, du musst dich fur nichts schamen.” “Nein, no, no.” “Do not be ashamed.” “It was a very long time ago and I have made my peace with the past. This is a night of rebirth and remembrance.” “Tonight, is a night to celebrate life. Rejoice, be happy. Look to the future and start each day anew. You are free, you are young, and you have your whole life to look forward to.”\n“77 years ago, on January 27, 1945, I walked out of hell and into a new world. My liberation from the Nazi concentration camp of Auschwitz was the day I was reborn. 77 years ago, I began my life once more. It was then I decided to celebrate and embrace life, every new day, and every new year. Honor and rejoice in life. That day I underwent a symbolic resurrection. Please, celebrate with me. Eat, drink, and make merry! Tomorrow is a new day and a clean slate, no regrets, and no mistakes. A chance to write your own story. A blank page.”\nMesmerized by his words I nod in agreement. I realize my selfishness. I have been sitting here brooding over how horrible my life is, my first world problems. Too self-indulged to see others’ pain and sorrow. I gratefully accept the piece of pie Peg offers me and smiling humbly, I offer her my thanks.\nFor the next two hours, Hank and I sit and talk and enjoy each other’s company. Before I realize how much time has past the patrons around us are gathering under the diners' tv in muted excitement. I look up to see that it is moments away from midnight, the start of 2022. Ten, nine, eight… three, two, one. “Happy New Year’s!” ring out from the crowd around us. People hugging, singing, shaking hands, celebrating the joy of a new year and promising future.\nI look back to wish Hank a Happy New Year only to find he is no longer beside me, though his hat remains on the stool. Behind me I hear the door swing closed with a gentle sigh, leaving only a ghost of frigid air in its trail. Peg turns from the tv and winks in my direction. I look out the window to see if I can catch Hank, to return his hat and thank him for his conversation. In the brilliance of the new year, I observe only the enchanting snowflakes gently falling on the empty sidewalk.\nTo the burgeoning new day, I tenderly breath “Happy New Year Hank.” \n\nRebecca Overstreet\nDecember 27, 2021\nReedsyPrompt #275: The Night Before"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Unorthodox Truce\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1728\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character reflecting on the previous year."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“So, next week is really going to be 1944.”\n\nThe small living room in Captain Westheimer’s quarters smelled heavily of coffee, smoke, and pine. Despite it being situated in a prisoner-of-war camp in southern Germany, it was quite cozy. It was Christmastime, though, and Westheimer wasn’t one to care that he could be in a lot of trouble for inviting British Sergeant Plundell into his personal quarters. He hated the rules against fraternization.\n\nHaving served in World War I, he could remember the Christmas truce of 1914. It was when he learned he wasn’t the only warlock in the world who decided to live closer to people who didn’t have any magic. There were British warlocks, too. They traded magical items, many of which Westheimer still had, even long after their powers had faded.\n\n“Yes, it really is going to be 1944 next week,” Westheimer replied. “It is Christmas Eve, Sergeant. Why are you thinking about the new year already?”\n\nPlundell was quiet for a moment, looking down at his cup of coffee. “I managed to spend Christmas and New Year’s at home last year. Even with the war going on, we were able to reflect on personal accomplishments. This year is different. I feel like I accomplished nothing.”\n\n“You have only been here for around three months. Surely, the nine before that had something of meaning for you.”\n\n“Being on leave before the invasion of Sicily, and spending time with my girlfriend. We write as often as we can, but . . . there’s a part of me that’s afraid she’ll have moved on when I go home.”\n\n“What is her name?”\n\n“Monnie. Monnie Abberton. We met when I was on leave in 1940. Late summer. Since then, I couldn’t see myself with anyone else. A few of the others in the barracks think it’s odd, because they hooked up with someone different each time they were on leave. I’ve even heard some of them meet up with local German women when we’re on work detail.” Plundell paused. “You’re not going to punish them, are you?”\n\n“As long as they return before sunrise and do not go out when there are inspectors in the area, I do not care. However, I hope you gently remind them that there are witches and Nazi spies to be aware of.”\n\n“I will try.”\n\n“Back on topic, why are you afraid of your beloved moving on from you?”\n\nPlundell shrugged. “Probably because I haven’t physically been with her for over a year, and won’t see her until the war is over.”\n\n“It will be a strenuous test for both of you. In the end, if you are still together, I reckon your relationship could survive anything. At least your Monnie knows you are safe. My wife has to endure the fact that I am, for lack of a better term, running a warlock resistance cell out of a prisoner-of-war camp and risk running afoul of Nazi goons just by making sure you have enough to eat.”\n\n“And she’s loyal to you.”\n\n“We have been loyal to each other for over twenty years. Nothing can split us apart.”\n\n“I hope to have that.”\n\nWestheimer grinned a little, adjusting himself in his chair to better face Plundell. “A little advice—” he gestured to his ears, “Listen to each other. Share secrets if you feel within your heart of hearts that you trust her. When I was first dating Anneli, I knew at some point I was going to have to tell her that I am a warlock, so I told her sooner rather than later. That trust was what solidified our relationship. Vulnerability is another thing you must trust her with. Showing her that you can let your guard down will allow her to let hers down. I went into my relationship knowing I did not have a happy past, but I did not want that to dominate everything. I watched trauma take over the strongest men I served with, and many of them took their own lives because of it. I refused to let that happen to me. You know from experience that your worst memories are not something you can face on your own.”\n\nPlundell shook his head. “Is that how you be vulnerable? Just talk about your fears and nightmares?”\n\n“In the right moment, yes.”\n\nThe room became silent aside from the crackling and popping in the fireplace. Plundell took a sip of his coffee. “I’ve definitely changed as a person.”\n\n“That you have. I can remember that day in mid-September when you arrived.”\n\n“I don’t like remembering that day.”\n\nNot wanting to stir any memories for Plundell, Westheimer reflected on that day in his head. It was a fairly warm day, after a bit of a cold snap where the leaves on the trees began to change color. He had been notified a week prior that soldiers captured in Italy would be arriving. It wasn’t something to be surprised by. What surprised him was that when the truck arrived, there was only one man inside.\n\nApproaching the guards, a pair of corporals, Westheimer gestured at them with his staff. “I do believe I was told I would be getting soldiers. As in, more than one.”\n\n“Plans changed, Captain,” one of the guards said. “We were told this was the camp to send the . . . special cases.”\n\n“Is he injured?”\n\n“No, but he’s very much the crier.”\n\nThe other guard hopped into the truck, taking the British soldier by his arm and roughly pulling him out. The man’s face was red and streaked with tears. The guard glared at him, shouting in German, “No wonder you were captured alone! You let the rest of your men die so you could curl up and cry like a child! The English must be desperate if they’re promoting men like you to sergeant!”\n\n“I will not have you speak to a prisoner like that!” Westheimer growled. “Did your officers not have you read the Geneva Convention articles?”\n\n“They did—”\n\n“Then you will leave this man alone, or I will make sure you both are properly disciplined for acting like barbarians.”\n\nThe two guards fell silent immediately, though one of them said, “My apologies, Captain.”\n\n“Do not apologize to me. Apologize to him.”\n\nPlundell was trying to stand up in order to salute Westheimer. He was young, practically still a boy, and it was clear he had seen a lot most boys his age shouldn’t have to. He was terrified, uncertain about what was next. It was obvious he hated looking Westheimer in the eye.\n\nIt was amazing how that changed in three months. Allowing himself a small smile, Westheimer looked over at Plundell. “You have definitely changed for the better. You are not nearly as shy.”\n\n“I’m the barracks NCO. I had to take charge. It wasn’t easy, but . . . I did it.” Plundell gave a weak smile, staring into his coffee. “Then there was the incident in October that changed everything.”\n\n“Ah, yes, that damned poltergeist in your radio.” Westheimer shook his head. “We will be bringing that up long after the war is over.”\n\n“Without it, I wouldn’t have found out magic is real.”\n\n“I think you would have found out somehow, but this just happened to be the way you did.”\n\n“It’s strange. Up until then, I thought magic was an element of fiction. Now, I’m sitting next to a living, breathing wizard, and it’s completely normal.” Plundell’s smile faded. His face paled. “We’re sure this isn’t a dream? Or . . . I’m actually dead?”\n\n“No, son. It is not a dream, and you are very much alive.”\n\n“Honestly, I think that’s the highlight of my year. Magic, as well as getting a chance to see that . . . you’re not my enemy. It is difficult to say that, given that your air force bombed London and drove my parents from their home, but . . .”\n\n“I am not the man who gave the order to bomb London.”\n\n“No, you’re not.”\n\n“This is an unfortunate situation for many of us. It is unfortunate to look into next year, and see nothing but death and destruction, and while it is true that the war is going to continue in 1944, it is complete fallacy to go into next year without hope. I pity people who see nothing but darkness. I have seen the consequences of hope lost.” Westheimer suddenly looked withdrawn. “I have not been able to go a year without one person I know taking their own life. Not until this year. This year, 1943, is the first year where no one I know has died by their own hand.”\n\n“I guess that explains why you care so much.”\n\nWestheimer nodded. “It feels inappropriate to consider that an accomplishment of this year.”\n\n“If it means that much to you, I would. It would be inappropriate to celebrate it the way others would treat their accomplishments. It’s something that deserves . . . a more solemn way of recognition.”\n\n“Precisely.”\n\nPlundell was quiet again, gazing into the fire. “Have you accomplished anything happy at all this year?”\n\n“I would not consider this an accomplishment, but it was certainly a joyous moment. Remember how I left the camp for a couple of days earlier this month?”\n\n“Yes.”\n\n“My eldest daughter had her first child.”\n\n“Congratulations. That had be a wonderful change of mood.”\n\n“It was nice to have my family back together again. It was the first time the entire year that we had spent any time together.”\n\n“I wouldn’t mind meeting your family someday.”\n\n“After the war, come to Augsburg for Christmas Eve dinner. We will make you feel at home.”\n\n“I should probably return the favor and invite you to England as well.”\n\nWestheimer’s smile returned. “Just like that, we have something to look forward to.”\n\n“Do you think that by Christmas of 1944, we’ll be home again?”\n\nWestheimer shrugged. “I would certainly hope so, but only time and the efforts of the militaries on both sides will tell.”\n\n“If we’re still in this camp next year, I hope to have this reflection time with you again. This friendship is the one thing that has made the last few months better.”\n\n“You have definitely made the last few months more interesting. Thank you.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Memories of Time\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1197\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story including the phrase “Better late than never”."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The freezing salt-water splashed his face as he pushed his tired arms through the surf. He’d been swimming for what seemed like forever---his heart was racing and breath struggled out of his lungs. The soaking wet tuxedo he wore only managed to make it harder for him to propel himself through the water. \nThomas had been traveling from his home in England to a new adventure with his bride-to-be, an American woman by the name of Lorna. He’d gotten her on a lifeboat when the ship had somehow sunk. In the chaos of the night, they loaded the lifeboats with women and children, but they had left the rest of them to flounder. Luckily, Thomas had been a strong swimmer. Although he could no longer feel his arms and legs, he never stopped swimming towards the shore. \nLorna was waiting for him. \nThe ship he’d been on was magnificent, with stunning wooden decks and a grand staircase that held an angel cherub sculpted on its end post. Thomas had walked those decks when the weather had been fair with his beloved Lorna, and he’d watched all the ladies in their finery as they strolled with their gentlemen. Children played tops while their parents sipped brandy and puffed cigars nearby. The dinners were excessive affairs, with lavish food offerings and rich people showing each other the extent of their wealth. Both unnecessary and entertaining. \nPanting, he took a moment to pause as the ocean bobbed him like an iceberg; he let his arms rest. His teeth chattered and his fingers had begun to turn blue, but he was on a mission. He wouldn’t die out here in the blackened sea under the dark and clear starlit sky. He would die an old, fat man in bed with his beautiful Lorna. After forcing a deep breath into his tired lungs, he continued his arduous journey. \nWhen the sun finally broke through the arctic sky, Thomas closed his eyes against the glare bouncing off the clear, flat sea. The ice crystals on his eyelashes brushed his frosted cheeks. The only thing that kept his eyes from freezing shut were the unshed tears that burned within them. His lips were cracked and bleeding from the cold, salty air and sea. He’d once touched dry ice by accident and remembered the frosty burn---the tip of his nose felt as if he’d dragged it across that ice. But at least he could still feel his eyes and nose---his ears were beyond redemption. He had to lift a shaky, frost-bitten hand to them to make sure they were still attached. \nHe squinted against the sunrays and tried to spot what was left of his doomed luxury liner. All that could be seen through the brightness were white life vests, pieces of broken dreams, and chunks of debris. Alone. Lost. Determined. He forced himself to move again in the direction of what was hopefully land in the distance.\nThomas was the only living thing as far as his tired eyes could see. The water was seemingly too cold to allow the sea life to thrive on the surface. All he’d swum past was an enormous whale, but it paid him no mind as it continued on its hunt for food. A large chunk of ice floated by him, barely missing knocking him out. However, it dragged across his face, and the frozen skin on his cheek ruptured with ease. His face too numb to feel the injury until the warm blood oozed down his face like molasses in winter. \nWhen the sun ticked a little higher into the sky, he closed his eyes and took a deep, lengthy breath. A sudden warmth filled him, and he smiled as the feeling returned to his arms and legs. With a burst of energy, he swam with more vigor than before. Thomas didn’t question why he’d been given this great gift, but with it, he planned to be with Lorna sooner rather than later. \nFor kicks, he dived under the waves. The salt didn’t burn his eyes as he took in everything beneath the arctic surface. Down there is where life had been hiding. He watched whales, ancient sharks, fish, and creatures galore play out their lives, unaffected by the massive liner sinking into their world only hours earlier. A sea turtle floated by him---relaxed. On the deep sandy bottom, he spotted lobsters, crabs, and other sea bugs crawling along. \nTime was fluid under the sea. And Thomas was too concerned with the happening’s in the deep to notice. \nThomas surfaced again and laughed as he saw the shoreline within view. Finally. He’d made it. Somehow, he’d survived the sinking of the unsinkable. Then, with his muscles and skill, had made it all the way to the mainland. Seeing the land made him push himself harder. \nHe was almost to Lorna. \nThe waves helped bring him home, and he collapsed onto the wet sand with a grateful sigh. He took an exhausted breath before pulling himself to his knees and yanking off his sodden tux coat. Dropping the coat with a plop, he stumbled up the beach and through a small, unfamiliar town. Although his path appeared aimless, he ended up at the gates of the graveyard. Frowning to himself, he made his way in and weaved through the stones, brushing his fingers over the tops. \nIn the distanced people dressed in uncommon clothes huddled next to a freshly dug grave. The sun beat down on him, drying his tux with an aching slowness in the chilled breeze. He stood at the iron gate, which held a sign over the arch. He stared at the sign with confusion and rubbed his exhausted eyes. He must have been losing his mind. There was no way they’d be able to create a graveyard for the ship in such a short time. Shaking his head, he continued into the burial ground beyond the gate. \nThomas couldn’t seem to get his lungs to move as he stared down at the tombstone in front of him. He crouched down on his heels and ran a hand over the etched letters. Thomas Paulson died April 15, 1912, on the R.M.S. Titanic. Died? But he wasn’t dead. He touched his cheek as he stood again and glanced around the cemetery. What year was it? Where was he? He watched a fancy automobile speed incredibly fast down a paved roadway. His eyes fell back to the grave and he let the tear he’d been saving fall. \nThere was a delicate throat clearing in front of him, and he raised his eyes to the sound. Thomas gasped as he looked into the face of his lovely Lorna. She wore the gown he’d met her in with her deep brown hair styled perfectly and her makeup brushed with a light hand. She was the picture of stunning beauty and youth. \n“How?” Thomas asked as he stepped around the headstone towards her. \nLorna touched his cheek and gave him a gorgeous smile. She whispered, “better late than never, Mr. Paulson.” \nUnbeknownst to the tourists and mourners around them, Lorna and Thomas embraced and faded into the memories of time---together."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Medic\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1686\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story including the phrase “Better late than never”."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "According to the Geneva Convention, firing at a medic wearing a clear insignia is considered a war crime.\nThe rule, by no means, rendered medics invulnerable.\nRowe sprinted across the battlefield. Frozen branches snapped under his boots. Snow broke beneath him, artillery fire shook trees, and the rattling of machine guns echoed throughout the forest. Bullets struck the ground beside his feet as he ran.\nHe held onto his medical kit, slung around his shoulder, light and low on supplies. Rowe ignored the calls to take cover, sprinting. He stopped to kneel behind a tree—the soldier sitting against it looked up and forced a smile.\n“What took you so long, doc?” Harris mumbled.\n“Better late,” Rowe grabbed a sulfanilamide packet and bit off the end, “than never, huh?” He spat out the tab of paper, then spritzed the chalk-coloured powder onto Harris’ leg. A bullet had torn through his pants. He’d kept pressure on it, but didn’t have the bandages to wrap himself up.\n“How bad is it?” Harris asked. He held onto his rifle, bloodied fingers tapping the stock. “‘Cause I need to stay on the line, doc. Those krauts got it coming when I get back up.”\n“If you can walk, you’re fine. Bullet went clean through.”\n“Alright!” Harris reached out to pat him on the shoulder. A bullet hit the tree above and tore off a piece of bark. “This is why I like you. Always good news. Now, how about some morphine?”\n“I got none,” Rowe said. He tightened the bandage—reused, boiled cloth from the supply station. “Try to keep warm. The blood is going to freeze, and the tear in your clothing won’t do you much good. I’ll see to getting you new pants-”\nMedic! \nRowe exhaled, got to his feet, and ran. An artillery shell landed nearby, knocking him off course. Medic! He stumbled, dazed, nearly falling forward. His ears rang, left and right. The gunfire didn’t stop.\n“My hand, oh god. I can’t shoot without my fingers. Doc!”\n“I’m here,” Rowe slid into the foxhole, dug five-foot deep. He grabbed a bandage from his kit and took Davis’ hand. The soldier’s fingers, from his ring to his index, hung on by bits of skin. Loose snow coated his helmet.\n“They shot off my fingers, doc,” Davis said, trembling, “I was manning the machine gun, and a bullet struck my hand, and then I wasn’t shooting no more. I was so numb I didn’t notice. How am I supposed to fight without my fingers?”\n“Think of it as a cheap ticket home.” Rowe wrapped a bandage around the disfigured stubs. “Warm showers, full meals, an actual bed. Ain’t so bad.”\nDavis sucked in air through gritted teeth, his other hand punching at the dirt. Artillery exploded nearby. “God damn it! Hurts like a bitch. Do you got morphine?”\n“I can’t spare any-”\nM…med..medic!\nThe cry came out broken and wavering. Rowe nodded to himself as he tightened the bandage. He breathed in, out, and stood up. One more. The artillery slowed—the firefight was coming to an end. He ran across the field.\nA bullet zipped through the air. It struck his helmet, scraping off the plating. Rowe ducked, running behind the trees, falling to the ground next to the wounded soldier. He reached into his kit for bandages, then froze.\nTorn sinew and flesh made for the soldier’s legs. Both were blown off to the hip, shattered bone exposed to cold air. Frazier groaned as he laid in a puddle of blood. Rowe kneeled and grabbed his hand. A light snowfall drifted around them.\n“Help me, please, doc. I don’t want to die.”\n“I don’t know…are you religious, Frazier? I’ll say a prayer-”\n“I don’t want to pray, doc! I have my momma waiting for me back home. I have to go back to her, I’m her only kid.” His breathing picked up, fast and panicked. “Oh, I can’t feel my legs. Please don’t let me die.”\nRowe held onto his hand. With his other, he reached into his pack for a syrette. “Morphine,” he said, “is going to hit you fast. I’ll patch you up, and have you carried to a jeep, got it?” He needled the syrette into Frazier’s neck and pushed down on the tube. His pulse slowed. The breathing relaxed.\n“It hurts,” Frazier said. “I’m not going to make it, am I?”\n“I’ll do what I can.” Rowe readied a second syrette. He stuck it into Frazier’s neck. “You’ll be right as rain, alright? Just take it easy. I’ll get a letter out to your mom. You don’t need to worry.”\nFrazier stared at the sky, his pupils dilated. The twenty-milligrams of morphine sedated him. “I’m cold,” he whispered. His grip weakened. “Goodbye, doc.” Snow rested on his eyes. “Goodbye.”\n“Goodbye, Frazier.”\nThe firefight had ended minutes ago. Rowe sat back. \nCold, miserable, and alone. But alive.\n\n- - -\n\nSomewhere far off, the Germans bombed the cities of France. The sound echoed for miles on end. Rowe sat awake in his foxhole, listening. If he focused, he could hear the distant thrums of gunfire. Artillery shells. It didn’t take a lot to imagine the humming of planes.\nHe stared at the trees. Moonlight illuminated the leaves with a silver glow. Would the Germans attack in the dark? He wouldn’t get up if someone called for him. He couldn’t. To see the light leave from another man’s eyes, to hear their breathing pause, then stop, their chest failing to rise, a man helpless to their wounds.\n“Hey, doc.” Edward, beside him, nudged his shoulder. “Are you alright?”\nRowe blinked. He took off his helmet and handed it to Edward. “Look at this,” he said. “They finally landed a shot on me—scraped the paint right off.”\n“Lucky bastard,” he traced his finger across where the bullet hit. “Go buy a lottery ticket.” Edward handed the helmet back. “You know, they should’ve dropped us all in Germany. I’d parachute down and kill Hitler myself.” He mimicked a stabbing motion. “End the war in time for Christmas. There’d be a whole movie directed after me-”\n“Where’s your gloves?” Rowe asked. “Your hands are almost purple.”\n“I was…” he looked over his hands, “drying them off when the artillery hit. Then I lost them. I’ll be fine.”\n“No, you won’t.” Rowe took off his own. “Take mine, and try to keep your fingers moving, even if it hurts. Get the blood flowing.”\nEdward hesitated, then took them. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re a good one to have around. I heard we’re breaking the stalemate tomorrow. Rest for a bit.”\nRowe laid his head back against the dirt, and closed his eyes.\nHe couldn’t sleep.\n\n- - -\n\nAt dawn, the commanding officer ordered them to move forward. Canadian reinforcements arrived by truck—they planned to route the Germans back and then some, securing a small town off the borders of Belgium. \nRowe followed with his med-kit slung over his shoulder. Hardly resupplied. Enough to last the assault in the best-case scenario. He ran as bullets flew, his company pushing into enemy lines. The Germans retreated into the town northeast, and the allied forces followed.\nThe first man who called had a bullet in his shoulder. Rowe dragged him behind a frozen hay bale and patched him up—tweezers, sulfanilamide, and field dressing. A second man, shot in the chest, called for help, interrupted by a stray bullet. A third soldier suffered a head wound. He struggled to speak the word, medic, slurring the vowels. Rowe bit his tongue and ran past.\nHe’d been ordered not to waste supplies on those deemed too far gone.\nHis company charged into the town, all the buildings left in rubble. French signposts cracked to pieces. Bicycles blown in two from the bombings. Rowe breathed in, out, and waited, taking cover behind crumbling walls.\nA grenade went off in a nearby store. Debris shot through the windows, followed by cries of pain. Rowe tightened his medic’s armband. He got to his feet and ran.\n“Doc!” a soldier called. “Stay with us!”\nHe kicked open the shop’s door and broke it off the hinges. Rushing in, Rowe dropped to his knees beside a soldier in a field-grey uniform, an imperial eagle pinned to their right side chest. He opened his med-kit for his supplies—the soldier on the ground had an arm hanging on by threads of sinew. Blood stained the wooden floors.\n“Nicht schiesen, ich ergebe mich!” he cried, “no make dead! No make dead!”\n“You’re not dying on me!”\nFootsteps pounded at the back of the shop. Rowe brandished his M1911A1—issued to protect his patients at any cost. A German medic, a red cross on his armband, raised his hands to surrender. Rowe signalled him over.\n“Help me with him! He needs amputation. What do you have on you?”\nThe medic couldn’t understand. He kneeled, looked at the downed man, then brought out a hacksaw from his kit. Rowe injected morphine into the soldier as he thrashed. He secured a tourniquet above the elbow as the German medic sawed back and forth.\nHe bit off a sulfanilamide tab while the German readied field dressing. Rowe applied the powder and lifted the soldier’s arm—the German wrapped the wound twice over, then fastened the bandage with a pin. He grabbed his ally and dragged him off, looking at the door.\n“Danke, amerikanisch,” the medic said. “Danke, ich bringe ihn in Sicherheit. Go!”\nRowe stepped outside. A group of Canadian soldiers beckoned him over, taking cover behind a demolished car. One stood to exchange shots before ducking back down. He sat with them and counted his supplies.\n“Good to see you,” another said, patting him on the shoulder. “I saw what you did. I won’t tell a soul. We’re all just following orders—that’s all this is.” He relayed commands in French to his allies, then turned back to Rowe. “Stay put. The jerries are retreating. You’ll have your work cut out for you in a minute.”\nRowe nodded, leaning back, awaiting his call.\nAs a medic, he’d save lives—regardless of flags."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Fall of Kabul\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2977\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character who is always running late arriving somewhere just as it closes."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The cab wove its way through streets choked with cars, motorcycles and minivans. Black exhaust belched from a truck in front of them as men dressed in perahan tunbans waited for breaks in the traffic before striding across the streets. They moved quickly, a sense of urgency in their stride. Market stalls on the sidewalks were empty, most looked like they had been abandoned in a hurry. One had tipped sideways and newspapers lay strewn around it. It was early in the morning, the sun rising in the clear blue sky. No clouds could be seen - as if the sun had simply wiped the sky clean, not a single blemish or imperfection to be seen. It almost looks beautiful out, Abdul thought for a moment. The cloudless sky felt at such odds with the palpable sense of dread hanging over the city. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked over at his wife. She was rocking their 3 month old daughter, Hooriya and whispering to her. She looked up, her face strained.\n“It’s going to be ok,” Abdul said. He squeezed her thigh gently. Samaneh didn’t say anything. Her beautiful face was lined with worry. She wore a shawl over her head and curls of black hair rolled out from the sides. \n“Let’s go over our plan once more,” Abdul said. “We get to the airport and we ask for the Canadian consular employees.” Samaneh nodded but was quiet. “Then we show them our papers, my work documents showing that I was an army translator and that we are requesting evacuation. We will give them the email I printed off from the consular staff and we should be ok to pass through.”\nSamaneh was still quiet, looking out the window. \n“You have the email right, jaanaan?” Abdul gently rubbed her shoulder. \n“Yes it’s in the bag,” Samaneh said without looking back. \n“Can I see it?” Samaneh sighed and grabbed a bag between her feet and pulled out a printed email. Abdul scanned it.\n“Perfect.” \nSilence stole over them. The cab rattled down a bumpy section of road. He slammed on the breaks as a bus from a side street cut out in front of. The driver cursed and honked at the bus. Samaneh flinched at the noise. \n“It will be ok jaanaan. I promise,” Abdul said. He was trying to catch her gaze but she stubbornly looked away. She turned to face him, eyes blazing.\n“How do you know Abdul? How can you say it will be ok? Our world has been destroyed. The life we have built for Hooriya has been shattered. Look at us now!” She gestured to the interior of the car. “Here we are in the back of a cab fleeing to the airport. Praying we can get on a plane to God only knows where. Our country is gone. The Taliban have come. Nothing will ever be the same.” Tears welled in her eyes as her voice became thick. \n“Hey, hey, it’s ok, I’ve got you. It’s ok,” Abdul said as he pulled her in, wrapping his arms around her. They held each other without speaking, gently rocking back and forth. He could faintly smell pomegranate and cardamom. He closed his eyes and held her as tears streamed down her face. He pulled back and gently kissed her cheek, tasting salt from the tears. Her green eyes welled again but the tears held, shimmering like mirages in the desert. He put his hand gently on her cheek and she closed her eyes.\n“As long as we have each other, nothing else matters.” He gently brushed a tear under her eye with his thumb. She made a tiny nod and sniffed, composing herself. \n“I just can’t help but think something terrible is going to happen.”\n“It will be fine jaanaan, trust me. All will be ok.” \nAs they arrived at the airport the traffic ahead was so thick they ground to a halt. They crawled along slowly, the driver hammering the horn to no effect. People ahead were jumping out of vehicles and unloading suitcases in the middle of the road. \n“I think we might have to get out, Abdul,” Samaneh was saying. Abdul was straining to try and see ahead of the vehicles, looking for any signs of the sudden obstruction. “Abdul,” his wife gently shook him. \n“Mmh?”\n“Abdul we should get out.” \n“Yes ok let’s go.” They paid the cab driver and stepped outside. The heat from the sun overhead was already uncomfortably warm. Abdul grabbed the suitcase from the trunk, a tired old leather bag - all their worldly possessions at this point. They stepped away to the side of the road and joined a line of people dragging their suitcases along to the airport entrance. Hooriya had begun fussing and Samaneh rocked her gently to calm her down. She carried the small cloth bag over one shoulder with their passports and documents. The smell of dust and exhaust choked the air. Streams of people were moving towards the main entrance road to the airport. Abdul couldn’t help but feel panic rising up in the back of his mind, like unwanted trash floating up from the depths of a dark pond. What if we can’t get through. What if we can’t find the Canadian consular staff. What if they don’t accept our papers. What if we are turned away. He quickly had to quell those thoughts. He looked at his family - his wife huddled over their 3 month old baby. Her dark hair falling in curly locks from under her silk shawl as she whispered soothing words and sung a short lullaby to their daughter. He couldn’t really hear the words she was saying but recognized the familiar tune and could read her lips. “...The child behind the window, lalo. Your father has gone hunting. Your mother has gone to work. Asleep, you're a beautiful child…” He steeled himself and forced the despair out of his mind. I need to be calm for them. I need to be a rock. It will be ok. He put his free arm around his wife and smiled at her. She returned a quick anxious smile. \nThey approached the main road to the airport and rounded the corner into a scene of chaos. Hundreds of people milled around on a dirt road. Foreign soldiers in desert style camo with heavy machine guns ambled around. Families dragged belongings and their children. Women in shawls and hijabs, the men in perahan tunbans. Children ran around playing games, oblivious to the desperation that punctured the air in only the way children can do, or otherwise crying and clinging to their parents as they were dragged down the road. Trash littered the sides of the road - medical masks and empty flattened plastic water bottles, bits of cardboard and empty food containers. They were boxed in by a high wall on either side of them with rolls of razor wire on the top. Masses of people crowded together ahead at what looked like a kiosk of some sort. People were shouting and jostling to get ahead of each other in the crowd.\nThey continued further down the road to another crowd of people, spying a Canadian flag above. Abdul tried to push into the crowd, but was blocked out. One of the Canadian consular employees behind the table produced a megaphone and shouted into the crowd. “Everyone! Everyone! Please calm down. Please quiet down.” The crowd fell to a hush. \n“Unfortunately it has come to my attention that due to security reasons, the Canadian consul is unable to process any more applicants for evacuation today.” \nA cry rippled through the crowd, and the noise began to rise again.\n“Everyone please listen. Please for a moment if everyone could just listen. We will be continuing our evacuation efforts as soon as possible, but unfortunately at this moment we cannot say when that may occur. For the foreseeable future, the Canadian consul will have to shut down our kiosk here. We will reopen at another location when it has been deemed safe to do so.” \n“But what about us? What about our safety?” Someone shouted in the crowd. \nOthers joined in. “Yeah! What about what we did for your country?”\n“You owe it to us to help us!”\n“The sacrifices we made!”\n“The Taliban will kill us! You have to save us!”\nEveryone was shouting now and the individual voices drowned out in the collective din of dozens of people screaming. The crowd started surging towards the kiosk. A man tried to jump over the desk but a soldier grabbed him and pinned him to the ground. A woman screamed. Abdul saw a lone child clutching a ragged doll crying. She had a dirty pink bow in her hair. \nHe backed away from the mess. He grabbed Samaneh’s hand and they started walking away.\n“Come on,” he said.\n“Abdul, where are we going?”\n“We have to get away from here.”\nGunshots pierced through the angry buzzing of the crowd. Screams rang out. They dropped to the ground, Samaneh shielding Hooriya. Abdul looked back to see a soldier waving an M16 in the air, shouting at people to get back. \n“Quick, let's go.” Abdul said as he helped Samaneh up. Hooriya was crying. He tried to brush the dirt off his shirt and they started a half-crouching run down the alley. They did this for a few minutes before turning into a small alcove formed by a concrete guard tower. They slid behind some boxes and sat on the ground, both panting.\n“What. Are. We. Going. To do now?” Samaneh stammered. \nAbdul didn’t respond. They’re going to torture you. Hooriya will never go to school. Your wife will become a slave for the Taliban. She will never see you again, because they will hang body in the streets. Ugly thoughts bubbled to the front of his mind, like methane gas in a septic pit. Stop it! He had to do something. He had to get them out of here. He could feel panic rising again. Sweat beaded on his brow and flicked down into his eye, stinging. He craned his neck around the corner of the guard tower. Just then he caught sight of someone he hadn’t seen in a while. \n“Just wait a minute.” Abdul got up. \n“Abdul, where are you going? Abdul!”\n“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said as he started walking down the alley. “Haatim! Haatim!” \nA man wearing a black tunic and sandals turned around. He had a light scarf around his neck and a Nike backpack on. He had an umbrella over his head, shielding the harsh glare of the sun. \n“Abdul! It’s good to see you!” The man smiled as they embraced quickly. “How are you? Where is Samaneh?” \n“She’s just around the corner with the baby. What are you doing?” \n“Trying to get out of here as fast as I can. I’ve heard the Taliban have circled Kabul and are making an approach on The Arg.” \n“I know, I’ve heard as well. Listen, how are you getting through? The consul turned us away.”\nHaatim looked away, a bit uneasy. He rubbed his hand through the stubble on his face. \n“I uhh, I might have been able to secure a route through a back channel. But there’s hardly any room left.” \n“What do you mean?” Abdul grabbed Haatim’s shoulder. “How many spots do you have?”\n“I have been told there’s only room for one more than me.” Abdul felt his breath catch. “I’m sorry Abdul, truly I am. There’s no way I could take you all with me.” Abdul was thinking fast, his brow furrowed. “Will you come with me? If you are, we have to move soon.” Haatim was glancing over his shoulder in the direction he had been walking. “What’s it going to be?”\n“Listen,” Abdul said. He placed both his hands on his friend’s shoulders to look him square in the face. “You have to do something for me then.” \n“Sure, I can try my best. What is it?” \nAbdul told him.\nThey walked back to Samaneh and Abdul introduced the two of them. Abdul quickly explained the plan to get to Haatim’s contact and they started off.\nThey moved down the alley further, passing the area where the Canadian consul workers had been. The crowd had dispersed and the workers had left the tables and taken off. Scattered papers were strewn over the ground beside several of the overturned tables. A hot breeze picked up down the road and blew dust into their eyes. They squinted against the dusty wind and the sun beating down on them. They rounded a corner and could hear the noise of another crowd building. A mess of several hundred people had gathered below a wall ahead of them. They were shouting and shoving. Some were hoisting each other up to try and scramble over the wall but it was very tall. The razor wire had mostly fallen down on this stretch of wall. A couple soldiers were looking down on the mass of people and shouting for them to go back. A man had managed to get to the edge but a soldier pushed his hands off the ledge and he fell back into the crowd. \n“Haatim, over here!” About 50 feet from the nearest edge of the crowd a man’s head was poking just over the wall. He was waving at them. “Come on, we have to go now!”\n“This is it, hurry,” Haatim said. They ran to the edge of the wall. Haatim tossed his umbrella on the ground.\n“Haatim, who are these people?” the man over the wall said. \n“They’re coming with us.” \n“You know we can’t bring everyone, there-”\n“-Shh, shut up, we’ll make it work!” Haatim silenced him. “Quick Samaneh first” The man on the wall groaned and reached down. Samaneh handed Hooriya over to Abdul. Haatim helped boost Samaneh up and she grabbed the man’s hand, hauling herself over the edge to land beside him. “Now the baby.” Abdul used Haatim’s cupped hands as a step and reached up as high as he could with Hooriya and passed her over to Samaneh. \n“Hey, over there,” someone in the crowd shouted. Abdul looked up and saw dozens of people watching them. They started running towards them.\n“Abdul hurry!” Samaneh shouted.\n“You next, my friend,” Abdul said to Haatim. \nAbdul cupped his hands and braced himself as Haatim pushed his foot off his hands and reached up to grab the man on the wall’s hand. He hauled himself up. \n“Come on Abdul,” said Samaneh. She was gesturing with one hand for him to come up to them. Abdul and the man on the wall were leaning over as far as they could, arms outstretched. Abdul took a run and just as he was about to kick off the wall, he was knocked flying sideways. He hit the ground hard and felt the wind go out of him. He saw stars for a moment as pain shot through his right elbow. \n“Get up Abdul!” he could hear his wife scream. All around him people swarmed, suddenly taking up every spot of dirt near the wall. He looked around and saw a sea of legs all pressing in around him, everyone desperate to make it over the wall. He felt feet come down on his hand on the ground and something crunched. He cried out in pain. He knew if he didn’t get up he would be trampled and crushed to death by the relentless mob. He forced himself up, pushing a man beside him out of the way. He was packed in a swarm of people that were all shoving each other. He was being jostled about like a stick caught in the surf. They were all packed in so tightly. Everyone was screaming. He could barely breathe. Everywhere he looked he saw desperate and angry faces. Men shoving each other and pushing some to the ground. Some of those who fell weren’t getting up. He could feel the hope he had being squeezed out of him. I’m not going to make it. \nHe looked up and saw his wife on the edge, her hands stretched down as far as she could, her other arm wrapped tightly around Hooriya. Pain was etched across her beautiful face. Her green eyes shone even against the bright blue sky behind her. He looked over at his friend Haatim, who was crouched beside her. He nodded at Haatim, who nodded back, his face grim. \nHe looked back to his wife and mouthed the words, “I love you.” Haatim was tugging on her shoulder, shouting “we have to go.” The man on the wall had already disappeared over the other side. Tears were streaming down her face into the crowd frothing below, like hungry sharks. \n“I will find you again,” Abdul mouthed. \n“I can’t leave you,” she mouthed back to him.\nHe struggled to free his hand from the tight press of people around him. He blew a kiss towards her and held his hand up. \n“For Hooriya,” he mouthed.\nShe closed her eyes as Haatim pulled her away from the edge and she disappeared from view. \nAbdul fought his way out of the crowd and collapsed into a patch of shade around a corner. Exhaustion stole over him. They’re going to be safe. Haatim thought. His heart pounded in his chest. Pain coursed through his hand and elbow, but he felt a calm settle in his mind. They will be safe, and I will not see them for a while. But this is not the end. He pushed himself up slowly, brushing dust off his pants and shirt. He looked back at the mob and sighed. \nWe will meet again."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Finding a Place\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2784\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story including the phrase “Better late than never”."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Feeling his hair blowing wildly in the breeze, he kept his eyes set forward toward the light, just breaking through the trees. It was far too late for his comfort, but the boy kept moving anyway, too many nights having been spent against a tree or in a field for both his emotional and his physical comfort, young joints aching as though he were of an old man, hunger weighing his body down toward the earth below his feet. If his navigational skills were any good- the main part of that phrase being if- then it was likely he’d find himself in civilization once again. Perhaps that was ignorant hope or naive optimism, and he’d simply be walking these woods until he wasted away. \nHe finally paused for a moment, chest heaving with exhaustion as his lungs gasped for breaths that, in reality, it truly didn’t need, but longed for, reaching for the feeling of being fully human, rather than this bone-weary shell of his starved potential. he allowed his pack to slowly slide off his back, hitting the ground with a solid thump and gazed upwards. If he were near any sort of civilization, perhaps he’d be able to see it more reliably from higher up than on the lower level in which he stood at the moment, obscured by trunks reaching what felt like to the heavens. With a heavy breath, the boy grabbed the lowest branch, beginning his ascension, branch by branch, a trial of judgment of his weight and resilience. After minutes passed, branches threatening to splinter and give in from the force of his hand’s grip, he managed to find a solid footing in a fork in the canopy, poking his head out from the branches of the oak. There was a decent-sized cabin not too far from where he stood, the lighting of candles bringing slight illumination, though nothing that gave the boy an idea of whether they were able to be trusted. Aside from that, the next town he could find still was another few miles off, and that didn’t even guarantee a place to stay without having to beg. \nWith the hope of a comfortable place to stay beginning to dwindle, he sat himself down, leaning against one of the sturdy offshoots in the canopy. If he were going to have to continue walking for so much longer or risk having to spend the 3rd night without a bed, he at least deserved a small break, at least a reprieve of the pressure under his feet. \n“Hey, kid, you doing alright up there?”\nThe shock of hearing another man’s voice below him almost brought the boy off the branch, instinctually gripping a close branch near him. \n“I-... er, yes sir, I’m okay,” he responded, his voice gritty from lack of use, as though his own words were scratching his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m… not trespassing, right?\n“No, no, I was simply on a walk.” The man came into his eyeline now, seeming small from where he sat, but with a strong frame, his hair unkempt and choppy at the shoulders, but held no look of malice in his eyes. “Jesus, you look awful… kid-”\n“My name’s Lucas, if that helps at all.” \nThe man grinned, nodding with some combination of relief and compassion. “Thanks, didn’t wanna pry, but you really don’t look well, and it’s late into the evening.”\n“Yes sir, I know. I’m trying to find a place to stay, sorry for distracting you from your walk.”\n“Don’t worry about that, I wasn’t trying to get anywhere specific.” He squinted up at Lucas, before speaking once again. “Would you be alright with coming down here? You look like you’re in pretty awful shape, even from down here.” He gave a friendly grin, but perhaps that almost off-put Lucas. With so much uncertainty and rioting from desperation, something about even the concept of receiving kindness felt foreign to him, but he wasn’t completely blinded by his despair to not at least entertain the kindness. \n“...that depends. I’ll come down on two conditions.”\n“Alright, what do you want?”\n“One, can you give me your name? Y’know, since I gave you mine and stuff-”\n“Ah, yes! Sorry, kid, the name’s John.” The certainty and speed of the answer brought Lucas comfort, but he still kept his guard up, watching the man below him carefully. \n“Okay, thank you Mr. John, but…” a wave of exhaustion hit him again, and he had to shake his head just to refocus himself. “Sorry, I… yeah, anyways, why… Why are you talking to me?”\nJohn’s expression turned from something of compassionate amusement to genuine concern, though somewhat masked. “It ain’t often you see a kid sitting in a tree who looks like he’s going to fall off at any moment.” \nFair answer, can’t judge that. \nHe nodded, before, very carefully, descending himself down the tree, a feat that, while far easier than trying to pull yourself up branches, left him feeling far more anxious, the risk of falling a dangerous amount more likely with less certainty about the strength of branches, but managed to find himself back on the ground no more scathed than he was before. John stood about 6 inches taller than the boy, and the strength in his form even more noticeable now that they stood, one in front of the other. \n“...you’re taller than I realized.”\nJohn gave a good-natured laugh, eyes that were creased with worry now a little bit less stressed. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Something about good bones, or something.” There was a calming quality to the amusement in his tone. If there was an attempt to lower Lucas’ guard for nefarious reasons, it was pretty effective, in all truth. Still, he didn’t fail to notice the concern in John’s eyes become just as clear as it had been before, now seeing Lucas in all of his starving and exhausted glory. \n“...I promise I’m okay.”\n“‘Okay’ clearly does not have the same definition between us, bud.”\n“I just.. Y’know, a little hungry, a little tired.”\nJohn nodded, silent as he thought, before speaking once again. “Would you like a place to stay tonight? I stay in a cabin pretty close by with a friend of mine, we have an extra bed and some soup, you could rest up for a day or two if you need.”\nLucas looked at him, eyes wide and body still. “I… Why?”\n“Why what? Why am I showing you basic human courtesy? Lucas, kid, you look like you’re about to collapse, and you’re a good bit out from town, I’m worried about you.” \n“You barely know me, though.”\n“Doesn’t matter. Honestly, you look way too worn-down to do any damage even if you wanted to, I’m not worried about it.” John spoke with only genuosity, such a rare sight that Lucas allowed himself to nod at the offer, smiling.\n“Well… If you insist, I’d appreciate that, sir.” \n“I promise you don’t gotta call me “sir”, kid. Anyways, it makes me feel old, I’m not that late into my 30s.” \nSo Lucas grabbed his pack and the two of them walked, the light conversation at least being enough to somewhat distract the boy from his aching limbs and his empty stomach. Despite being somewhat small talk, likely motivated on John’s end by the desire to make sure Lucas didn’t wear himself down too much, Lucas still learned a good bit about him. He fought in World War I, just 17 when the war started and 20 when he joined. “Not an experience I’d recommend, really, and not a war I found myself understanding the purpose of, but I didn’t know how to cope with my teenage spite,” he said, and, one some level Lucas found himself sympathizing with this, despite not liking even simple confrontation, much less violence, but he did find himself relating to the idea of unplaced spite. One could even argue that was why he was out there, so stubbornly set on making sure he didn’t follow the steps of men who he knew he didn’t want to resemble. Hateful, pretentious men who see themselves, and by proxy their ideologies, above others. \nOf course, he didn’t want to admit that he was spiteful to the man who was giving him a place to sleep and food. Still, though, there was simply something he trusted about this man, the sort of bright, yet not wide-eyed, attitude he had, clearly with his own experiences and their impacts, but not sunken down by them. \nEventually, they reached the cabin, and once couldn’t help but think about how nice this must have been, just the quiet forest, a nice, decently sized garden, and your friend. That honestly sounded like a dream, but as most dreams are, was more than realistic. One of them must have had the house before all of this, lucky enough to be able to survive decently enough to not have to sell it. Lucas didn’t have that, he barely had enough to keep moving and keep getting small jobs, much less find himself any place to live. After walking next to Lucas’ side most of the walk, he walked ahead when they neared the door, taking and twisting the doorknob. \n“Henry, I’m back, and I have somebody with me.” \nLooking past John’s shoulder, he saw another man come from around the corner, with shorter- though just as shaggy as John’s- hair, much closer to his height than his friend’s. There was a moment of quiet between the two, a couple of back and forth expressions, a silent sort of connection only close individuals could have, before he looked Lucas over, before motioning to John to come inside. \n“You two come in. The soup is done, and you look like you could use it. What’s your name?” Henry’s voice had much less energy, coming off as slightly aloof, though not mean. Jaded, perhaps. \n“Lucas, nice to meet you, sir.” \nThere was a small chuckle, copied by John. “Kid, I promise, you don’t have to call us sir, we aren’t your school teacher.” \nHe nodded, following him into a decently sized kitchen and dining room (even having one felt astonishing, though) Henry reached up and grabbed a bowl, pushing his heels up just slightly to reach. “So, Lucas, what were you doing out here? I assume you found him in the forest, John?” \n“You say it like he’s some stray cat,” John laughed, getting a look shot at him, though the smile pulling at Henry’s lips betrayed amusement. \n“Hey, no, that’s not what I intended, and you know it. Lucas, I’m not saying you’re some stray, just curious as to why you’re out here.”\n“Ah, just… trying to find work, I suppose? I got a bit lost trying to find another place to stay and work, though.” His voice was quiet, glancing down at his feet and shifting his feet awkwardly, hoping that they didn’t take that as some excuse. “Hard to find any 1 place to have consistency, though, so I kinda just try and go around. Saw a town past the forest on a map, and just thought that I could shortcut my way there…”\n“Wait, so how long were you out there?” John spoke up, raising his eyebrows. \n“...well, I’ve been walking for about 2 days, in the forest for over a day, through the night, so not long.” \nThe men were quiet, looking at each other with concern etched on their faces before Henry looked back at him. “And how old are you?”\n“15, which I know seems young, but I’ve been traveling for work for a while, don’t worry. Anyways, you gotta learn survival skills at some point with how… y’know, just about everything is. You have to sort of rush around to make it.” He could feel their eyes drilling into him, though they quickly averted their gazes as he looked up, and he reached to try and lighten the tension, letting himself grin. “Y’know, you could say this is my coming of age arc. I’m a little old for it, but better late than never, I suppose.”\nThe other two gave somewhat crooked smiles, slightly amused but expressions still marked by worry for the boy, though perhaps somewhat lighter now, whether that be out of a want to not stress Lucas out or genuine relief, and Henry turned his back to grab a ladle and fill the bowl. \n“Give him my portion too, please, Henry. I’m not hungry, and he could use it.” The expression Henry shot back was one of reluctance, but John was too set for any words to be effective, so he gave a small shrug and refilled the ladle. John drew his attention back to Lucas, then behind him, toward another small hall. “We can get you set up in the extra room once we get you fed. If you need, we’d be happy to let you stay here for a couple of days while you figure out where you’re planning to go next-”\n“If he needs, finds some work in the town over, I’d personally be alright with him staying in exchange for some help in the garden or running to grab something from town,” Henry spoke over John, coming over to hand the boy a bowl of vegetable soup, the carrots and celery looking far better than anything he had gotten his hands on in quite some time. Still, he couldn’t help but feel like he was being parasitic to the strangers’ kindness, and Henry picked up on this quickly. “It’d be helpful to have another set of hands around here, and we have the extra room, it’s not being used by either of us.” \n“3 bedrooms is impressive, this is a wonderful place.” There was a moment of confusion on each of the two’s faces at the 3, but they both understood the misunderstanding and silenced their corrections. Explaining the situation would be far too complex of a feat to try and convey to this child, and far from safe. Best to just let him draw his conclusions. Anyways, Lucas was comforted by the kindness shown between these two men. They were close, though he wasn’t sure just how close. Still, a part of him found himself jealous of their close companionship, wishing he could have reached for that without the repercussions from his family, the stern lectures and the forceful attempts at “firming the boy up.” Still, that was on a different level than what Lucas assumed they had, the likelihood of being able to live out his dream like that… “I’m sure it’s really hard to keep yourself this well though, I don’t want to make anything harder-”\n“Kid, I don’t think you realize that we’ve been living out here since before all of this. You need a place to rest for a while, and I don’t want to have to wonder if you’re going to accidentally get yourself back to this condition again. You don’t have to be dashing around, there’s a better option for you, as long as you want it and are willing to help out around here. You don’t have to keep rushing to give yourself anything. I’m not saying you’d be able to fully take it slow- I don’t think any of us really can- but you can at least recover, maybe, with some luck, find a place to work without having to worry about where you’ll stay.”\nMaybe, on some level, John could see the struggle this kid was going through. A 15 year old was young enough to want home and old enough to be useful, clearly something had happened, and there were a lot of bad men out there. Maybe part of him wanted to protect and guide him, and he could see that same concern in the way Henry looked back at him. He couldn’t make the kid choose to do any particular thing, but he could give him some sort of chance. \n“John, you’re talking your head off, let the poor boy eat something,” Henry teased, handing a bowl to him as well. “And you eat too. There’s enough for all of us.” \nLucas took that offer with no objections, finishing it within minutes of letting his weary legs rest, finding an almost instant rejuvenation, refreshed by the full meal and the supportiveness. The talks for the rest of the evening were lighter, and while there were still questions, there was a mutual understanding that they could wait till the morning. For 1 night, maybe they could all take it slow, not worry too much about the hatred and panic of their reality."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Smooth Sailing\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1301\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone trying to read a map."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "…And in regards to the sea monster, I would like to congratulate Erasmus on losing but one leg rather than both as he battled the mighty foe. Many a man has lost several appendages fighting such creatures, but Erasmus managed to keep nearly all of us, and for that, we are most proud of him. My, doesn’t his new peg look sharp! Whittled to perfection by Antonio, to whom we are most grateful. Applause all around.\nWell, that about covers the old business of the day. Dinner tonight will be a light grog with a side of sea monster stew. Perhaps some seaweed if we can manage to scrape any off the side of our vessel without anyone falling into the water again. For such an experienced crew, it is astounding to me how many of you cannot seem to stay on the ship. It is no grave matter, however, since our food supply can only last if we decrease our staffing by forty percent by next week. Between mysterious diseases and men tumbling overboard, I believe we shall reach that number without having to resort to drawing straws.\nNow, while we are on the topic of a dwindling food supply, I suppose I should address what brought us to this calamitous moment in our journey. I have to say, it is truly the funniest of stories once you hear it. I would like to advise you that upon your first intake of the information I am about to give, you may feel yourself misunderstanding my words and meeting them with fury or violence, but that is why you should go about your day and work hard, so that in the morning, you will feel significantly less angry--at least, that is the hope.\nTry and recall that I am your Captain, and as such, I am owed a great deal of respect and adoration from you due to the skill and expertise I show every single day as I steer us towards riches and glory. Applause all around.\nIt seems as though whoever installed the maps in my Captain’s Quarters placed them all upside down. Now, I do not wish to go around assigning blame, but the fact is, not a single map was positioned as it should be, and, as a result, we have been going in the wrong direction for these past nineteen months.\nSome of you may have been aware that our journey was taking longer than expected. Considering the original timeline had us reaching the New World after seven weeks, it is only to be expected that you were concerned when we sailed past that deadline and the twenty-six deadlines that followed it. I know my nightly pep talks and threats against your lives helped to keep you calm, but faced with what I know now, I must choose transparency and responsibility. \nThis predicament, which is not at all my fault, has turned me as upside down as the pieces of parchment I was using to navigate us towards wealth and prosperity. Each night, I have shown my bravest face to you lot, only to return to my quarters and cower under one of the blankets that we will one day poison before handing over to whichever denizens we encounter upon our arrival in Paradise.\nI had hoped to correct this little transportation blunder by simply redirecting us slowly over a matter of days, but now it appears that not only were the maps upside down, but they were also written in a language I do not speak. Yes, I did purchase them from a rather dodgy character at a bazaar before we set sail. Yes, I did marvel at the low price. No, I did not bother to take a good look at them before boarding this ship. That is not my job. I am the Captain. Somebody else should be inspecting all maps to be assured that they are in a language the Captain can read and also hung properly in his chambers. I am not sure who that person would be, but I feel confident that he is one of the men the sea monster ate, and so, we should forgive him, as he has been punished enough, but never forget that he, whoever he is, is to blame--and nobody else. Certainly not me. Never me.\nI do bear better news brought to you by our old friend, Logic. Since we have sailed in every direction up until now, I am now confident that we are heading where we are meant to be heading, and that is in no small part to my genius as it pertains to deduction. Growing up, my parents were certain I would become an officer of the law, but I chose this occupation instead, and lucky for all of you. Applause all around.\nThe only fly present in that ointment would be if, rather than towards the New World, we found ourselves heading back from whence we came. Home, in other words. There is a half chance we could be back there within a year or so. By then, any of you who are still alive will most certainly stand trial for incompetence, and I would like to promise all of you here and now, that I will beg the judge for leniency when he is deliberating on your punishment. For though, yes, you have failed to assist me in achieving our majesty’s ultimate goal of getting precious flour and gold back to her (presuming she has not perished from that whooping sickness she had when we left), you are still (mostly) good men. None of us are born perfect. Like maps, we are sometimes put in positions that do not allow us to do our best. When that happens, we must be easy on ourselves, and simply adjust as I have done.\nWhether we land on foreign shores or the sweet sands of home, I would like to thank all of you for making this voyage with me. I know it has served you greatly, but you might be surprised to know that it has also done my heart good to see my presence affect so many in all the best ways. The way you all whisper about your love for me whenever I turn my back. The way you sharpen your knives as you smile at me; knowing how much I appreciate those who keep their weapons in good shape. The way I intimidate you with my aura of greatness. So much so, in fact, that whenever I’m near any of you, you trip and fall, nearly shoving me right off the deck and into the cold abyss of nothingness. My, how it happens time and again, and yet, I do not fault you for it. I am much to behold and you are only mere mortal men.\nAny more tribulations that come our way, we will meet with great bravery and resolve. And by ‘we’ I mean ‘all of you’ since this unfortunate discovery regarding my maps has rendered me quite depleted. I shall spend the remainder of this journey in my quarters. Meals will be brought to me and all decision-making shall be handed down from me on pieces of parchment that I shall slide under my cabin door. I expect smooth sailing from all of you, and if the ship bucks or rattles in any way, I will see to it that the men responsible are punished when we get to wherever it is we are going. Though I am entering a state of rest, I shall have no compunction when it comes to doling out consequences for those who are not capable of doing their jobs. Consider this your last in-person dose of inspiration from me, your Captain and savior.\nApplause all around."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Bear\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2790\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone trying to read a map."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The map was impossible to read. Even if a snow storm hadn’t covered the entire valley last night, I wasn’t sure navigating our way through it would be enough to save Bear. \n“What do you think, Bear? We keep heading down the mountain?” I shifted my head towards my shoulders so I could see his tired eyes. His only reply a slow blink and a wheezing exhale. I had been carrying Bear, slung across my shoulders, each pair of his legs bound in my hands on either side, for the better part of the morning, at least since the first light reached the sky, though we had been traveling long before that. We had crossed a thinly covered rock garden a few miles from where we camped last night, and I wasn’t going to drag him over the rough terrain, even if he was wrapped in the thickest pelt I had – bear skin, an invaluable gift from Henry before I left. He was the same friend who had gifted me this map, hand scribed it himself after exploring these mountains last year when the days had been longer, the sun warmer. He’d warned me that with winter at its peak, the topography of this land might appear too different for the map to serve us well. \nThey had all warned me back home when I told them I was taking Bear out for a hunt. I knew it would be risky, to travel so far from home in the middle of winter. No one ever went further than a day’s walk away from the village alone, and even that held the risk of enduring one life-threatening night in the cold. But I had not sighted deer, or even fox, in our area in weeks. With their trade value bound to inflate, I couldn’t resist venturing out with my fierce coonhound companion.\nBear grunted. “You okay, bud?”\nAnother wheezing exhale. “I suppose we could take a quick rest here. But it’s gotta be quick, you hear? I don’t know how much longer either of us will make it, and we can’t risk being out here if another storm like last night’s comes through.”\nI tucked the map away in my satchel, not willing to risk our only guidance, even if it was impossible to decipher. I was gentle in my movements, sliding his weight over to one of my shoulders, and catching him in my arm, his full 80 pounds crushing my wrist. With my other arm, I swiftly removed the pelt off my back and tried to lay it down flat on the snowy ground, careful to find a soft spot with no hidden boulders or bulging roots beneath it. Cradling his head in the palm of my hand, wincing slightly at the pressure on my still-fresh wound, I laid Bear down atop the fur as if he were a newborn infant. His eyes squinted and he pulled his paws inward towards his belly. The pain in his grunt stung worse than my sliced palm.\nIt had been wolves. Five of them. All white, merely shadows of the blizzard stepping out behind the trees, surrounding our camp in the dead of night. Our fire was hot ashes, making us blind to the midnight forest around us. Bear, of course, heard them, and woke me with his barking before I had time to realize what was upon us. Before I could get to my hatchet, they were on him. I could still hear Bear’s piercing cry when not one, but three of the wolves made contact at once. One tearing at his ears, the other at his throat, and the third at his rear. The details of how I reached the brawling canines was fuzzy, but the pain of their razor sharp teeth meeting my skin ached clearly. The red snow beneath Bear told me I barely got to them in time. \n“How ya doing, Bear?” I tried to cast worry out of my voice. Our years of hunting together made us both sensitive to even the slightest shifts in our energy. I knew he didn’t have any strength to spare, and didn’t want to risk alerting him in any way. I lifted his limbs gently to scan his wounds. I’d used any fabrics I could spare to apply a tourniquet to the worst of his injuries, but there were large crimson stripes across his stomach I had been unable to bandage. Bear had lost a considerable amount of blood and this weather, the journey ahead of us, was not in his favor. I caught Bear’s eyes looking directly at me, the gaze of a soldier with not much left to give, fatigue the only thing left in him. I lowered his leg I had lifted, and gently stroked my hand across his back, his blue-gray spotted fur warming my hand. I felt guilty taking even that bit of comfort from him. He didn’t owe me anything, yet I felt I owed him my life. \n“You’re gonna be OK, boy. Not much longer now, and we’ll have ourselves a warm shelter. Maybe we’ll even catch ya a nice squirrel for dinner, your favorite, huh? How’s that sound?” My companion blinked, and his tongue escaped his mouth just enough to curl around the top of his nose before disappearing. I chuckled at his response, wishing so badly I could pat and scrub his belly the way it usually made him roll onto his back, stretching his legs wide overhead, his tail racing with bliss. \nA brisk wind whirled loudly around us, threatening the return of last night’s blizzard. A warning from the Mother herself.\nBear shivered and winced. I quickly folded the bear skin around him. “Alright, that’s enough rest, Bear. We ought to get out of this.” Bear looked so weak, I almost didn’t have it in to me unwrap him from what little warmth he had and hoist him up over my shoulders. But I could not drag him down the steep mountain ahead of us. \nI had no choice but to trudge forward, in the direction I hoped would take us to the small settlement Henry had told me to seek out if we found ourselves in this situation – victims of the winter. I prayed my instincts would lead us to the destination we sought in time… I didn’t let the thought of death take form in my mind. A hawk, as if in response to my silent prayer, screamed above the wind. Taking the bird’s presence as a good omen, I decided to follow its path for as long as it’d guide us. \nThe wind seemed to grow stronger as we made our descent, the hair’s on my face no longer flowing with its wave, but solid as the icicles that hung from the few visible branches of the pines. I was thankful for the comfort of Bear’s steady and slow breaths. Not just for the warmth they provided, but for their company. It felt as if we had been walking for half the day already, though the sun had not yet settled in the center of the sky. At least we had the hope of temperatures rising soon. And the hawk’s occasional song. \n“We’ll find it, Bear. Closer with every step.” A lie meant more for me than him.\nWe were nearing the end of the mountain. I pulled out Henry’s map, just for the sake of doing so, and despite what had seemed impossible, I thought I could tell where we were. If I was reading it correctly, the settlement should be about a half day’s travel, give or take a few hours if the weather worsened. We might actually make it before dusk. We might actually make it in time to save Bear.\nI shrugged my shoulders, giving Bear a little shake. I sent out a victory yelp into the valley. It echoed back to us, and I felt Bear’s tail twitch, his best attempt at celebrating with me. “Hold on, Bud. We’re gon’ make it through it, just hang on.” The hawk joined our celebration, letting out another booming shriek to the sky.\nBut it had been a warning, not a victory cry.\nI heard his roar before I saw him. Its sound was hoarse in the wild wind, but it bounced off the mountains and shook like thunder. I thought my mind was playing vicious tricks on me, for it certainly could not be what I thought I heard. And then I saw him, and I knew instantly what he was. \nNot far from us, merely 100 yards from where we stood, lurked a full-grown grizzly.\nLike the leaves of fall, this animal should be temporarily extinct from the world, tucked away somewhere in dark corners, like my thoughts of facing such an encounter had been. Was this why our village had not seen many fox or deer this season? \nHe had heard us – heard me, hollering – and was looking exactly in our direction. The roar had been his reply, and full of rage. The hawk, suddenly silent, was now perched atop the tallest tree, as if just waiting to bear witness to our battle. And perhaps, finish off whoever was defeated.\nI knew there was no hiding, no covering the scent of blood that clung to us, and with Bear wrapped around me like a scarf, there was certainly no chance of running. I could tell Bear caught scent of the beast by the small twitch in his legs, the wrinkling of his nose, all of which I knew was nothing compared to how he would have reacted if he had been in full health. Bear had gotten his name from this beast, for his fearlessness of such a steel creature. Our first hunt together, he’d chased off a bear, ran right towards it without a second thought, albeit saving my life after frightening it away before it do its damage. But in his current condition, in the unforgivable winter where this animal should not be… Mother Nature was showing her teeth, scolding us for taking her on, for challenging her. I knew we would not win. For the first time since his attack, I was thankful for Bear’s condition. I made myself as stiff as the trees around me, willing calm through my body, and hoping it transpired to his. \n“Hold,” I whispered through my teeth, a cue that meant it wasn’t time to strike our prey. \nBut as the bear took its first steps in our direction, a growl rumbling from deep in its chest, time became nothing. Whether the bear charged first, or Bear’s howl bellowed from his snout, I do not know. The ground began trembling beneath my feet, shaking the snow off the surrounding trees. It was as if whole mountains around us were vibrating from the sound of roaring. It took but seconds for him to reach us. I clenched Bear’s legs, which were now wriggling with a fighting fury in my fist, the brown giant’s gnashing teeth the last thing I saw before squeezing my eyes together, yielding my last request to God: that death come quickly.\nTime was gone, but the world around me was shaking and loud. \nShaking and roaring. Closer and closer. \nShake. \nRoar. \nShake. \nRoar. Closer… Then stillness. \nThe lack of impact was stunning. \nIf the thrumming of my heart weren’t pounding in my temples, the gunshot blasting through the air would have made me jump. I didn’t dare open my eyes. I could still feel the bear’s heavy presence before us, wavering… Another gunshot blasted. This time I jolted, and forced myself to look, to face the death that’d come for me, but all that was there was the bear, now lying on its side. His breathing struggling, and faint, before a last gurgling exhale. \nI stared, unable to move the muscles in my body, gasping for air as if the bear’s last exhale had been my own. Bear had also gone silent, now still around my shoulders. The hawk shrieked, proclaiming his departure, as he soared away, leaving us a moment of quiet peace in the lull of our apparent triumph. \nBut it was just that, a moment. A rustling nearby indicated subtle approaching footsteps in the noiseless snow. \n“God Almighty, are you all right, sir?” The young man, more a boy than a man, stepped out of the trees less like a shadow, and more like a reflection. A light after all the darkness we’d endured. He held his rifle up by his shoulders, pointed at the dead beast in front of us, a gesture I took as kindness, safety, and relief. As soon as my eyes met the boy’s, I fell to my knees, speechless, with fists still wrapped around Bear’s legs, and sobbed. He strode towards us anxiously, his rifle still ready, then rested a hand on my shoulder. I wondered if he was as comforted by my solid form as I was by his. This was no dream.\n“Thank you,” I managed to say.\nMy reply seemed to calm him. “No need to thank me, sir. We’ve been looking for that damned beast for a matter of days, now. I’m just glad I was close enough to get him before he got you.” \nI looked up at him, his rifle now slung around his shoulder. “Did you say, “we?”\nYouth spread across the boy’s face as a hint of a smile appeared. “Yes, sir. There’s seven of us out here, been looking for the sleepless bear who’s been scaring away all our food this winter. We heard your dog there’s holler, followed by the beast’s nasty roar. I got here first on account of the fact that I’m the fastest one of the group, sir.” \nI just stared at him, my heart still pounding, adrenaline unwilling to surrender. \n“What is it you’re doing out here all alone, sir?” \nI told the young man and his companions, once he had finally made our way to them, that I had not been alone on my hunt. That I had taken Bear out to find the deer and fox that had disappeared. I told them about the wolves and how I had in fact been on my way to them before we encountered the bear. As if our luck was seeking balance, there was a man in the group who had remembered Henry from his visit last summer, and did not need more from me than that fact before he invited me back to their settlement, offering refuge, and what healing they could provide for Bear.\nHenry had been right in his warning – the topography of these mountains and this valley was skewed in the winter. Though we had been heading in the right direction, we were little more than a half a day’s travel from their settlement. With Bear’s condition, the group determined it would be best to make no stops, and risk losing light in order to get to the shelter before another moon-fall.\n“Almost there, Bear, stay with me,” I whispered close to his ears, but I received no reply, not even an exhausted grunt.\nThey had to wake their healer from his sleep when we arrived with only a few hours left in the night. A human doctor, who had occasional experience with domesticated animals. I laid Bear on the large table in the room, my bear pelt cushioned between him and the wood. Bear had hardly opened his eyes since we found these men, his chest barely rising. The healer listened to our story, of both beasts we’d survived, and took one look at my dog. He retrieved his glasses, and looked again before bowing his head. \nBear had lost too much blood. Had been out in the cold for too long. Had endured too much. The doctor speculated that Bear’s howl during the bear encounter had been all he had left. There was nothing he could do, he determined. \n“That dog saved your life. Be grateful you were not alone out there,” he said, before leaving me with the near-corpse of my companion. \nI had not been alone, not once since I acquired Bear. And here, in a settlement of new acquaintances, miles from my home, I felt the tendrils of loneliness grazing my skin. I leaned down over the table and pressed my head against Bear’s, my eyes meeting his. “Thank you, friend,” I whispered.\nThe sun’s first light peeked in through the window, and I watched Bear’s eyes close, just as a loud shriek broke through the morning stillness, a hawk rising. I couldn't help but wonder who it might offer its guidance to next."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Lansky's Project\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1666\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character in search of something or someone."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Cuba, December 1956:\nThe look on Mr. Lansky’s face left me worried. “There’s some trouble brewing in Cobrero,” he told me.” A militant group is organizing out there and if given time, may become an obstacle for the local government. Fulgencio Batista’s hold over the people is already weak and we don’t want anything to upset it or our operations here. So, I want you to go down there and see if this is anything you can do to crush before it gets too big.”\nOf course, when he said operations, he meant the casinos he was overseeing in Havana. As for now, his “operations were working like clockwork, making his bosses in Chicago happy. If that were ever to change, I’d fear the worst for him. “Will do, boss,” I replied. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”\n“One more thing, Tom. Say hi to Carmen for me.”\nA smile instantly crossed my face. The thought of her always brought me joy. Carmen had just moved in with me and she had become the joy of my life. Now, I had to return home and tell her I would be gone for a few days. I knew this wouldn’t make her happy, but there was nothing that could be done about it. Normally when I did a job for Mr. Lansky, I would be back by the next day and I could easily explain my absence to Carmen, but this was different. Since I was going to be gone for several days, I wasn’t sure what believable excuse I could make. But by the time I returned home, I decided there was only one thing I could tell her, and it wasn’t that I was a federally trained assassin working for the mafia. That would have to wait for another day. Upon opening the door, I discovered she was pleasantly surprised to see me coming home early.\nRunning into my arms, she passionately kissed me. “Good morning, honey. I wasn’t expecting you home so early. Did you miss me so much you had to call in sick?”\nJoyfully, I wrapped my arms around her. “If I did that every time, I missed you, they would have to fire me for never showing up for work.”\nShe kissed me again. “So, if it isn’t that you missed me, why did you come so early?”\nThe moment had come. “Mr. Lansky has a project in San Cristobal he wants me to work on. I’m going to be gone for a few days, but when I come back, I’ll make it up to you.”\nCarmen frowned. “What is so important you have to stay down there? San Cristobal isn’t so far. You could drive back and forth each day until you are finished.”\n“Mr Lansky was insistent I stayed down there. We must work on some water pumps and had to be on call in case something should happen to them. I’m sorry, Carmen, but I have no choice.”\nCarmen pouted for a moment and then smiled. “Very well, Professor Tom Fixit. You better make it up to me when you get back. If you don’t, I’ll make sure you never forget it.”\n“Now, now, my love. You know my name is Tom Ellis, not Tom Fixit. But if you keep loving me as much as you do, you can call me anything.” Gently, I kissed her on her forehead. “I promise you, babe, I’ll show you the time of your life and you’ll never forget it.” For the rest of the day, I doted on her and treated her like the princess she was, but during that time, I was in agony over the lie I told her. When the sun rose the next morning, I was heading towards Cobrero.\n***\nFortunately, bars are open most of the day, so when I arrived in town, I was able to sit down and listen to the regulars’ gossip about religion and politics. It was the latter which held my interest. The hot topic was about how Batista was corrupted, followed by how the local militia would make a government for the people. I didn’t have to listen much longer to learn this local militia was led by a man named Fidel Castro and his forces were hiding in the nearby forest.\nAfterwards, I cased out the local grocery store and waited for any customers picking up supplies. Knowing an army runs on its stomach, I figured this would be the most accessible source for supplies. As the sun was about to set, I military type vehicle stopped in the front of the store and the trucked was loaded with several crates. When the truck took off, I followed it as far as the edge of the forest, then turned back towards town. All I needed was to know where the truck entered the woods and now, I got it. Tomorrow, I can follow the tracks and engage my target.\nWhen the sun went down, I returned to the bar and sat there, listening to who ever said anything about Castro. That evening, I learned there were only a few men encamped with him, since a massacre that happened earlier this month, wiping out nearly everyone, but him. He was either a survivor or a coward. I couldn’t tell which. Whatever the answer was, it didn’t matter. I was going to put an end to his life, along with his ambitions of power.\nAs the crowd dispersed in the dark of the night, I returned to my hotel room and went immediately to sleep, knowing I would be up before the sun rose.\n***\nAs the sun began to rise, I drove within a half mile of where the truck previously entered the woods. Shouldering my rifle, I began to walk to the woods. I didn’t know how deep I’d have to go in, but I was certain I would have to walk for quite a while. The night sky was paling, but the sun still hasn’t risen. Still, I could see the tire tracks clearly. The woods became thicker, but the trail the truck took scarred a path, which even an amateur could follow.\nCautiously, I picked up my pace and began to trot. A beaten path guided me, as I continued at that pace for about thirty minutes. The path led to a clearing and in it, I could see the truck with several men standing nearby.\nAs I hid behind a tree, I began to watch their movements. Most of the men seemed to be in their teens and early twenties. No one was wearing a uniform and the few were armed. The weapons I could observe were severely outdated. Unfortunately, there was no sign of Castro. I took a deep breath and began to wait patiently. Thirty minutes passed, then an hour. Still, no Castro. I was beginning to think he wasn’t in camp, when I heard a deep voice barking just out of my line of sight.\nI pressed the butt of my rifle to my shoulder and began to wait for my target to come into view. A moment later, a man sporting a dark black beard walked to the men standing by the truck. I aimed for his temple. Slowly, I squeezed the trigger and when I heard the round explode into life, another man walked in front of Castro. That man fell to the ground, leaving Castro unharmed. I tried to aim again, but it was too late. Castro immediately ran off and found shelter behind the truck.\nWith failure imminent, there was nothing I could at that time but retreat to my car. Knowing so few people were in the camp, I knew they would not try to seriously pursue me, in fear of being shot themselves. So, I ran back as quickly as possible. Hopping in the car, I turned the key and took off. Bypassing Cobrero, I drove back to Havana, knowing I had failed in my mission.\nAfter returning to Havana, I met with Mr. Lansky. “Bad news, sir. I got down to Cobrero and sought out Castro. When I had him in my sights, I fired. But as luck would have it, a militant crossed the line of fire and I shot him instead. Castro was unscathed, but I’m sure he got the message.”\nMr. Lansky leaned back in his chair. “Don’t worry about it, Tom. You tried. We’ll just have to trust Batista to take care of Castro. If it’s just a few men like you say, he should be able to wipe them out with little resistance.”\n“I hope you’re right.” But in the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake the feeling we haven’t seen the last of Castro.\nAfter my meeting with Mr. Lansky, I returned home to find Carmen waiting for me. When I opened the front door and saw her smiling at me, the darkness that surrounded me melted away. I ran to her, and we embraced passionately. She whispered in my ear. “I missed you so much.”\n“I missed you to, my love. Each night I was away from you seemed like an eternity. I can’t count how many times I thought about quitting and returning home to you.”\n“I know how you feel, Tom. I thought about going to San Cristobal and meeting up with you, but then you would be spending all your time with me and never finish on whatever you were repairing. I’m sure Mr. Lansky wouldn’t have appreciated that.”\n“I’m sure you’re right. I wished we were together, but at the same time, I’m glad we weren’t. Now, we can celebrate our reunion without reservation.”\nCarmen hugged Tom tighter. “I like the sound of that. Let’s start celebrating now. Carmen gently grasped Tom’s hand and led him to the bedroom.\nLater that evening, I laid in bed wondering, “Since Castro lived to see another day, how much will the world change?” Time will tell."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Being Better, One Cranberry at a Time\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2670\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list of New Year's resolutions."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Number 1 - Stop holding grudges\nSome random woman in a supermarket blocked the dried fruit and wouldn’t move. It was a week before Christmas, I was stressed, supposed to be working full-time, shopping, hosting, planning, preparing, wrapping, being civil, having good will, being happy, not stabbing people’s faces with sporks in the queue for fish and chips. I had my niece, Whisper (yes, I told my sister it’s a stupid name, especially when shouted), in tow. But they’re excuses, I know that my behaviour was extreme and entirely my responsibility. Still, when I challenged her, she did put the entire tray of cranberry packets in her trolley, that wasn’t called for. I only wanted one. Rude cow. Not that it justifies my actions. Following her to the checkout, then her car, then ramming said car with mine was not proportional. I also forgot my niece in the process, left her alone in the supermarket. She was totally fine, but not the point, I caused harm to her and my sister, her mother, who was rightfully pissed. (Although, there was that time as a newborn that Sally left her in the back of her car, went for her optician’s appointment, got lunch, all without cracking a window. I’m not her mother or anyone’s, I don’t even have a pet. Not that it makes it right, of course.)\n\nThat happened.\n\nSally went on about it, told everyone over Christmas dinner, Aunt Midge called me ‘heinous,’ and the kid played it up, over and over, like she had PTSD over being given free sweets by a hot customer service dude for ten whole minutes. It did get me thinking though about how angry I got, it was rage, and like eating bad prawns, it was coming out one way or another.\n\nI’ve always had a mental hit list, ever since I was a kid. You do something to annoy me or insult me and you go on it (like Mrs Peterson who dropped my matchstick model of the Eiffel Tower into the class rabbit’s play pen and it splintered into a big cluster of poop, I refused to answer a single question in class for the rest of the year, scooped rabbit droppings into her desk drawer at least once a week, I didn’t even forgive the rabbit, regularly binning its food and praying for its death. When it happened, I didn’t even feel sorry about it, just smug and temporarily religious).\n\nI can’t let it drop either. It’s like this fire burning in my head I’ve got to keep alive for survival, it’s cumulative. Each incident stokes it, adds some dry branches and the flames get higher, spread further. Now I’m thirty-six it’s taken over the surrounding woodlands, invaded counties. That’s sort of the problem, because an incident can be relatively small (like taking my cranberries) but the fire is Satan worthy.\n\nMy grudges have kept me company. Little internal monologues that repeat themselves, like hype-men, bolstering their certitude in my thoughts. Trying not to create new ones has been challenging. Last week, Christine, my neighbour pushed her bins out onto the pavement next to mine and I saw her take stuff out of her overly stuffed bin and put it in mine. Isn’t there some law about tampering with other people’s rubbish, there bloody should be. I watched her do it, couldn’t stop thinking about it, no matter how much I tried distracting myself with cat videos. It wasn’t enough that I waited for the bin collectors to come, went out and questioned them (it’s post, not bins). I ruminated about it for a whole week, then on collection day, I crouched on the floor under my bay window and waited until her pink track-suited butt dragged her bin to the curb. Leaping to action, I pushed mine next to it, took out a bin bag and stuffed it into her bin. Then another. Then a big pizza box that I had to fold and beat down with my sweaty, dirty fists.\n\nChristine was stood on her doorstep watching me do it, she took photos. I haven’t been invited to wine and cheese night since.\n\nNumber 2 – Stop being so judgemental\nMaybe related to my vengeful thoughts, who can tell, is my capacity to find faults in others and refuse to overlook them. A super-size, historic one is about my sister, Sally. Not the leaving a baby in a car thing, that’s idiotic but doesn’t concern me. It’s to do with her kid’s dad.\n\nSally is blonde, curvy, she’s got freckles that run across her nose and dimples. The sort of person who gets called ‘adorable,’ and gets called. By men. I’m not. Yet, from the choice of any of the wide range of average looking, ambitionless, no-hopers in our town she could have chosen to father her child, she screwed the only man I’d ever fancied both with and without facial hair, our parents’ window cleaner’s son Rob. We’d had drunken sex four times in the year before it happened. He’d have left his wife eventually. Instead, Sally skips in with her ample bust and whimsical vagina and boom, baby bump.\n\nShe’s ruined him for me, forever.\n\nIt's been causing a wedge in the family since. I haven’t done anything wrong; she has, but they’ve got a point it’s bad form to call her names in front of her kid. And the letter on her windshield was too far. So, I’ve been trying to do better. \n\nI took a bit of a back step last Tuesday. It’s obviously not just Sally that gets my negative summations, I do it to everyone. My most frequent offences are (a) quickly deciding someone is stupid and not taking in anything that comes out of their mouths, (b) speedily concluding someone is full of shit and not taking in anything that comes out of their mouths, and (c) rapidly determining a person is up to something malicious and not trusting anything that comes out of their mouths. I came across a triple-strike. A bloke that instantly struck me as having the intellectual capacity of a toilet-brush, lied like he breathed and was trying to scam my parents out of my future inheritance. Old people need protecting, they don’t know how to navigate today’s world because they grew up in the war when people didn’t have anything to steal, bombs exploded off their door locks, and so everyone was trustworthy, it’s why so many of them naively tell bus drivers their bank account details and give money to donkey charities.\n\nAnyway, I turned up to my parents’ bungalow on Tuesday.\n\nAs a sidebar, they moved into that one-bedroom bungalow six years ago because they wanted me to move out and not, as my dad said, because of my mum’s double hip surgery making it hard to manage stairs. I saw her drag herself up and down those stairs, one at a time, grunting with the commitment of a born-again zealot when I said I’d left a half-finished pizza under my bed a week ago and it smelled a bit weird.\n\nThis lad was sat in the kitchen with mum and she was cleaning a cut on his arm. He was holding a bag of frozen spinach to his head and dribbling some pitiful nonsense about a car accident, not wanting to be any trouble, his mobile being smashed, using their phone. Classic long game ploy. Soon there would be a tiny baby whose heart had fallen into its own lung or a phantom wife in a permanent sit up, impaled on her own femurs, needing cash to get them the lifesaving operation they needed in Timbuctoo, or some other made-up destination.\n\nHaving seen through his ploy, I grabbed the closest, largest stainless-steel knife from the block. It was big, pointy, and surprisingly easy to clean being dishwasher-safe and, without conscious volition, pointed it at his neck. Poking it in a few millimetres so he understood I would not be trifled with, I used the expression ‘Sonny Jim,’ my rock bottom moment, my plea for help. After threatening to ‘shiv him’ (not even technically accurate), the boy pissed himself and stuttered. The police arrived; my dad having called them before my arrival and notified the man his wrecked car had been located and towed.\n\nA simple mistake with good intentions.\n\nNumber 3 - Stop telling lies\nThe phrase ‘web of lies,’ is over-used and I never understood how it was a bad thing. I mean, if you are the one lying then you’re not the one getting all up close and sticky, that’s everyone else, the little people silly enough to see a huge, creepy silk doily and go, ‘I wonder what it’s like if I just jump into that?’\n\nAlso, people are assuming lies have intentions propping them up. I find myself telling fibs about all sorts, don’t know why I’m doing it, or even that I’m going to do it, until, pop, my mouth gives birth. Some examples of the random untruths I’ve told this week alone: whilst ordering a Big Mac, I explained I’d been a vegan for ten years but had an epiphany in the form of a dream instructing me to abandon my values; I told my taxi driver I was going to ask my hairdresser to shave my head in solidarity with my best friend who had alopecia (I got highlights and a trim, but at least I was actually going to the hairdressers this time); told a random stranger in the bus queue my pony, Topdeck, had just died when they asked if I was okay (my contact lens had slipped to the back of my eye).\n\nIt's almost a year since I set this resolution. I admit, it was a bit of a knee-jerk reaction to my sister’s bullshit at Christmas. She kept listing all these innocuous things I’d allegedly said, like telling Whisper she was named after the chocolate bar, telling Whisper her real father was Mr Hershey, telling Whisper she had a ‘real father.’ People on the table gasped over their pigs in blankets and I swatted it away by promising to change.\n\nHere I am, nearly a year later, it’s Christmas Eve and I have some understanding of the web thing. Safe to say, I didn’t take this one seriously, mostly because I don’t see the correlation with being a better person but also a bit related to the way they spurt off my tongue like it’s lubricated and leaking. However, in the spirit of honesty, it’s more of a mass ecological chain of disaster than a tacky spider doily.\n\nI may have started with a bigger fib, like a natural disaster the size of a volcanic eruption in 1160 BC. This led me to a sizeable side-effect, equivalent to an ash cloud obscuring sunlight for ten years, this made me eradicate crops, followed by trees (there was no dialling it back at this juncture). The flowers just died (I figured, in for a penny) and I’m stood on the precipice of family dinner tomorrow, where I either fess up to failing at this resolution or I keep going and potentially massacre all life.\n\nNumber 4 - Be charitable\nOn my way to catch a train, on a busy street a volunteer wearing a garishly coloured tabard stepped in front of me with his clipboard and asked me a ridiculous question. I am still not convinced there are creatures called ‘pangolins,’ he may have been confusing them with penguins. Even if they do exist, no-one has persuaded me of their value, given you can ask everyone in a room and no-one has heard of them, should they be a priority? But, at the time, I was in a rush and I just tried stepping around the short, spotted man waffling on about musical penguins.\n\nHe followed me, shouting behind me about ‘allowing the slaughter of thousands.’ Compelled to engage, having resigned myself to missing the train, I did not hold back, following him and barking equally ludicrous questions.\n\nWith hindsight, some statements were careless, such as having to euthanise babies in intensive care to pay for pangolin rescue, demanding the volunteer give me an acceptable ratio of babies to pangolins. There were also references to the homeless working as crash test dummies I was using to illustrate my point, not because it was representative of my views. But I acknowledge, I said these things, I’m not arguing that fact.\n\nVideos of it went viral. I featured on a weekend primetime clip show. My employers felt like sensitivity training was necessary. The thirty-minute e-Learning package and quiz at the end were illuminating, hence ‘be charitable’ made my resolutions list. That, in itself, shows personal growth.\n\nHaving been ordered to do community reparation for threatening that man with a knife (following his suspicious behaviour, which still hasn't been totally verified), I have now completed one-hundred and fifty hours of litter picking. Retrieving used condoms and crisp packets (it’s astonishing how often these items co-occur, particularly cheese and onion, the crisps not the condoms - it’s difficult to tell if they’re flavoured, plenty of ribbed ones though and some glowed in the dark like withering jellyfish) is proof of my charitableness. This is sufficient for two years, at least. Resolution aced!\n\nNumber 5 - Be kind to others\nI’m ignoring the plural on this resolution. I wrote it back in January. The year has exhausted me and I’m ready to call it. Therefore, I’m going for one massive act of kindness. Something so generous and benefactory on my part I should get a ruddy award. \n\nThere were people who I could have been nicer to and may have caused some loosely defined, tenuous ‘harm(s).’ According to last year’s Christmas dinner conversation, this should include my sister and her poorly named offspring. For completeness, Christine my neighbour, the charity volunteer (if it was a real charity), the car crash man I threatened, pangolins, my parents for misusing their knife, the motorcyclist and van driver I almost forced off the road. That’ll do. I can always add more later.\n\nThe person I have been the least kind to all year is Ms Dorothy Janet Smythe. I was very uncharitable (resolution 4) when she took all the cranberries from the supermarket shelf last year. During the same, or several closely connected incidents I shouted, ridiculed, and threatened her, I also followed her on foot and by car, colliding with the back of her vehicle as vengeance for the cranberries (resolution 1). When we were trading insurance details, I lied (resolution 3) about it being an accident and being pregnant and abandoned by my husband (for sympathy). When I discovered, in October, my car had been sprayed with the graffiti ‘crazy bitch,’ and what looked like excrement smeared across the windscreen, I judgementally (resolution 2) assumed she did it, in response to a letter I sent her claiming to have whiplash and psychological trauma after the accident where she stopped suddenly and without indicating.\n\nHaving learned subsequently that this attack on my vehicle was Whisper and, also, from the work I have been doing all year to become a better person; I have been trying to be overwhelmingly compassionate to Ms Dorothy Janet Smythe. This is at great risk of personal detriment. Tomorrow is Christmas day, and I would like to release Dorothy from my out-house. She simply must agree to accept my apology for these past three months of false imprisonment, the unfortunate bundling of her into the van I borrowed from Jim at the pub and the confiscation of her personal belongings (I will obviously return most of these, retaining only the minimum required to ensure she doesn’t renege on the no police rule). If not, I will be forced (by her) to fail my commitment to achieving these resolutions and commit further acts Aunt Midge could label ‘heinous’ and lie about them to my family over dinner."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Mary's Girl Child\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2114\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where two characters are playing hide and seek, literally or metaphorically."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Sept, 1983\n\nMary Richardson stood at her kitchen window watching the evening sun play on the leaves of the grove of poplar that screened her house from the road. It was late September, the leaves were in their full autumn glory - for the first time in her life, she felt at peace. Slowly going over in her mind all the things that had led her to this place.\n\nRaised on a farm just outside Val Marie, Saskatchewan, the only child of a family broken by years of drought. Pregnant at an early age, moving to Lethbridge Alberta in 1947 after losing the baby. (For years, she had nightmares about it.). She got a job at the only thing she knew how to do - scrubbing and cleaning. \n\nEventually, she got a job as a waitress. Flirting with the men to get better tips and, if one of them wanted to pay her to warm his bed for a night, she would do that too. \n\nDoing whatever it took to survive in an era that wasn’t kind to a woman on her own.\n\nBriefly married in 1955. He had wanted children. He left in 1957, they found out she could no longer have children. Another unwitting victim of Alberta's ‘Sexual Sterilization Act’.\n\n[Part of Alberta's eugenics policy, the Act allowed for sterilization without consent for those \"incapable of intelligent parenthood\"]\n\nMary only returned home once, in 1958, to attend her mother’s funeral. Her father died four years later leaving her a bit of money from the sale of the farm. For the first time in her life she had a bank account, and didn’t have to live paycheck-to-paycheck.\n\nIn 1963 Mary left Lethbridge heading west, taking waitressing jobs in a number of small cities. None of them lasted long. She didn’t know what she was looking for - but she would know it when she found it.\n\nOn the first of April, 1965 she left her job at the York Hotel in Grand Forks, BC and headed for Osoyoos. After an hour’s driving she pulled over for coffee at Midway.\n\nMidway, is a small hamlet tucked between highway 3 and the US border where the Kettle River turns south into the US. With the highway just north of the townsite, most people sped through without slowing down. It is the type of place where nearly everyone is from somewhere else; a place where no one asks about your past; a place where you could restart your life.\n\nA “Waitress Wanted” sign was in the window.\n\nShe looked at it - shrugged. ‘Maybe for a few months’.\n\nRenting a tar paper shack just east of town, working the morning shift, Mary settled into the job.\n\nMary liked the morning shift even though it meant getting up at 4:30am. She arrived at 5:30, made three pots of coffee on the Silex, filled extra filters with coffee so she could quickly replenish the pots. If the cook was late, which was more often than not, she would turn on the grill and make sure there were enough peeled potatoes for the early breakfast crowd. \n\nThe truck loggers would start arriving as soon as they opened at 6:00. Some would have the breakfast special - two eggs over easy, three strips bacon, three sausages, hash browns and toast - everyone wanted coffee. By 7:00 they would be on the road.\n\nWith ample parking and no other places with parking until just outside Castlegar, the long haul truckers would start coming in around 9:00. Some would have a late breakfast, but most just wanted coffee and pie. The locals would drop in for coffee around 9:30. \n\nThe lunch rush started around 11:00. Susan, the owner’s daughter, came in at 11:30 to help with lunch and start the afternoon shift. Some of the truck loggers would be in for lunch or to fill up their Thermos with coffee before starting their second run for the day. There were always ‘drop ins’ from the road, more in summer than winter.\n\nIt was like no other place she had worked before. It was the type of place that, if she was busy, someone would get up and fill everyone's coffee. She soon got to know the regulars and would have their drink ready before they even sat down. \n\nThis was what she was looking for.\n\nThings in the town weren’t easy at first. The women were suspicious of a single woman staying in their town. But, months turned into years and, over time, she made a few friends. Eventually, she bought two acres of land near the Kettle River. Using the money her father had left her, she built a two bedroom home. \n\nShe had escaped her past; had her own home; a job she enjoyed; and friends she could confide in. \n\n‘It doesn’t get much better than this.'\n\nThe phone broke her reverie.\n\n‘Probably a salesman. Ignore it - they will go away’\n\nIt didn’t stop.\n\n‘It will ring itself off the wall if I don’t answer it’\n\n“WHAT” - she barked.\n\n“Is that Mary Richardson?” - the woman at the other end sounded vexed. It wasn’t any of her friends and certainly didn’t sound like a salesperson.\n\n“Yes, who is this?”\n\n“Are you from Val Marie, Saskatchewan?” Mary felt a pang of fear going through her. Only a few of her closest friends knew that. Who was this person? \n\nHesitantly, she whispered “Yes”\n\n“On Dec 20th, 1946” - Mary started trembling - “ in Medicine Hat Alberta, you had a baby girl” Mary slammed the receiver back on the hook, almost ripping the phone off the wall.\n\nScreaming “HOW DID SHE KNOW THAT? . . . How did she know that? . . . Nobody knows that.” Mary collapsed onto a kitchen chair sobbing. \n\n******\n\nIt was her sixteenth birthday. Her father had wanted a boy, and treated her like one. By sixteen, she could do as much as any of the farm boys of her age. Her mother wanted to get her something special for her birthday, something ‘girlie’. She gave her her first ‘party dress’. The boy from the next farm gave her a baby.\n\nAt three months, her father found out she was pregnant. He beat her, called her a whore and sent her to live with his sister in Medicine Hat, Alberta.\n\nHer aunt ran a boarding house on 8th Ave., just two blocks from the railway station. Mary could stay there, in exchange for cleaning the rooms. “You can stay until your baby is born.”\n\nOriginally designed as a root cellar, the windowless room was six by ten foot, a single light bulb with a pull chain switch hung from the ceiling. The room contained a single steel frame bed, a chair and a small square table. Her aunt rents it out to transients who couldn’t afford a regular room. It would be Mary’s home for the next six months.\n\n******\n\nMary fixed herself a small dinner. Her mind was still on the phone call, no one outside her parents and the hospital nurses knew of the baby - they were all dead.\n\nThat night her nightmare returned.\n\nShe was back in the maternity room. She had just awakened from the ‘Twilight Sleep’.\n\n[‘Twilight sleep’ - anesthetizing a woman at the start of labour. She would have no recollection of the procedure(s).]\n\n“Can I see my baby?”\n\nThe nurse looked down, avoiding eye contact. “You had a baby girl. But, I am afraid she didn’t make it.”\n\n“What do you mean?” She knew what the nurse meant - but wanted to hear it.\n\n“Your baby was still born.” The nurse still wouldn’t look her in the face.\n\n“I heard her cry.” Mary said in disbelief.\n\n“That was another baby.” The nurse turned to leave the room, leaving Mary to grieve on her own.\n\nMary screamed “Violet - I want to call her Violet.” Sobbing “My mother’s name is Violet.”\n\nSuddenly, her father was over her hospital bed screaming - “I never wanted a girl. You’re a whore. This is God’s punishment.”\n\nMary awoke screaming.\n\nGetting dressed, she made herself a coffee. Sitting at her kitchen table, she went over yesterday’s phone call in her mind. It made no sense - unless . . .\n\nShe was startled from her thoughts when the phone rang again. She grabbed the receiver.\n\n“Hello”\n\nThe voice on phone sounded angry:\n\n“My name is Violet Richardson.\" using her maiden name. \"I’m your daughter. I am coming out to see you. I will be there in an hour.” \n\nFalling to her knees, Mary dropped the handset.\n\n******\n\nViolet Richardson had been taken from Medicine Hat hospital to an orphanage in Lethbridge. Eventually, she was adopted by the Moffats. The Moffats were a loving family, raising Violet much the same as their other children. However, they kept reminding her that her mother had abandoned her and she should be grateful they had adopted her.\n\nShe did not feel grateful - she felt abandoned.\n\n“Why should I be grateful for being abandoned”\n\nShe left ‘home’ when she was seventeen, staying at the Lethbridge YWCA. She was able to get a job as a secretary at the W.E. Huckvale Law Offices. After a few months she was able to move from the YMCA to an apartment in Galt Manor on 7th Street.\n\nIn 1964 she married George Elliot, a solicitor who had joined the law firm at about the same time as Violet. She was forced to leave the law firm when she became pregnant late in 1966. \n\n“George was furious that they fired me. He wanted to quit and start his own business. I told him to stay and get more experience before starting on his own”\n\nIn 1973, when her daughter started school, Violet went to work part time at the YWCA as a counselor. \n\n“It was there I first heard about the ‘Baby Scoop’, unwed mothers forced to sign documents giving up their babies for adoption. Was I one of those babies?”\n\nShe spent much of her time trying to reunite families. It was a nearly impossible task. All the records of the adoptions were sealed. For children born in government sponsored ‘homes for unwed mothers’, the only recourse was putting their name and birthday in the newspapers classified ads requesting information. For those, like Violet, born in a hospital, there might be information in the hospital records. George, who had his own practice by then, helped them access those records pro bono.\n\n“I couldn’t have done it without George. . . . From the hospital records I was able to find out three things about my mother - her name, she had moved to Medicine Hat from Val Marie, and she had abandoned me when I was born. . . . There were no records that I had been given up for adoption. . . . I wanted, more than anything, to know why I was abandoned.”\n\nWith that scant information Violet started the long process of finding her mother.\n\n******\n\nMary stood staring blankly out her kitchen window. Her daughter will be there soon. (She had no doubt it was her daughter.) Her coffee sat cold on the counter beside her. Her emotions were running the gamut from fear to guilt, from hope to dread - often all at the same time.\n\nShe watched as a dust covered Chevy Belair came up the driveway. A tall lanky woman stepped out of her car and strode towards the door. ‘She looks like her father’ Mary trembled as she moved towards the door. Opening the door she leaned against the door jamb for support.\n\nViolet stopped two feet from Mary.\n\nThe facade Mary had built up over the years of a strong independent woman, the one she believed herself, fell away. She was a sixteen year old child again - scared and alone.\n\nSobbing Mary managed to blurt -\n\n“I’m sorry. . . . I was only sixteen. . . . They told me you were dead.” Over and over again - “They told me you were dead”\n\nViolet had played out this meeting in her head a thousand times in a thousand different ways - this wasn’t one of them. Everything she thought she knew was wrong. She thought about her own sixteen year old daughter. ‘My God! What had that poor woman been through?’\n\nAny anger she felt on being abandoned drained away.\n\nThe child became the parent. \n\nGently she took her mother’s hand and led her back into the house.\n\n“Don’t worry. . . . It is going to be OK. . . . Everything will be alright.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Cats and Other Important New Years Day Stuff\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2814\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story on New Year's Day."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "She awoke and eased into her new day on this New Year. She didn't have to be, do, or take care of anything. She was free to focus her attention on her New Year's resolution. Heaven knows She’s done it enough times that She should be an expert on thinking up New Year's resolutions. Since She was only three weeks old her first New Year She can safely say She doesn’t remember making (or breaking) any resolutions that year. \n\nSure She’s made her share of resolutions to change this or that thing in her life. Things like lose weight, find a better job, workout more, eat healthier oh how the list goes on. Every year lately She’s given this whole resolution thing some amount of thought. While it’s true it’s been decades since She formally declared a resolution, She had quietly made a few (and quietly broken them).\n\nThis year She wants to try something different, something bigger or smaller, something important. She’d like to set herself up for success so the something needs to be obtainable. She can rule out things like win the lottery, travel the world and sculpt herself into something that resembles her twenty something self. No, this year She wants something else. What that could be She has no idea. \nMaybe She could learn a new skill or accomplish something important to her. She sat down and thought about skills She could learn. Nothing came of that so She thought about important things with nothing coming to mind. She was not in the mood to learn a new skill and She didn’t have the energy to do anything important. \n\nShe was finding this task ridiculously difficult. Maybe it was time to google New Years resolutions. Was that cheating? She found herself wondering aloud to an empty room. She said, “Why can’t I just come up with something on my own?” The cat looked up and then licked her paw. So the room wasn’t entirely empty, just lacking in other people.\n\nShe found herself off task once again. She wondered why She thought of herself as She instead of she and why She thought of him as He instead of he. She was going to do this her way and keep their names tucked away deep inside. She would use She and He not she and he. She knew why she thought of That Day as That Day instead of that day. She'd be keeping the tucked away too, even deeper down inside herself.\n\nShe had grown up the oldest of three children. She had married and raised two kids of her own. She had divorced but that wasn’t the day She fell into her deepest despair. As hard as that time was She would eventually learn worse was yet to come. \nAfter her marriage fell apart She met a man and fell deeply in love. She eventually moved in with him and his two sons. While they were much younger than her two grown children, everyone got along quite well. She was so happy people often thought She was drunk. She wasn’t drunk, She was just that in love with her life right up until That Day. \n\nDuring that glorious time of her life before That Day She didn’t put much thought into New Year's resolutions. Why should She? Things were as near to perfect as a person could get. Looking back fondly She couldn’t help but wish her New Year's resolution could be to go back at least seven years. She’d happily give up all the accomplishments She had made on her own to be able to go back to the time before That Day. \n\nShe thought back to some of their boating adventures. Like the time they loaded lifejackets, a food cooler, a beverage cooler, towels, fishing poles, bait, tackle and got in the car to drive to Lake Minnetonka. When He turned the car around She asked, “What did we forget?” She couldn’t imagine what else they could possibly need. \n\nIn a calm nonchalant voice He said, “The boat.”\n\nShe remembered one of the many times they went golfing. They were on hole three or maybe some other hole. It didn’t matter which hole. She took a powerful swing at the ball but couldn’t find where it had landed. Not only was She unaware of where her ball landed She had lost something else. She swung so hard her club flew away too. She asked, “Did you see where my club went?” \n\nWithout saying a word He shook his head and drove away in the golf cart, leaving her to find her own golf club. Unsure just what to do She squinted her eyes and looked around. She heard a golf cart approaching. With delight She looked back expecting to see him. He wasn’t there but another golf cart pulled up with two men laughing hard. \n\n “Are you looking for your club?”\n\n“Yes, I am.”\n\n“Well young lady you got a hole in one. Look up, your club is up in that tree.”\n\nShe wasn”t going to get anything done with her head in the clouds like this… She took another sip of coffee while She thought about his way with words. One night the first snowfall started. She said, “Look, isn’t the snow beautiful.” \n\nTo him snow equaled a lot of work. He hated snow removal. He looked at her and said, “You’re all the beauty I need.” \nShe shook her head and thought, “All this reminiscing isn’t going to help me figure out a worthwhile new years resolution. \n\nShe got up and fed her cats. Ok She does live with two cats but is that enough to make her a crazy cat lady? Maybe, just maybe she decided.\n\nTo be fair her first cat picked her and her second cat would have probably died if She hadn’t taken it in. “No, I’m not being overly dramatic. It’s all true.” \n\nAs She sipped on her coffee She thought back to the day She came home with her new roommate. \n\nA few months earlier than the day She got her roommate, She had been trying to get a kitten. The kitten lady did turn out to be a certifiable crazy cat lady. The kitten lady had so many cats the authorities shut her down before the kitten lady could fulfill her promise. Since She had waited so long She decided to take matters into her own hands. \n\nHer house had been so quiet then, too quiet. She missed him and all the joy He had brought into her life. They had been together for sixteen years. On That Day He was just gone. No warning, no time to do anything except find a way to live with half of her gone forever.\nWith as much determination as She could muster She got in her car and drove to the humane society. They were busy that Saturday in late October. She walked around thinking all the kittens were adorable. She would just walk past each one before She picked out her very own kitty to love.\n\nShe really wanted a kitty born on his birthday. She knew her kitty’s name. Her kitty would be Indy. After all She and He had met at Lake Independence. She wouldn’t name a kitty Lake Independence but She could and would name him or her Indy. \n\nAs She walked further towards the back of the room She noticed the kitties were getting older and older. One of these older cats called out. She felt drawn to that cat and the cat seemed to be drawn to her. \nShe looked at the details. Everything was right! This cat's birthday was the same as his birthday. Everything was perfect except they had the wrong name. She didn’t think that would be a problem either. \n\nShe left carrying her fragile heart in a box. She had lived alone since That Day but from now on She would share her home with a twelve year old cat that She had now named Indy. She thought of Indy as her roommate.\nFor the next six years the two lived a quiet life together. Things changed when Peeps came along. Peeps was a stray so we were told she turned one in or around early October. That just happens to be when He had his birthday. \n\nIndy was eighteen years old and pretty set in her ways when Peeps entered Indy’s life. Before Peeps came to live with Indy, Peeps lived in her daughter's back yard as a homeless kitty. Her daughter fed her and eventually brought Peeps inside her home. However loving and sweet Peeps is to people, Peeps proved to be just the opposite towards other cats. Peeps could not stay in their house because Peeps tortured their other two cats. \n\nIn a last ditch effort to save Peeps from possible death, her daughter's family brought Peeps to her house. They set the carrier down so Indy and Peeps could familiarize themselves with each other which they did.\n\n“Oh for Pete sakes how is this going to help me think of a good New Years resolution?” At her utterance Peeps just left the room and Indy kept right on sleeping. She mumbled, “There is no easy way to come up with a quality, obtainable News Year's resolution. Perhaps I should just give up.” She didn’t want to just give up.\n\nShe wondered, “Just exactly what have I accomplished?” She reached down to pet Indy. \"Well I have bought my house. That was not an easy feat. Is that an accomplishment or just something people do?\" Indy just purred. She wasn’t sure about accomplishment or just a thing people do. She loved her house and was happy She owned it but it is after all just a thing. \n\nShe had a lot of things updated in the house that She bought on her own. Well technically She had a little, ok a lot, of help from his sons. From new windows to new carpeting and floors she had made real progress with her new home.\n\nWhile all of that was great her favorite update was her new garage door with an electric garage door opener. The old door was so heavy and hard to lift. Now She could go to the app on her phone and open her garage from the warmth of her living room. The ease in opening what once was a heavy garage door still made her smile. \n\nWhile all of these things brought her joy She didn’t think they were meaningful. She was searching for something meaningful, important and obtainable. Setting up a resolution to do home projects just wasn’t what She wanted for this fresh brand new year. She pondered again why She couldn’t come up with anything that fit her bill for a New Years resolution. She rejected the notion that a good New Year's resolution simply may not exist. \n\nWhile She sat staring out the window her mind wandered back in time. She remembered the day She brought her daughter home from the hospital. Such a tiny little bundle of joy. The love She felt transcended her entire being. She wondered if She was using the word transcended correctly so She looked it up. It said that it means to go beyond the limits. \n\nYes that was how She had felt during that period of becoming a mom for the very first time. She had loved her daughter beyond the limits of love. There was nothing like it. This tiny human had completely stolen her heart. Nothing could compete until the day She welcomed her newborn son into the world. She held him and that feeling of an over abundance of love returned. Not that it had left but She felt it now for this new child, her son. \n\nOh the joy of raising children. While not an easy task it sure brought her joy. At one time they had a small unofficial, kind of hobby farm. She thought about it for a moment. Yes, they had two children, three dogs, two cats, some fish, an iguana, a guinea pig and a lizard. To her that fit the bill of a small, unofficial, hobby farm of sorts.\n\nShe remembered how accustomed they got to having an iguana walk around the house. She didn’t find it strange at all until a new person came into the home and was scared, shocked or both when the iguana moved. \n\nShe didn’t know She could love children as much as She loved her own until her son told her She would be a grandma soon. When She held her first grandchild She felt that old familiar burst of love. She felt it again when her next grandchild entered this world. This child gave her so much hope for a brighter future. She thought She had everything but then She was told another grandchild was coming. This grandchild would be born on her birthday. \n\nWith him, two children, two step children, two in law children and three grandchildren she thought her world surely was complete now. Then her daughter told her She was going to be a grandma again. Against the odds this baby came into the world and this new baby swept her off her feet. Well maybe She should have guessed there could be more love, however, She certainly did not. Her daughter, who was told by doctors it was unlikely that a pregnancy would happen for them, was going to have her second baby. Soon there would be one more baby to love. \n\nAs She bit into a leftover Christmas cookie She thought how sad it was that this baby came before He had a chance to even know her daughter was pregnant. When this baby came the love She felt helped her heal from the heartache of losing the He to go along with her She. It was a very hard time but her family as well as her friends helped her. The love She had for her children and grandchildren was as deep as it could be, not to mention the love She had for the rest of her family and her closest friends. \n\nShe took another sip of her coffee and couldn’t stop herself from going down this road a bit further. She thought of the day She met His first grandchild. Even though the blood may not match the love is just as strong. She thinks She should know better than to think the love is now complete. Because the day came when She got to meet His second grandchild. Now She knows there can always be more love to go around. \n\nShe held her empty coffee cup in her hand as She thought, “Well none of this is helping me come up with a loving, important, obtainable New Years resolution.” \n\nShe looked out the window and watched the squirrels play in the yard. She saw a neighbor walk in the park. There was a light layer of fresh snow barely covering the ground. It sure has been a mild winter in Minnesota. One She knew He would have appreciated the extra time He would have been given to do anything instead of removing snow. \nShe placed her coffee cup in the kitchen sink. She had just about given up on finding her new year's resolution when She thought more about \nChristmas. She reflected on what happened after everyone was done eating. They carried gifts down and placed them under the tree. The gifts were quickly delivered to the children as the adults watched. The younger children squealed with innocent delight. The older children were more discreet but their young faces shined with happiness.\n\nThe adults then played a trivia Christmas gift game. It was the first year they had tried it. She thought it went over rather well and hoped to continue with this as their new tradition. She liked how it seemed to bring loved ones even closer. In her heart she believed He would have enjoyed this past Christmas.\n\nShe took another bite of the leftover Christmas cookie and thought about how much She wished He was here. She could feel him so She felt He was here, just in a different way now. He was there in that same, different way on Christmas. Like her He would have thought of all the grandchildren as ours. It’s not the blood that makes a family. It's the love. \n\nShe was sitting on the couch enjoying her Christmas cookie. Indy looked at her and purred. Along came Peeps who cautiously placed herself on her chest. With Indy on her lap and Peeps on her chest She realized just what her New Year's resolution would be for this year. It was loving, important, obtainable and kind. Yes, her new resolution was perfect! \n\nShe would get more cats!"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Rotten Oak in My Mother’s House\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2966\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story on New Year's Day."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "[Content warning, mild domestic violence, mental health topics]\n\nThe acrid scent of gasoline hangs in the air, mingling with the earthy fragrance of the once-grand oak tree, now reduced to scattered remnants. Gnarled branches of what was once a steadfast presence, lies defeated. The severed trunk whispers of rot and dis-ease.\nThe crackle of a downed power line, snagged by a branch, punctuated the quiet. James stood in the wreckage’s shadow, his weathered face illuminated by a flickering match. Shaking, he lit a stale cigarette. He took a long drag, then said aloud to no one, “Fifteen years.”\nThis oak, ancient when his parents bought the house, was more than just a tree. His father imbued it with significance, whispering tales of hope to his pregnant mother, envisioning a new life in the shadow of its sturdy branches. A symbol of strength, endurance, and the promise of a fresh start for the growing family.\nEven as a young boy James felt the weight of responsibility for the tree. It was his duty to rake its leaves in the crisp fall air, a chore that connected him to the cyclical nature of life. The acorns, once playthings, serve as reminders of the world—before it was twisted.\nBut the borer beetle came uninvited, infecting the oak with decay. In parallel, unseen forces infiltrated James’ life—misunderstood signs that grew unchecked. The once-strong tree, like James, bears the scars of a silent struggle.\nFlashes of violence twirl with the smoke—the weight of a chair leg in his hands, a man silent and unmoving at his feet. James doesn’t remember his rage, only calling the police afterward, knowing consequences would arrive.\nFifteen years of consequences.\nJames sits amidst fresh destruction, sirens wailing in the distance. He is resigned, ready for whatever comes next. The cigarette trembled between his fingers as a police cruiser turned down the street. He has no explanations left. Only a longing to escape this unfamiliar world.\n***\nIt was New Year’s Day. An arbitrary day set for his release. Same as any other. Except today, James had stood outside the prison gates for at least an hour, unsure of where to go.\nOfficer Chthon, having just finished his shift, initially walked past James. He then turned. Their eyes met for a moment. James looked away first. “Need a ride into town, James?” the guard asked.\nJames nodded—he hated the disrespect given the guard because of his odd name. It was “Thon” not “Cheet-on” or “Cheeto.” It wasn’t kind to tease the man. Chthon didn’t deserve the insults.\nOfficer Chthon’s eyes held a mix of sympathy and curiosity. Perhaps there was more to the officer than the uniform suggested—a man who’d seen the nuances of human frailty. He’d seen men fail, men at their worst, who lashed out because they had nothing left to control. He was firm, and kind, to all. Ten minutes into the ride, he said, “Brother, this is going to be tough for you.”\nJames didn’t know what to say. He had nothing to model from, this was his first time getting out of prison. His mind was too full of the brightness, and the oppressive openness to focus. Also, the noise of the radio was distracting, high pitched foreign voices sang warbles, like birds.\n“Keep your nose clean and take your time. Change is hard.”\nThey drove in silence along the highway. James stared out the window in disbelief. He searched for the industrial buildings that had once marked his territory. Disorientation gnawed at him as sleek structures replaced the familiar. Landmarks were gone. The highway had newly textured walls. As they drove, he watched young trees swaying in the wash of passing trucks. His hands, usually steady, betrayed a tremor. James forced himself to be normal. The rough neighborhood of his childhood had transformed into sleek condos and trendy shops. James’s legs bounced, he pinched his thigh to stop the wiggle.\n“Oh brother, you live in a delightful part of town!” Chthon said as he pulled up to the corner store at the head of James’ street.\nThis was never a nice part of town.\nThe corner store was in the same building, but the branding had changed, and it was…clean.\n“Happy new year brother.” Chthon was holding a faded Hello Kitty notebook. He reached for a pen from his cup holder, paused a moment, then put it back again. “Just stay out of trouble.”\n“Thanks.” James couldn’t think of anything else to say. He waved as the officer drove off. Then turned to the store. For years he’d dreamed about his favorite soda pop. The door chimed at his entrance.\nJames shuffled uncomfortably under the harsh store lights, the flickering bulbs created a disconcerting rhythm. The hum of refrigerators was discordant. James hummed in tune with one, then the other, feeling the notes reverberate and interfere.\nHe had a bundle of small bills from when he was taken into custody—thinking he’d be able to use the police station candy machine. It was all his money in the world. His eyes darted away from the cashier.\nThe clerk shook his head. “Card or mobile pay only, man.”\nJames’s shoulders slumped.\nThe cashier’s expectant gaze met his, but the unspoken rules of a digital age left James adrift. His attempt to pay, a silent plea for simplicity, and his one lasting dream, squashed. Clutching his unquenched thirst, he turned to the open, unfamiliar world.\nHis street still had the same name, but that was a fleeting comfort. The crumbling houses facing the highway had been replaced by a sprawling park. Children laughed as they played. The sight filled James with an unfamiliar feeling—hope.\nJust ahead, before the crossroad, was the home his mother left him when she passed. James thought of his mother’s sole visit some fourteen years ago. She brought his daughter. Little Sophie spent the whole time sitting between her grandmother’s legs, making popping noises by patting her cheeks with her tiny kid hands.\nMaybe with the house, a reunion? He couldn’t fathom how to get in touch. He didn’t even have his ex-wife’s number.\nBut as he approached the property, his hopes sank. The old home, small and rotted amidst sleek new developments, was an eyesore from another era.\nJames ran his hand along the peeling paint of the front door. He reached for the doorknob, only to find it locked. Of course, it should be locked. This was his house, but only in name. He rested his forehead against the door. It felt more than physical—it was a portal to a time when things made sense. He looked through the dusty glass. The furniture was covered in stain repellant plastic, yellowed with age. He imagined if he were to sit on them, the plastic would fall into shards.\nJames circled the house, becoming overwhelmed. The house was a time capsule. Once-cozy rooms seem foreign and chaotic now. The back door was also locked.\nThe openness of this new world left him unmoored, yearning for bland concrete walls. He went back to the front to sit, to think. He lowered himself into his father’s old rocking chair. The creak of wood, at least, was familiar.\nJames thought in circles about his old routines, the details of life were teetering. Food, drink, a bed, a nap, waving at neighbors… What comes first? How does one live?\nWater. The thought surfaced. Showering with no one around. That was appealing—a bath would be better. The weight of water pressing down on him…James closed his eyes and imagined hot water spilling over the edge of the bathtub. Then, how his skin will turn lobster-red from the heat. He slid down, shifting his weight as he imagined he’d do in the bath.\nThe old rocking chair gave way. Worn rattan tore from the frame.\nJames’s backside slid through the seat to the weathered porch boards.\nRighting himself, he stared at the scratch along the aluminium siding. A rotten oak branch had damaged the house. Another thing to fix.\nWith a sigh, James emptied the mailbox, tossing anything without a stamp to the floor. He paused at a pizza ad, then let it slip from his hand. The papers taped to the front door came next. James grabbed a handful. The tape pulled layers of paint from the wood. He skimmed the bold-typed letters. Each was a fine from the resident’s association. The amounts were shocking—thousands owed for the overgrown lawn, lack of upkeep, and damaged exterior.\nJames’s eyes settled on the citation for the fallen branch. Why would that result in a fine? His dead mom didn’t choose to let the branch fall. He glanced at the tree, its branches gnarled from neglect.\nHe walked over, spotting the initials “J + A” inside a crude heart. His fingers followed the grooves as if deciphering a code. The initials, made with a precision that bordered on obsession, stirred a cascade of memories. He thought of Alicia on the day nearly two decades ago when he carved them into the tree. High school sweethearts. She made the heart.\nThe memory ached.\nIt was a simpler time. They were newlyweds, basking in young love.\nThe birth of their baby girl, Sophie, should have been his happiest day. But James sat in stunned silence, feeling only a factual detachment. The child had to be pressed into his arms. That year passed with almost no memories.\nAfter losing his job, James struggled to find work. He lacked the gift of being a “people person” like Alicia. His father was the same. Father kept suggesting a career in engineering. They both knew going to college, even for an associate degree, would’ve been beyond their means. There were no good choices. James had trouble focusing. Nothing worked out.\nWhen three-year-old Sophie still refused to talk, the doctors vaguely referenced “unspecified developmental delays.” Strain grew as James withdrew deeper into himself, losing entire weekends to Star Wars movie marathons, his sole comfort. A string of arguments blurred together.\nThe day his marriage shattered stuck in his mind. Tiny details overwhelmed him, the scrape of a fork on a plate, Sophie’s cries, Alicia’s rising shouts. When a door slammed, James lashed out in a violence he doesn’t fully remember. He’d only asked if a bottle was recyclable. How did that start the fight?\nJames moved in with his parents. Six months later, Alicia was seeing someone else. “That ass-hat, Kilian,” James spat. The red haze had descended once more, ending with Kilian’s lost eye and a chair leg in James’s hand.\nAt his trial, he agonized to express remorse, but froze on the witness stand, words trapped in his throat. Without his testimony, the narrative quickly spun against him. In handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit, James was, strangely, free.\n***\nJames circled to the back of the house, looking for a window to shimmy through. He’d have to break in. He intended to pick a small window, something cheap to replace.\nThe tool shed caught his eye. He’d need something to break the window. He pushed open the warped wooden door, the rotted wood slid off the rusted screws, completely ignoring the padlock’s rattling protest.\nInside, more memories surfaced—his father’s tools were always laid out in meticulous order. He remembered the belt-whipping James received for moving a screwdriver out of place. A single screwdriver to fix, what was it…a ball that counted how many times it was bounced? He remembered the gray and black ball better than the whipping. The punishment far outweighed the crime. It was the only time his father laid hands on him. His father wasn’t a monster or a bully. He was a child in a powerful body—too proud or self-deluded to grow up.\n\nNow, these tools belong to James. He brushes his fingers over the rust-pocked handles and blades. Part of him longs to take a large screwdriver, use it to pry open a window, keep things orderly, efficient.\nBut his hand drifts to that chisel. The one he used to carve those letters.\nThe part of his psyche, still chaotically upended from prison, has other ideas. His hand drifts across the wall to the larger tools.\nJames’s hands close around the chainsaw’s grip. He yanks the starter cord, and it sputters to life, roaring in the small space. This will make a different order, he thinks. The kind that’s been rotting him for fifteen long years.\nHe strides with purpose to the front yard, chainsaw spewing exhaust.\nSqueezing the trigger makes the beast roar. He aims at his initial, wanting to replace the ‘J’ with a large ‘K’ for Kilian. But the saw tip bucks and jumps, resisting the plunge.\nHe switches to hacking at the trunk, the roaring engine drowning out his branching thoughts.\nThe chainsaw becomes an extension of James’ rage. He’s no longer in control as it digs into the rotten oak. Where the teeth bite, splinters and water spray. James squints against the debris pelting his face.\nPiece by piece, the tree is dismantled by the relentless, purring blade. A fierce tiger in his control—power flows through him.\nControl—yes, finally.\nJames is in charge.\nWood piles around James’ feet, water from the tree’s hollow core soaks his shoes. With a final determined cut, the oak succumbs to gravity’s pull and topples toward the house. The crash reverberates down the block.\nJames stands numb, his hands still gripping the angry, noisy beast.\nHe drops the heavy, smoky chainsaw.\nIt chokes itself out.\nHe walks along the oak’s trunk bisecting the house, sparks popping behind him from the severed electrical cable on the road. His father’s chair, impaled by a branch and lifted from the porch, rocks unsteadily in the wind. A ghostly witness, James imagines, slides to the ground, disappointed in his son.\nJames sits heavily on the porch amidst the ruins, his legs shaking. He fishes out the fifteen-year-old pack of yellow, crumpled cigarettes. It takes several tries to strike the match, his hands unsteady.\nAs he smokes, clarity settles. When his mom had visited, she told him father had been diagnosed with Aspergers. She also said something about him taking things literally.\nJames responded, “no, that’s kleptomania.” Only now he understands why mom laughed.\nJames thought of Sophie’s “Unspecified” diagnosis that so aggravated him. How she could read before she could talk, and of her lack of eye contact. Similarly, his dad never looked into his eyes.\nJames could remember reading novels in first grade. That wasn’t normal. He was teased, so he stopped reading. He feared it the same for Sophie.\nJames thought on his own desire to organize his toys, staging games with extremely rigid rules. He never kept friends for long. Maybe his frustrations were related to his dad’s? Sophie’s? Maybe his short fuse was related?\nToo late now. The sirens draw near, his second chance at life was destroyed. He’ll return to the concrete walls and the ordered routine. There will be no redemption here. Only smoke, oak, and loss.\nThe first police cruiser pulls up, keeping a distance from the downed wire. A second blocks the road.\nSoon, an officer approaches on foot, skirting the debris. “This your house, sir?”\nJames’ shaking leg is distracting him from the cigarette. It tastes awful, stale, bitter. His gaze returns to the oak, and in its demise, he recognizes the tangled roots of his own struggles. The borer beetles of societal norms had invaded his life, leaving him to grapple with an eroded sense of self.\n“How are you doing today?” the officer asks. James blinks in confusion. That question never made sense. In prison, inmates don’t inquire about your wellbeing. It’s just anger, or being mean, or nothing. James misses nothing.\nMore cruisers arrive. Neighbors are ushered back inside their sleek, orderly homes. James knows he doesn’t belong here, not among the freshly painted fences and ‘mobile pay’.\nWhen the officer repeats, “Come this way, sir,” gesturing away from the wire, James stands. He’ll just kick the wire aside and keep walking—it can’t be that dangerous.\nBut as he nears the downed line, the officer tackles James.\nThe power transformer’s hum ceases with a click. James’ head felt clearer. That noise had filled his childhood in annoyance. How could anyone stand to spend time on that porch? The noise was unbearable.\nJames opened his eyes. The brown grass was still wet from the fetid oak-water. He’d only stepped a couple of paces from the porch. It felt like he should be much closer to the sidewalk. Now, his head is pressed to the ground, facing the oak. Fresh scratches from where the chainsaw skittered up the ‘J’ are mocking him. The love cut into the oak, now long gone, leaves a legacy of unspoken struggles. The oak’s weight settles into the house, its last sigh, a lament for both nature’s cycles and his journey.\nJames is lifted by his arms. He doesn’t struggle.\nJames is pushed into the squad car. He doesn’t struggle.\nJames looks away from the neighbors’ horrified faces. With his self-loathing, he struggles.\nTime passes with James locked in his head, fighting fights that were long over. Rehearsing fights that may never come. Not knowing what to want, not knowing…anything.\nSitting quietly in a car was enough. A comfort earned.\nThere is a place to rest his arms behind his back. Coming up with things like that would be fun. Maybe he should have been an engineer.\nA pregnant teen runs up to the cruiser, yelling, “Dad!”\nJames doesn’t look up, his little Sophie, only four, doesn’t speak.\n“He needs help, please!” the young woman cries.\nThe car door separates James from the open space. It felt right. Order will return.\nJames will find his place again."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Sam`s Obsession\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1163\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character in search of something or someone."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Sam’s Obsession\nIt was the week-end and Sam McAuley sat in his rocking chair in front of the big open fire. On the back of an old envelope he jotted notes with the stub of a pencil which he licked from time to time.\nEventually he laid the pencil down and stuck the the notes in his hip pocket. Leaning back into the rocking chair he stretched his gangling arms up towards the smoke-stained ceiling of the old farmhouse. The newspaper slipped off his knees unnoticed as he rocked back and forth deep in thought. After relaxing for a few more minutes Sam reached into his waistcoat pocket pulling out a large pocket-watch. He checked the time, cocked his head listening to the sound of the wind howling through the trees that surrounded the old farm. A bachelor, now on the wrong side of fifty, he had worked the farm with his older brother Joe since their father’s death. However that all changed after Joe died suddenly from a heart attack. Sam seemed to lose interest in the business of the farm and began to let things go. Most of the cattle had been sold off and the few that remained were only sufficient to supply his meagre needs. The fields where, in earlier times, corn, barley and potatoes grew in abundance now lay fallow. Sam had developed other interests. Leaning down, Sam knocked out his pipe against the stone hearth, put it into his pocket and threw a couple of logs onto the guttering embers of the fire. As a shower of sparks danced up the chimney he gazed for a few seconds into their shimmering depths and his eyes took on a look of unusual intensity.\nSam got up and turned to the big crude wooden table littered with the remnants of his breakfast and dinner. He lifted the plates, leaned across the table and, with his sleeve, swept the crumbs onto the rough tiled floor. He carried the plates out to the small crude scullery where they joined those already piled in the sink. Returning to the living room, Sam knelt down in front of the fireplace, removed one of the stone slabs which formed the hearth and withdrew some banknotes from the cavity revealed beneath.\nFumbling through the notes with awkward fingers he nodded and tucked them into his hip pocket. He rose stiffly, crossed the room and pulled back the frayed lace curtains squinting out into the darkness beyond. Sam stood for a moment listening to the sound of the storm lashing the old farmhouse.\nTurning quickly he headed towards the small scullery. There he reached up, opened a cupboard and lifted down a half bottle of brandy. After taking a generous slug he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Then, with a shake of his head and a shudder, he screwed the cap on again, replaced the bottle and headed for his bedroom. He emerged a few minutes later clad in a heavy oilskin cape, a moth-eaten balaclava and headed for the front door. There, he reached up and lifted a set of bicycle clips off a peg on the back of the door. As he opened the latch and pushed the door outwards an unexpected blast of wind caught it and slammed it back against his knees. He rubbed them, swore and, putting his shoulder to the door again he forced his way out into the gale. A loose corrugated tin sheet covering a hole on the barn roof was banging loudly. Sam made a mental note to hammer a few nails into it one of these days.\nHe lowered his head and fought his way across the yard to the barn where he kept his bicycle. As he gained the shelter of the barn and the door closed he paused to regain his breath. As he pulled the door behind him the sound of the storm was utterly blotted out. At this point most men would have said `enough` and returned to the brandy bottle - Not Sam McAuley. He lifted down a battery lamp, slid it on to the bracket on the front of the bicycle and switched it on. Even this dim light was enough to silhouette the items of rusting farm equipment that lay scattered all around, just where they had expired. Sam wheeled the bicycle down the lane through the ruts and potholes until he came to the road leading to the town.\nThe first icy drops of sleet began almost immediately and lashed his face like gravel, driven by the howling east wind. The old bike was heavy at the best of times but in these conditions it felt as if the\nframe was made of lead. His oilskins acted like a sail and every yard gained was a grim battle against the elements. Nothing short of a full-blown tornado would have prevented him from gaining his objective – to reach the town. Freezing cold and soaked he kept pushing down on the pedals, driven by his overwhelming sense of purpose. The gale showed no sign of abating but it was matched in its power and intensity by Sam’s dogged determination. A glow in the sky overhead told Sam that he was almost within sight of the town.\nThis realization gave added impetus to his unfeeling limbs. A few punishing minutes later he gained the crest above the town and saw the lights stretched out below him like the promised land. The last half-mile was all downhill and the storm had finally abated. Sam paused there and pulled out his pocket watch. In the reflected glow from the lights he saw that his arduous journey had taken longer than he had anticipated. Determinedly he set off again mustering what little energy as he had left.\nAs he reached the edge of town the adrenaline began to flow. His struggle against the elements for the past hour seemed to recede in his mind compared to this feeling of being truly alive which permeated his whole being. He weaved his way through the narrow cobbled streets until, with bated breath, he arrived\nat his destination. As he dismounted from the bicycle his legs almost gave way from the numbness and effort he had expended. He leaned against the wall for a second to recover but there was no time to spare. With frozen, unfeeling fingers he peeled off his oilskins, balaclava and bicycle clips, switched off the lamp, he quickly rolled them up and jammed the lot into his saddle-bag. Bending down stiffly he massaged some circulation back into his almost lifeless legs and stumbled unsteadily towards the entrance.\nHe had made it! With a rising sense of exhilaration he pushed his way through the turnstile then paused, dazzled momentarily by the contrast of the bright stadium lights and thrilled by the sight of the dogs being led to the starting gate for the first race of the evening."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1017\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character practising a speech in front of the mirror. What are they preparing for?"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY\n___________________________________________\nThis quote is beholding to a few gentlemen, many, many years ago, who are remembered for stating these mindful words. Benjamin Franklin comes to mind first and foremost, as he used them in moments of sound reflection of the meaning. I admired his spirit to honor to our homeland, the United States of America, as he did more than many to pave the way in seeing this great nation come to its fruition of becoming the land of the free and the home of the brave. I needed to reflect on those as a pivotal moment was soon to happen on this day. I was ready. It has only taken all of my life to be at this moment in time. And for that I thank God for my health and family.\n___________________________________________\nAbraham took a moment to look back at his young frontier life, growing up in hard times, as it was the way of life back then. He never complained. One did what one needed to do to help out. Family was always first. Chores needed attention at every moment from sunup to sundown. He was drawn to the water as a young boy. Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Dafoe, was one of his many favorite books in the struggles of learning how to read. As tall and lanky as he grew to be this did not deter him from churning an oar within the area of the nearby waterway. This brought him peace. Having his second brother challenge him on occasion brought their paddle competition to a 'fight til you get tossed in the drink'. Abe did have to admit that his brother won more times over, but he soon chose a subtle way of revenge on the water. The family migrated from Kentucky to Indiana and then settled in Illinois. At the age of 21, he left home to fond farewells from his new 'angel' mother and his father. The chosen way to a new adventure began with a long paddle down river to New Salem, Illinois. This led to a job as part of the riverboat crew. They toiled many a day in all types of weather. Abe also could wield an axe if need be as it was his learned and practiced strong able-bodied manner, that was his success. It was a grand time being on his own regardless of rain, wind and snowfall. One flatboat ride took him down the Mississippi River to a new part of the country. Several years later his wandering ways brought him to different, yet interesting jobs as it was always about who you would meet along the way. From early on self-education by littles, now and then, taught him how to speak and engage with a skill that brought many ways to read people. This gave him opportunities to engage in conversations whether it was simple common knowledge topics or more in depth as his wordage grew. Abe was growing to a point of knowing more about the evolution of this country, where we stood as individuals, and gradually more about politics as he made his way in town.\nSoon he was called to engage in the Black Hawk War. It was not pleasant, but a duty, as he volunteered and was made a captain of the militia. This was not his forte but he stayed until the end. He was finding ways to lead without being overbearing and allowing purpose to guide him.\nThe more he engaged with people the more he was finding a calling to a trade in the law practice. He learned more grammar and mathematics and was becoming more able to study the law books. With determination he passed the bar and began to practice law. He found opportunities to partner with several others and knew this was an important step in his life. Before long, one law partner watched the way Lincoln whittled a strange looking wooden ship. Abe was excited about how his invention would bring about a revolution in the steamboat industry. His US Patent, details improving the navigation of boats in shallow waters with balloon-type bellows with a syncronized method. It was practical and well thought however his focus remained on the law, and government created by and for the people. He excelled in all matters of law and became well-known for his strong knowledge and earnest ways of doing what was right.\nAbraham Lincoln was drawn into more of the politics of the day as time went on. \"A house divided against itself cannot stand.\" He took these words and used his thoughtful, engaging and truthful manner to rise against or go forward through the many challenges he was faced with leading up to his stand against the Dred Scott case. This epic failure, however, lead to more national recognition as a possible presidential candidate and was nominated in May of 1860, then elected in November and inaugurated in May of 1861. Hurrah!\nThe years had been quite a full bucket of so much more than Abraham had envisioned. He brought his simple yet engaging and purposeful ways from the law side to the political field leading to his achievement of a lifetime; the presidency. As he stood quietly with reflection on how life had taken ahold of him the image he saw in the mirror was still that boy who was the tall one and a might lanky, yet with a backbone made of steel. Faith, honor, humor and courage was to be his gifted words to aid the healing of a country torn apart in a civil war for too long between the North and South. He saw his chance to articulate that message. With his wife, Mary, and children by his side, this was for each one. Their future was here and now. He would do right by them, \" so help me God.\"\nOne last moment before he was escorted to the podium, Abraham Lincoln adjusted his tie, smoothed his beard and stepped back with a final salute in the mirror with malice toward none."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Foxy Footman\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1090\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story looking down from a stage."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The Foxy Footman\nCopyright 2021, All rights reserved\nCarole Penfield\nBart\nJust look at me, standing on this stage waiting for the curtain to open, dressed in a footman costume! If only poor Aunt Mary had lived to see this day, she would have been so proud. I remember her taking me to see my first play on her half-day off from work. She saved enough from her pittance wage as lady’s maid to get us each a standing place in the pit. I was awestruck by actors strutting across the boards.\n“One day, you’ll be a wunnerful actor, Bart,” she had predicted. “Mark my words.”\nPlayacting was no more than a fiddler’s dream to a poor boy like me, born in 1673 to Lilly, an honest strumpet in a Southwark bawdy house. I never knew my natural father’s name; only that he had been a gentleman of means. Or so she always told me.\nHe first met Lilly at the St. Bartholomew fair, in the “soiled dove” tent. Which is why my Christian name is Bartholomew. A mouthful. As for my unusual surname? Well, here is how that happened. Ma died when I was eight. On her deathbed, she pressed a silver buckle into my hand, which had broken off the boot worn by my reputed father on his last visit to Southwark. Assured me she had not stolen it but had kept it hoping he would return; made me promise I would never sell it. Perchance it would lead me to him one day.\n“This is your keepsake, Bartholomew Buckle. A gipsy foretold it to be your good luck talisman. No harm can befall you as long as it remains in your possession.” \nAlthough I went to live with Aunt Mary and her husband Pete in East London after Ma died, I kept the name Buckle and none of my buddies ever questioned it, or I would have pummelled them.\nGrowing up in East London during the days when King Charlie ruled England, I hung round the backstage doors of the theatres in Covent Garden in my spare time. Offered to help the stage managers by running errands or carrying messages for them. In exchange, they allowed me to watch rehearsals. How I admired the performers’ exalted speeches. Aunt Mary said that was how I learnt to speak the King’s English proper-like.\nUncle Pete was a carpenter, who worked for Smithfield-Barton at the docks. As a young boy, I worked alongside him. I can tell you he taught me a thing or two about fitting two pieces of lumber together.\n“Bart, a strong, sturdy fellow like you can allus’ find work along the docks. Good, steady work.”\nOne night, at the Kings Arms, I told him my heart was set on becoming an actor. Setting down his mug of gin, he cuffed my ears and warned me to stop my foolish ways. But I was determined.\nBack ‘round 1685, Aunt Mary was working as a lady’s maid in Soho Square. When she came home on Sundays, she sometimes brought leftover stale sweets for me. Not that there was enough to fill a tooth. Her mistress ate most of them, she said, shrugging.\n“Does your mistress attend the theatre?” I asked as I munched on a crunchy gooseberry tidbit.\n“Naw, Mistress Celia never goes outdoors. Complains the city is too dirty. Longs to be home in the country.”\n“I wouldn’t care to leave the city for a thousand guineas,” I replied. “No theatres in the country.” Then I would describe the rehearsals I had witnessed. Even recited a few lines, which impressed her.\n“Yer a quick learner, Bart, and you do got a certain talent for actin’.”\nThe years flew by, and I found work building sets and other odd jobs at the theatres. New plays came and went. Some lasted a few days, others a single performance. When I carried discarded scripts to the trash bin, I always kept a few pages for myself.\nStop a moment. You are amazed, aren’t you? Think a poor fellow like me cannot read? Well, think again. Thanks to Aunt Mary, I had a decent scrap of learning, even if it was reading to her from those old scripts.\nI thought I was doomed to be a stagehand forever, until a rare opportunity came my way just last week. I was busily pasting a poster on the front wall of the Duke of Gloucester Theatre, announcing the opening of a new play, The Visit. A gentleman of quality approached and read the poster.\n“Good sir,” I said, “is there something I can assist you with?”\n“Is this new satire any good? My sisters are keen to see a play before we depart London.”\nI didn’t exactly know what to say, especially after watching the disastrous dress rehearsal yesterday. The temperamental actress playing the role of Lady Lovely kept missing her cues. The actor portraying Second Footman was staggering drunk; his curly white wig kept falling off his head as he fought to remain upright. The stage manager was at wit’s end because the scenery painter was still not finished with the backdrop I had constructed.\nStill and all, here I was out in the late afternoon rain and this gentleman was asking for my opinion of the play. What could I in good conscience say? I hesitated for a moment. \n“I think it will be sensational, sir,” I lied.\nAnd to my surprise, the performance was a hit. Rave reviews in the London Times, although I heard the footman slur his one and only line. The stage manager fired him because the man couldn’t hold his liquor. Out he staggered, leaving his costume on the floor of the dressing room.\n“Where can I find an actor to fill in for next Friday?” the stage manager asked in despair.\nSurely you are not surprised to learn of my answer, are you? After all, when you came to buy tickets two days ago, you watched me rehearsing the part. Even though I am not a member of the actors’ guild, the stage manager offered me the chance at this bit part, reminding me I was still responsible for lighting the footlight candles. I tried on the costume and it fit well enough.\nSo, you see, I am ready for my long-awaited debut as an actor. And not a bit nervous. Acting is in my blood. And don’t I look handsome in this costume? Call me the foxy footman, if you will.\n~ ~ ~"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Oscar's Final Bow\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2561\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story looking down from a stage."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The silent emptiness that now filled the room was deafening in comparison to the meager roars of the participatory and rowdy audience had offered only an hour or so before. Oscar, Clown No. 3 and Pirate No. 4 scanned the ornately dilapidated hall, taking in that emptiness and the ruin left by the participatory and rowdy audience mentioned above. “The patrons favored bananas this evening”, Oscar mumbled to himself. Half-dressed in the silky pantaloons of an oriental pirate and still donning the elaborate clown face of the penultimate and dramatic scene that epitomizes the decaying decadence of the modern theater he let loose an unscripted Jeremiad that had both the passion and the eloquence of delivery that deserved a much finer stage than from the one it had been delivered from. The curtain had fallen; the director had cued him. Oscar, Night Janitor No. 1 began to play his role with an expertise that was sorely lacking at the Grand Off-Main Theatre.\nGrand Off-Main, an architectural wonder combining the façade of the Palau de la Musica and it’s interesting bulging of bricks, though, to be fair, I think the joint in Barcelona was done intentionally - this messy brickwork they paired with an interior of gaudy and sumptuous marble-esque columns, hastily designed art-deco motifs and ostentatious brass and gold fixtures everywhere that smacked of false bravado and poor taste. Garishness is the word that often came to mind by the more austere theatergoers in the last days. In plain English, it was a testimony to new money; or, at least what new money looked like in the previous century. \nTime had been unkind to Grand Off-Main. In its heyday it was the fashionable place to be, and everyone would promenade down to Grand Off-Main to see the some of the greats ply their trades, most for the last time. Who can forget when the stage was trod upon by that most famous, she who for reasons of libel, shall not be named, that titaness of the stage, when not forgetting not her lines, she forgot entirely which play she was performing in? As she was placed in a mechanical barber’s chair by an Americanized adaptation of Sweeney Todd, she burst into the bard’s Beatrice. As she was being toppled over backwards into a trap door the audience heard her yell out from the abyss, “He is no less than a stuffed man: but for the stuffing, well, we are all mortal”.\nOne critic wrote that she who shall not be named, God rest her soul, “combined Shakespeare with the modern melodrama so seamlessly one forgets the centuries that gulf us from the great man himself. In her commingling of the two scripts, she captured the essence of something so transcendent, something so universal that one can’t help but…” Jack Murcell, the butcher and a patron on the night of the incident could but help and concluded the fluffy article rather laconically, “know the broad forgot which show she was in”. Jack had died only a week before young Oscar, Fruit Concessionaire No. 2 began to work at Grand Off-Main Theater. \nJack, the petit bourgeois shop owner was a member of the last generation to see the Grand Off-Main rise to heights so lofty to attract grande dames of the stage, even ones on the backend of their career looking for the perfect place to kill it. Oscar, as he advanced up the ranks and came to his own backend, had witnessed the decline. Thankfully, he was still witnessing anything at all, the decay having been granted an extra, few decades to fester by the generous endowment of the Grand Off-Main’s two most famous benefactors, younger contemporaries of the long-gone Jack Murcell, Butcher No. 1.\nMrs. Featherswallow, Patron No. 1, and Ms. Zouch, Patron No. 1a, were just becoming the icons of the theater when Oscar was a young boy hawking the fruit that had later been banned from the premises as the crowds took to throwing the food rather than eating it. However, as times got worse, the sign that expressly forbade the possession of produce within the confines of the theater was often the spot where a basket of rotten fruit was stored for patrons to purchase. “Necessity is the mother of all invention,” Mr. Thomas, the unfortunate last owner of the theater used to say about the basket of fruit. Yet, though both patronesses had died some fifty-seven years ago, Mrs. Featherswallow outliving Ms. Zouch by a single day, their endowments had allowed the theater to limp on for nearly six decades, four of which were all squarely in the red. \nAs her dying wish, Mrs. Featherswallow had ordered her servants to roll her deathbed into the single box seat that hung over stage right, whereupon she died during a performance of Much Ado About Nothing. Sweeney Todd did not make an appearance that night. Death came to claim Mrs. Featherswallow at some point early in the second act. In seeing just the first act of the play, I’ll leave it to the readers to decide if she truly has the one extra visit over her great rival, who saw every show Mrs. Featherswallow did, save for the single, aforementioned act. You can easily guess what the ghost of Mrs. Featherswallow or the specter of Ms. Zouch would say about it. \nThe enmity between the two women was as natural as it was sadly predictable. Both were of the petit bourgeois class, not a dime of old money between them. Yet, Mrs. Featherswallow, the wife of the late Henry Featherswallow was of a third generation stock of new money, whereas Ms. Zouch, the daughter of the industrialist Conrad Zouch, a poor immigrant from Bavaria, the very embodiment of the American Myth, was only of second generation stock of new money and had no designs on a false aristocracy. Proof of this three-generation hypothesis between money and the sense of entitlement it brings sadly cannot be verified. For, though the short, squat and balloon shaped women were en vogue at the time when she would have been prime for a coupling there were no suitors for Ms. Zouch. What prevented her coupling was her fiery temper. All cowered before her, save for the angular, tall and birdlike Mrs. Featherswallow, who embodied nominative determinism long before the term was concocted in some Freudian sophistry. That said, her selection of husband, and thus surname, gives credence to the school of thought that believes incidents of nominative determinism arise out of an implicit egotism in mankind. \nMrs. Featherswallow and Ms. Zouch hated one another because they were so alike. Both were trailblazing women, remarkably independent in an era of entrenched chauvinism. Both were full of life, energy and vice. Both proclaimed that they hated all vice, except for the theater. That mutual love for the theater, especially the Grand Off-Main, was the only thing that prompted the two women to deign to give a semblance of approval to each other. Mrs. Featherswallow, with her futile aristocratic ambitions adopted a more naturally patrician air, sitting in her box seats above the riffraff, including the portly Ms. Zouch. She, like the blue bloods and their patrician forebears she so desperately wished to join by emulation, preferred to make use of the plebs below to participate by proxy rather than sully her own hands with the proffered produce. For some reason she had become peculiarly attached to pirates and strictly forbade any flinging of fruit in their direction. For all others she had a signal that would send the crowds beneath her into an orgiastic frenzy that would see whole cartons of refuse hurled upon the poor actors of the play being performed that evening. \nConversely, Ms. Zouch, far wealthier and more influential than her rival, loved to be among the people. Her seat, across the theater on stage left was in the middle of the section that now bears her name. From that vantage point she was known to have remarkable aim and could pick off any pirate she saw fit. Her devotees would follow suit, pummeling pirates, and all others deemed worthy of such reproofs, as a rule leaving clowns unmolested. The partisanship got so bad that scenes with pirates and clowns had to be written into every play to mollify the old women and their rival mobs. The tradition of these two characters being ad-hoc attached to every production survived both women to sometimes tragic, often unintentionally ironic and universally hysterical results.\nAs he always did, Oscar, Janitor No. 1, exited stage right and worked his way up the section beneath Mrs. Featherswallow’s unoccupied box seats and through the section that was named in honor of her and her posthumous donation. Also unintentionally ironic, each of these rows of seats had various birds perched on their backs at the ends of the rows, giving the section a more polished feel than the other two in the theater. These birds predated Mrs. Featherswallow by about twenty years having been salvaged from the fires that ravaged the east end of town. The bird motif of this section of seating was fitting in the Canary’s Cage Cabaret but looked a little out of place when placed in the Grand Off-Main in her prime. Now, one merely assumes that the other two sections of seats originally had the birds as well; assuming time had seen the other birds fall off over the years, such is the state of the theater’s decline. \nAfter finishing up sweeping her section, Oscar, Janitor No. 1 recalled a sarcastic butler role he had played a decade prior and addressed the empty box of Mrs. Featherswallow, “Fifty-four? You must have been exceptionally pleased with tonight’s performance.” He smiled and bashfully looked at the floor, rubbing his toe into the dilapidated and faded red carpet that ran between the Featherswallow section and the middle, unnamed maze of half-broken seating. “There was a pretty good pirate in this one,” he quipped to himself as much as to the absent Mrs. Featherswallow, all the while continuing to demurely dig his toe into the badly stained runner.\nMoving on to the center, where the worst damage by the caved-in roof had been sustained some two years prior, he found a whole bag of half-rotten bananas, each partially eaten by a drunkard who was still asleep on the ground between two rows dead center of the theater. Startled, but unphased by the common presence of some vagabond or another, Oscar prayed for the man’s soul and finished up the section before moving over into the territory of Ms. Zouch. \nAs he had on the other side, he acknowledged the seat of a dead woman, this time face to face rather than looking up as one must do to the aristocrats among us. In the fading gas light, one could still see where the prodigious Ms. Zouch’s seat had begun to bow in the hopes of giving her frame more space to relax, lean back and hurl a tomato with terrifying speed. “Thank God it was a busted truck of bananas and not tomatoes that Mr. Thomas came across today”, muttered Oscar, Janitor No. 1, under his breath so as to not offend the deceased. \nThere were far fewer bananas on the Zouch side of theater. Not much can be made of this because there could be a variety of reasons for a shier gathering of banana skins. For one, the bananas simply could have run out before most of the patrons arrived. That was a common occurrence these days. Oscar lamented a little when he considered this possibility. For another, the patrons on the Zouch side, always a bit poorer than those who sat on the Featherswallow side, may not have had the necessary capital to afford even rotten bananas, what with the inflation and all. Or still, they simply may have contributed more to the one hundred and thirty odd bananas he had cleaned up on the stage. Oscar, Philosopher of Natural Sciences No. 1, pondered on these and other possibilities for as long as he could before declaring it to be an unsolvable mystery. \nWith a satisfaction and pride that is difficult to articulate, Oscar swept all the banana refuse into a pile and bagged it up. He finished his duties by mopping up and turning out the lights, taking his final bow in the empty darkness. From there he descended into the bowels of the theater, where the owner let Oscar sleep on nights where there were more than three performances or whenever he was drunk and passed out in the middle section of seating, thus incapable to shooing the old janitor out into the cold.\nSadly, Oscar would only reprise his roles as Clown No. 3 and Pirate No. 4 a total of four more times. He would only reprise his role as Janitor No. 1 thrice. During the final performance of that modern obscenity that included dancing oriental pirates and bull-fighting clowns, celebrating the decadence and downfall of society in an blistering commentary on sentimentality, a severely less articulate Jeremiad than the one so eloquently given by Oscar, Janitor No. 1, prior to satisfactorily cleaning up the bananas, a fire broke out on stage, swallowing up the whole old, rickety theater and killing eleven theatergoers, including the sleeping drunk who had not moved since Oscar saw him sleeping next to the pile of partially masticated bananas. Perhaps he was dead before the fire. It is now impossible to know. It was the worst loss of life in a theater for the town since the cabaret burned some seventy years prior. Worst of all, bemoaned a local newspaper the day after the blaze, “the resplendent, avian seats of the old Canary were not saved this time”. \nNearly the whole cast of that production perished in the flames as the building collapsed inwards on itself. Only two of the cast were spared from their fate. One, Marshall Betancourt, the local high school math teacher and leading character of that night’s performance, had snuck out in during one of the few scenes he was not a part of to have a cigarette. He was found looking for his lost lighter after the flames had engulfed the theater and threatened to spread into the whole block. \nThe other was Oscar, who witnesses swore was carried out, unconscious from the flames, by two old women, one very tall and thin, the other, short and squat. Quite a spectacle did these three make! They, according to those same witnesses, sat the disoriented, but living old man down at a safe distance from the burning building and returned to the flames, arguing the whole way, presumably about who deserves the most credit for saving the poor janitor’s life. The theater and the ramshackle homes that once surrounded it have all been torn down and a soulless strip mall has been erected in their place. Schoolchildren, much like those witnesses who saw Oscar saved from the fire, tell tales of two old women, one who is tall and birdlike, one who is short and round like a bowling ball, haunting the strip mall late at night, scowling at the suburban sprawl. I doubt the veracity of these stories though, standing as I do by my chosen adjective describing the strip mall."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Iriewani\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1672\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who always wears a mask (physical or metaphorical)."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Shells rained upon Ramree Island.\nTakuro struggled—hands trembling—to load bullets into his rifle. The ammunition slipped between his fingers, hitting the dirt, rolling in the trench. He brought his head down as bombs whistled. They landed close enough to make him jump, dirt spattering his eyes. Shrapnel cut his uniform.\nDazed, reeling, Takuro got to his feet, stumbling. He turned his head. His allies to the right affixed bayonets onto their Arisaka rifles. Banzai! Banzai! Banzai! They charged the British and Indian soldiers face-first. He turned to the left, sluggish, seeing Japanese soldiers decimated by the bombs. Limbs and helmets were scattered across the land, the dirt coated red.\nHands grabbed his shoulders.\n“Death before dishonour,” Takuro mumbled. He reached for a grenade. “Long live-”\n“We’ll die for the emperor another day!” The soldier’s words carried spit. Bombs shook the earth. “We retreat for now, through the jungle—there are fortifications that need our numbers! General’s orders!”\nThe shock passed. Takuro nodded and climbed out. His remaining company followed the soldier through the battlefield. Bullets zipped through the air, striking mud. The groaning noise of tank treads sounded further off.\nAlong with several hundred others, Takuro retreated into the jungles of Ramree. The dense foliage surrounded them. Snakes wrapped themselves around branches, while spiders watched from monstrous webs. \nThe Japanese forces would march ten miles to the opposite side of the island.\nTakuro plunged his boots into water.\n\n- - -\n\nTo discover how cruel nature can be, you need only shake the wrong branch.\nThe swamp water reached his knees. He swatted at one mosquito, and a dozen more swarmed him. Takuro kept his rifle high, the hot fog setting in, heavy enough that he could hardly see the soldier in front of him. It wouldn’t be long until the British ambushed them from the sides.\nHe doubted he could pull the trigger if it happened.\nHe couldn’t bring himself to shoot at them before. The fog would help. It’d make the difference in not seeing their faces. He followed behind, legs dragging through the swamp, the water reaching waist height. Soldiers ahead mumbled of hunger—handfuls of rice not enough to sustain them.\nA man behind him panted and wheezed. Takuro turned to see a purple blister on the soldier’s arm. It’d swollen, the skin surrounding it a dark red. \nThe man caught him staring.\n“I bumped into a tree a while back,” he whispered. “Didn’t see the snake on it. Eyes forward. I’ll be fine.”\n“You need a medic,” Takuro said. “I’ll rush ahead and find-”\n“We couldn’t treat our own back there. They won’t help me now.” He reached into his uniform and brought out a sealed letter, the imperial emblem of the rising sun stamped on the corner. He handed it to Takuro. \n“Hold this for me, please.”\nHe nodded.\nLess than a half-hour later, the man collapsed into the swamp. Takuro rushed over, reached into the water, but couldn’t see in the murk. Seaweed tangled around his arms. Another soldier pushed at his chest with the stock of their rifle and forced him forward.\n“We can’t leave him-”\n“Quiet! It’ll be your head if you disobey orders.”\nHe marched. Mosquitoes picked at his arms, drawing blood from his hands. He’d stopped trying to swat at them. Gunfire boomed ahead. Takuro pointed his rifle to the left, squinting through the fog. This time, he would fire. The first British he saw, with their khaki uniforms, he’d blow their head right off-\n“Iriewani!” soldiers called.\nTakuro snapped his aim to the water. Saltwater crocodiles. Gunfire rang out, screams, vicious splashing. Silence. The water stilled. The march came to a halt. Takuro wiped the sweat from his brow, keeping his rifle trained low, the sun setting overhead.\n“We move!” an officer commanded. He brandished his side sword. “We’ll get nowhere if we stop for the weak!”\nIt began again. Soldiers at the back of the group—the sick and wounded—cried for help. A soldier pushed Takuro forward, and he tripped into the water. He kept his rifle above his head. His hands trembled. He got to his feet and marched with the rest of the group.\nThe crocodiles grew restless. Men were crushed in the jaws of the reptiles and torn to shreds. Panicked shots hit friendlies, leaving bleeding corpses in the water. Darkness shrouded the beasts. Takuro gagged as he passed a floating arm in a pool of red.\nWhen it came time to camp, he exhaled in relief. A momentary abatement from the march. They stepped onto solid ground, setting campfires, hunting for anything to eat—whether it be the jungle’s snakes, scorpions, or spiders.\nTakuro sat at a campfire with a dozen other soldiers. They shivered in the sudden cold, their boots soaked inside and out. Drinking water ran low. Stomachs growled. Men whispered to each other to distract themselves.\n“Where are you from?” a soldier asked.\nTakuro turned. “Hiroshima. There’s a small town named Kaita. That’s where I’m from…” the soldier prompted him to continue. “I ran a shoe store with my older sister. Our father lost his memory, and the responsibility fell to us. It was…” Takuro stared at the fire and smiled. “It was alright. I liked it.”\n“Sounds nice.”\n“I miss it,” Takuro said. He ran a hand through his hair. “Recruiters came to our door. I got sent off here. My sister is out making the boots that we wear.”\n“You’ll have to thank her for me,” the man said. “These boots are not breaking apart anytime soon, and we’ve been marching through hell.”\nThey exchanged names. The man—Shohei, spoke of his time in Nagoya. He’d been a fighter pilot, moved to an infantry division after the bombings on his city left their aircraft limited.\n“Believe it or not,” he said, hushing his voice to a whisper, “I used to play the same sport as the Americans. I’ve been to New York.” He smiled. “I played against the Yankees at their own stadiums. They were kind to me, and they hit the ball as hard as the rumours said.”\nThe fire crackled. Soldiers shook in their sleep.\n“Because of it,” Shohei continued, “I can’t bring myself to hate them.”\n“It’s our country’s duty,” Takuro said. “We don't have a choice.”\nThe conversation died out. Shohei turned and laid down, head against the mud. Takuro inched closer to the fire. He reached into his uniform for the letter the soldier had given him earlier in the day—water blotted the imperial emblem in the corner, red ink a blur.\nHe ran his thumb under the seal.\nMy dear Itsumi, the letter read.\nWe spend our mornings and nights digging. My back hurts from shovelling dirt, but these trenches will be our only cover on this island. I spend my time thinking of home. Your letters are a beautiful, yet cruel reminder of all the months and years I’m missing, where I could be with you. Every day I’m out here, I hope, is another day you will be safe.\nRemember that I will always love you, Itsumi.\nYuzo Shimizu\nTakuro folded the letter and tucked it into his uniform. He couldn’t wear the mask of imperialism any longer. He pressed his head into his arm, and cried.\n\n- - -\n\nAt dawn, the Japanese forces continued the march.\nSoldiers walked with their heads down. Morale had dropped low. If retreating from the battle was not enough, the remaining officers argued over their maps, splitting into groups and taking separate paths in the swamp.\nThe crocodiles did not relent.\nThey picked off the sick, wounded, and slow—dragged beneath water, drowned, limbs torn off in a frenzy. Days passed. Fatigue took its toll. Any soldiers that fell behind fell prey. Numbers dropped from hundreds to dozens. Takuro awoke again and again to exhausted men being dragged from camp, stuck in the jaws of the saltwater crocodiles, crying for mercy.\nThe ones they killed tasted like rubber.\nWithin a week, lost in the jungle, Takuro came down with a fever—some disease transmitted by the mosquitoes.\nHe balanced himself on his rifle as he walked, boots digging deep into the mud, every step of the jungle looking the same. Thick mangrove trees. Clouded water. The hissing of snakes and croaks of frogs.\nStruggling to keep up, Takuro tripped over a tree root. The alert, green eyes of a crocodile opened in the shadows. It rushed out from the foliage. Takuro shouted, stumbled to his feet, and hurried away—but couldn’t find any of his comrades.\nHe’d been too slow. Abandoned.\nThe crocodile’s legs patted against the mud, its tail smashing against the ground as it crawled faster and faster. Takuro aimed his rifle and faced the beast. An amber and black hide, scaled from one end to the other, twice the size of him. A jaw of massive, ivory-coloured teeth. Bumps like spikes ran down its back.\nTakuro shot. His ears rang. The bullet dug into the crocodile’s scales and failed to slow it down. Takuro cried out, swinging his bayonet from side to side. He jabbed as the crocodile lunged.\nIt bit at his rifle and broke it in two. The bayonet shattered in its jaws.\nLosing his weapon, he staggered, falling. \nGunshots stopped the crocodile in its tracks. A group of British soldiers stepped out of the foliage and trained their firearms on the lone Japanese soldier, encircling him.\n“Give the word and I’ll put him down.”\nTakuro couldn’t understand the language. He raised his arms above his head.\n“Lower your weapons,” another said. “He’s harmless. Give him some water.” One knelt beside him and handed him a canteen. “Do any of you speak Japanese?” They shook their heads. “Alright, standard procedure. Get him out of here.”\nThey brought him to a boat and sailed off.\nA medic took his temperature. Another placed a lukewarm cloth over his forehead. He closed his eyes, shivering, and was thankful for his captors—thankful to be away from the front lines of the war."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Doctor Frickle’s Mysterious Cabinet of Transmogrify\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2949\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story looking down from a stage."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Gentlemen, \n\nI observed my audience looking positively frabjous in their waiting that night; yes, I took a little peek from the red velvets right before showtime. Curiosity killed the cat, and my magic proficiency cannot hold a candle to Carroll's 71’-word invention of frabjous. What a wordsmith as his reading audience fell for his poppycock hook line and sinker; the same will be valid for me, the magician. \n\nI pulled my red velveteen curtain open and hooked it to the left. I began my well-rehearsed opening patter while making my trek down to center stage, \"Ladies and Gentlemen, please let me introduce myself. I am Doctor Phileas Frickel, known in some circles as 'Frickel the Great.' Why? Because I have the supernatural gift of prestidigitation. Not just magic tricks but miracles, my friends. Real miracles!\"\n\nAs I advertise, my dime museum has astonishing curiosities. I travel with them from town to town in my wagon that is also my stage. My setup is comfortable for both myself and my audiences. However, it's probably not near as comfortable for the members of my museum as some of them are the results of experiments that went awry. I should think the name 'Frickle's mistakes' is more applicable than 'Frickle's curiosities.'\n\nOn the day in question, the 17th of August 1890, I entered the lawless mining town called Leadville, Colorado. I was greeted by Horace Tabor himself as he saw my mule, Sal, pulling an unmanned wagon straight down Harrison Street. We entered every town this way as it causes a ruckus. However, may I state, Sal wasn't alone at all as I walked beside him, handing out flyers and hawking my miracles. \n\nMy wagon is painted a flamboyant red with bright yellow wagon wheels. The spokes are uniquely carved with devilish-looking faces on every other one, and the artwork on the sidewall I had purchased in Denver and found it to be beyond compare. It read: Doctor Phileas T. Frickle, Prestidigitator Magic, Marvels, and a dime museum of curiosities! I had the artist render a painting of the two-headed baby and a Fairy who was waving. Under it, all was the line see the mysterious cabinet of transmogrify.\n\nProudly, I had my flyers printed for me while in Denver. The printer had used brilliant yellow lettering that looked just like the writing penned neatly on the side of my flashy red wagon. The first 20 or so customers gathered that night had my brochures in their rough hands, no doubt to see my astonishing curiosities. They are my draw, as I never did half as well without them.\n\n\"I am about to introduce you to two wonders of this world, friends, and therefore must ask you to pay your dime. The creatures you are about to meet are alive and breathing marvels.\" Before introducing Robert, the squirrel boy, and Hildegard, the 8-inch-tall Sprite, I noticed several more people were gathering, so I first brought out two tables, both covered in black shrouds. \n\nI began my spiel, \"Before you meet the living, you will need to view the dead. These, my friends, are the abominations that the great creator deemed unlivable in this world. I am about to invite you to walk across my stage to look through their formaldehyde.\" I lifted the shroud to the left and said, \"This, my friends is the rare cadaver of a mermaid who once lived in an ancient Caspian sea,\" knowing darn well it once belonged to the great Barnum. He had brilliantly sewn together the top half of a dead monkey to the tail half of a carp. Then I moved slowly to the right and removed the cover of my two-headed premature baby that I had bought from a medical laboratory while in Baltimore. \"Shed no tears for my dead infant Son, Malachi, friends. He would not have been able to live in this world with such an affliction.\" Of course, the unfinished infant wasn't my son, and I have a receipt for its purchase.\n\nMy paid audience now left the stage and took their seats. Mesmerized to see more, I carried out a covered small birdcage and began my speech. \"You decided; you paid to enter, so now will you see an error, half beast half boy could it be that only 10 cents bought you the chance to see these impossibilities?\" I loved the patter I wrote for this one, \"I'm an ailurophile at heart. As a boy, I dreamed of being a feline wrangler by trying to teach my old yellow Tomcat Toby to walk on a tight rope using only his front paws. It never worked for me. However, I had heard the Russians had accomplished this miraculous feat of training your cats, so I went to see for myself. The cats were magnificent, but I was transfixed on this rare creature.\"\n\nThe audience gasped as I uncovered the cage. \"This, my friend, is a squirrel and or possibly a boy. It speaks in gibberish; listen.\" \n\nThe creature in the cage did not come from Russia; he is what's left of an orphan boy named Robert that had volunteered to a metamorphosis accident I had while building my cabinet in Denver. I made up this story to cover that unfortunate incident when my' cabinet of transmogrify' did not work as planned. The boy did wish to be turned into a squirrel, after all.\n\nBefore Hildegard's introduction, I had fed her a dead mouse that I had caught in my trap. She drains their blood completely, which keeps her manageable. Hildegard the Sprite, as I advertised her, was also an unfortunate mistake of transmogrification.\n\nThe Swedish woman I chose from my audience in Wray Colorado could hardly speak English and wanted to sprout fairy wings; instead, she was miniaturized, turning an incredible glowing green with pale transparent insect wings. I keep her in a crystal box as she also has a healthy dose of mosquito in her and tends to not only suck blood but bite. \n\nHildegard stays out as I segue into my flurry of magic effects. I introduced and then performed the ancient rings, the mysterious Tower of Babel, a trick I call the house of cards, and my striking habit of eating fire. The Sprite pays attention and applauds with her tiny hands after each feat of magic, and she wouldn't applaud unless I fed her first. \n\nNow I must confess the fake ending I used in my show that night did have to do with a citizen of Leadville going missing. I closed the curtain and came down-center stage again with my arms outstretched and my hands clean. \"I want to thank you for coming out this evening. I hope you enjoyed yourselves, and I wish you all a wonderful rest of your evening.\" \n\nThen as in every show for at least the last ten years, someone from the audience shouted out, \"What about the cabinet?\" That night, an older fellow with a long gray beard laid upon his chest. He couldn't pronounce transmogrification, so he just said cabinet. That was a common occurrence. And just as I had planned, those who had stood up sat back down. \n\n\"Are you asking to witness the use of a cabinet of transmogrification?\" I asked in a curious questioning tone. I then noted, \"I have given you all I promised,\" although I knew the flyers that I had handed out to the patrons of several filled saloons had included the cabinet but now played coy. \"As advertised for only a dime, I would show you my collection and amaze and mystify you with my supernatural prestidigitations. And now you are asking for more?\" \n\nThey began hooting and hollering while demanding more. The noise attracted several more potential witnesses. I do like to keep a mysterious, Delphic air about me, and my motto is to keep them waiting until the anticipation nearly kills them.\n\"Alright then,\" I said back in my performance voice, \"I cannot accomplish this miracle without someone from the audience who wishes for great change. Someone unhappy with life as it is will not condemn me, the miracle worker, if all does not occur to plan, and it happens. Please, is there anyone?\"\n\nNo hand raised in the rowdy audience; it worried me just a bit, but then I provided myself with a volunteer after rolling the beautiful mahogany crate to center stage. It was a live lamb in the back that I had purchased for my dinner. The audience gasped with worry for the tiny creature when I carried the small lamb out. However, they never thought that the butcher at the center of the main street kills at least fifteen a day. \n\nI spoke, \"As a man of magic and intrigue, I had an exquisite yearning to accomplish the impossible and have done so with my unique invention; I call it the mysterious Cabinet of Transmogrify.\n\nFor example, I will gently place this crated lamb into the box.\" I did and then closed the door and mumbled through many non-meaningful Persian incarnations. I said, \"Aji Maji la Taraji\" When I opened the cabinet, out sprang a spry small goat who simply jumped through the crowd and ran away. The cabinet never ceases to amaze. However, I swear on stacked bibles that I was not responsible for the goat, and I had never laid eyes on that beast before or after my performance. \n\nAt this point, I saw my volunteer, your missing person, making her way from the back of the audience. I reached out my hand to a huge woman dressed in virtual rags with a shawl wrapped around her enormous shoulders. \"No need to be worried, my dear,\" I said with a bit of worried hesitation in my own words. “How does it work, you ask? A great magician is sworn never to reveal his secrets. But in this case, the invention is not magic at all, and it only plays with the human mind. You saw the lamb as you saw the goat, but it was simply in your imagination. And it works because the participant wishes for it too. And your name is what, my dear?\" \n\n“Caroline Craft,\" she said in a meek, barely audible voice. \n\nCaroline unbosomed her concerns to the boisterous audience that she may not fit in the box. I gave her a tiny vile of sedative mixture that I said was a potion and held her cold shivering hand to lead her into the cabinet. After squeezing just a bit, it was a perfect fit. \"I want to be thin again she said in a trembling voice.\"\n\nThe audience roared with laughter; I had nearly 100 people waiting to see my miracle by this time. I had to quiet them by saying, \"You saw the unique creatures eternally confined to their glass coffins for that you paid a dime. It will only cost you another dime to watch your own Caroline transmute into her chosen desire. Who will pay? If you pay, you will watch! Who will watch? Those who pay! For only 10 cents, you saw the impossible, the improbable, a baby with two heads. Is it a repulsive mistake of nature? An abomination? And now, what will we see? We shall now see what will happen to this human being. I placed her into the box something never attempted in any of the great 48 States.\" What a liar I am, but a good teller of lies non-the-less, \"I must ask you now to pay one more thin dime, a mere pittance to witness the miracle occur. You want to see Caroline become thin now, don't you? I never lied to you this evening, have I?\" \n\nWith those words, I saw the shine of their hard-earned dimes in the air and land in my hat 1, 5, 10, yes, at least 10 dollars. Ten dollars to most laborers is a week's wages. But just a measly little dime meant nothing to most. \n\nCaroline began to cry, so I closed the door and covered the crate with one of the black shrouds I had used earlier. I repeated the same incarnation I had used on the lamb, only this time adding the divine words of the Burtrust Chronicles. I will not write the actual words for you in fear they will further cause me dismay as they are of utmost holiness, but they mean boundary, release, and destroy. Perhaps including them brought about my demise and the writing of this confession letter.\n\nWhen I opened the cabinet, I swear to God that I was as shocked as everyone who witnessed the occurrence. A woman in my front row ran screaming, leaving her friend, who in turn passed out. And a couple of men drew their guns to no avail as Caroline Craft stood before us as a living Skeleton. Her skin clung to her bones that looked like they were dripping an unworldly ooze. Her eyes, now black with anger, twitched back and forth, and her bared teeth tried to speak.\n\nI threw the creature back in the cabinet and tried to reverse the spell. This time I said, \"Taraji la Maji, Aji Abraxas\" Mentors had told me many years ago that Abraxas in magic can be used with or without their stones but only with exceptional regard. I will admit that I did say the words quickly and without prayer. But they must have worked as I opened the cabinet door again. This time the audience saw nothing. I, on the other hand, saw a pile of dust. If what I saw was the truth, you can charge me with murder, but that was not the case. Caroline, who was still a skeleton, had escaped from the back of the cabinet, and my untidiness caused the pile of dust.\n\nLater that night, when she came knocking on my wagon's door, I went to the illation that Caroline wanted to join us. A few weeks later, while pulling into Alma, I advertised my dime museum's newest feature, the skeleton woman. As capricious as Caroline's thin self was twas a paradox for her to be the star. \n\nHowever, while pulling into Lake City, Colorado, the sabotage and hijacking began towards the end of the season. Sitting around my campfire in a daze of relaxation, I had noticed how the high jagged peaks of this area do indeed look like they pierce the deep blue sky; the rage of the unleashed Sprite was upon me. No one could hear my screams except for the wildlife who had no cares. The rocky canyons and high valley floors had hidden us well as Caroline the living Skeleton and a living fairy Sprite had overtaken me and the show. \n\nFirst, may I say, it was Caroline who released my museum. So, I find I am in no way responsible for any further mayhem they might have caused. She even buried the two-headed baby and the mermaid corpse. I would add, the monkey fish was becoming putrid. As for all the mistakes from the cabinet, I know exactly where they are. Robert, the squirrel boy, ran off into the woods, but I hear his mindless chatter telling me he is close by from time to time. \n\nCaroline, the skeleton woman, and Hildegard, the nasty Sprite, are both bound and determined that no one will ever find me. Taking justice into her claw-like hands, Caroline is holding me hostage. She and that evil Sprite have made away with me. They have taken me high up to cliffside on Slumgullion Pass. From my cave-cage, all I can see is the wild San Juan mountains. Unless it is snowing, then all I see is white with red drops. The Sprite makes daily blood draws from me, and Caroline has forced me into writing this confession and selling off my wagon, Sal, and all my magic apparatus. Unfortunately, including my mysterious Cabinet of Transmogrify.\n\nWith utmost truth in confession,\nPhileas T. Frickle\n7th of December 1890\n\nMove forward 96 years;\nAs luck would have it. I own Doctor Frickle's Cabinet of Transmogrify and his confession letter now. I told the cop I had found it neatly folded in an envelope, addressed, and stamped but never mailed stashed away in a lovely mahogany cabinet my wife and I found in an Antique store on Broadway Street here in Denver last Christmas time. \n\nAt that time, both my wife and I found the letter curious and took it to the Denver police station near our home. After reading it, they didn't seem to care, and I thought it might be a practical joke. But then my wife Laura and I decided to try it out at a dinner party we had hosted. Laura thought it would be a fun and unique experience for our guests to show them the cabinet and then read the letter. After doing so, Laura got in the box, and I repeated Doctor Frickle's' words. My wife had made a wish to become famous. Judging by the Rocky Mountain News headline. \"Wife murdered, and the husband pleads a magic trick did it!\", she won. My wife got her wish of notoriety, if not infamous fame, and is, unfortunately, dead to prove it, and I am now being held as her murderer. I plead not guilty, and I am using this letter as evidence. It was the strange cabinet that did it, not me. \n\nI signed the submission envelope, stating more words from Doctor Frickle, 'with utmost truth,' Brian Wilcox the accused. Sign sealed and delivered to my defense attorney, who snickered when he read it."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Night at the Ballet\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1593\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story looking down from a stage."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The overture is chaotic and is thick in the theatre. From the ground level seats, it is overwhelming but the nosebleed seats allow it to be quieter and drummed out. The box overlooks the stage in a regal way. The stage itself is lit with the vibrancy of the gold and red curtain. The columns in the ballet itself are grand and secure. The onlooker seems far away from the very small performers that will soon enter the stage. As though the man had paid to be royalty for a night and ruled over the rest of the cast members of the ballet, he pats the Tokarev pistol placed under his suit jacket. After all, he was technically on duty and required to protect his favorite performer. \nThe precious cargo he was to protect was on stage, the daughter of his boss, and coincidentally his fiancé. He started working as her bodyguard and somehow earned her good graces enough for her to like him. He had no clue how that happened but was happy about it nevertheless. As much as it elated him to watch the girl move around in a graceful and athletic way, he was technically working which set him on edge. He had no clue what the target looked like besides a brief description that made them seem ghostly.\nIf it was a quiet night he would be thankful. No gun battle on the streets of St. Petersburg, no alleyway confrontations, no change of blood-soaked clothes at the end of the night. A pleasant night with elegant music watching a beautiful girl dance. It would be preferable to a night of stakeouts and exchanges. Some normalcy and peace would be nice, but he would not have what he does if not for the acceptance of his violent lifestyle. \n[...]\nEven though he is not a person for high art, he is here for her. Her small chorus part had excited the young woman for months, and being supportive in such a small enjoyment seemed necessary. The music from Romeo and Juliet was something familiar to him. With open, brash crescendos and sharp, executive turns; the music moved less like a waltz and more like a clear, unhurried, march. It was steady and had an ominous flow that drew the listener in much like the original story itself. \nHis heart picks up pace at the sight of his lover. She is small in frame but still graced with some strong curves. Her figure was feminine and pulled his eyes as she moved in rhythm with the music. The elegance of it made his heart unable to be still while watching timed movements. His mind drifted from the gun on his hip and lingered on the delicacy of artistka baleta. \nBlack covers his vision. There is nothing in his eyes, screams are in his ears, and smoke is in his nostrils. The jolt in the environment has alerted his senses as he feels around for his gun and pulls it out in horror while still trying to keep it concealed. The chaos is broad amongst the audience members. A thudding stampede can be heard on the floor as the doors are opened and people flee to the streets of the city. His thoughts run rampant, ‘is she okay?’ and ‘is this the target bratva spoke of?’.\nHe turns to run the other way and begins to make his way down the hallway to the backstage. He can’t lose her the same way he lost the rest of his family. Grey walls, cold prisons, and bullets in skulls. The targets could elicit just as much fear as those childhood memories of loss. As the lights return to full operation in the ballet, the backstage succumbs to more disorder than the audience. \n“Have you seen her?”, he asks a cast member. They are unaware of who she is until he gives a name. \nThe other cast member looks confused, “we haven’t seen her at all. Everyone who was onstage ran back to-”, the bodyguard's face is pale white at the thought of the disappearance of his future wife, and also the possible presence of the target he was supposed to protect her from. \n“Move!” He slams through the door determined to find her. A predator trying to protect something valuable from another predator. It was two wolves fighting over something, power, money, the girl herself. Their target was a monster, but so was the bodyguard. The only difference is one had a bare string connecting them to the moral law and another had cut that years ago.\nSt. Petersburg is cold and biting in the night air. It stabs like a knife, a reminder of his early days before being a trained killer. His starving family, his sacrificed mother, him being the last of his kin. He shouldn’t be here, running on the streets and alive while they rot in some unknown grave in a barren wasteland. His life was bought by their deaths at the hand of the cancerous state of human sin, starving peasants, and the pigs that played with their lives like dice. \nThere are now people outside of the ballet crowding around him in the open street. The movement and breath of the people is illuminated in the burning light, but what catches his eye is a black cloak that slips behind the building, a thing in the night. At the sight of this, his feet hit the cobblestone as he shoves through the crowd. He enters into a narrow alleyway to follow the movement of the suspect, he is enshrouded in the dark visions of thieves and heathens. Monsters of the night that he had been forced to become after his time in the business. \nHe began to move slowly and with conscientiousness. The Tokarev was being loaded with the cartridge in preparation for an onsite kill, he would have to cover it, as long as the law cooperated with them, there would be no issues to come out of his hunt.\nHe knows where it is, the target, as he walks behind the ballet. He has to prepare to be shot at or stabbed. Preparing for the first may protect him from the second as well, but there is always a threat of a bigger snake hiding in the shadows. Something much viler could present itself before the night is over. \n“Bratva!” A human, barely a human, a serpent moved into the light. He had black hair shagging to the bottom of his neck. There was some former humanity in the thing that emerged, but it remained less than human; a creature, a killer, a devil. A shell of a soul in a handsome charming face now held the limp body of the girl who was dancing on stage only a few minutes ago. Aside from the girl, on his arm is a red band, a signifier of a much darker evil.\nThe guard’s thoughts remember those same red bands on those who murdered his family. Monsters who were decorated as statesmen, and smiled as they severed souls from bodies. They were past the point of being called men, being called human, the manufactured way in which the slain millions had removed that grace. \n“Give her back!” The man calls out at the creature smiling across from him. He lunges and abruptly pulls out the gun and points it. His handshakes at the sight of his fiancé, small, cold, barely there but present. There was still life, but he was scared that it was at stake. \n“Uh, uh, uh! I’d be careful before I moved any closer.” A warning from the monster sounds like a childish wave in a nursery. A warning to a young one not to go past a certain boundary and the threat that it may pose.\nThe gun is let down silently as his breath stretches into the air. “What did you do?”, a snarl escapes in the low blue tones of darkness. He fears for the girl’s fate, she looks so delicate in the preservation of a misty evening. The low visibility makes the shot much more difficult than it would be on a clear night.\nThe snake smiles, “nothing, as of yet”. The grimace only seems to widen with the eerie silence. The unsettling feeling grows in the bodyguard, a warning. The fog forms behind it, making them seem much more intimidating than before. There was a disturbing control being held and it was not by the one with the gun in hand. \n“What do you want out of this?”\n“Nothing, that is nothing you’d be willing to give up.” A conniving snicker escapes the mouth of the deceiver. \n“Let her go!” The man’s voice is raised and ready to attack. His blood is curdling at the very sound of the opponent’s voice.\n“Take her from me!” A sudden lung and disappearance of the reptile alerts the bodyguard.\nThe gun cocks and snaps. Bang! The man breathes heavily in the blowback and runs towards the point of his target, only to find he is not there and neither is his fiancé. He calls his lover's name and looks off to the side to see something he didn’t want to see. \n“No!” he runs over to her, grief chokes up his throat. He is thankful she is still breathing but distraught that her blood will be what he is cleaning up when this long night is over. He curses under his breath and carries her away, hoping to get help, looking for safety."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Ten Seconds\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1396\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story on New Year's Day."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Ten seconds. That’s all she had. \nThe million people packed into the small space created the perfect storm. She didn’t like crowds, the sea of people pressing up against her from all sides made her uncomfortable.\nJeff had been obsessed the past few months, bragging to his business partners and clients that they were flying out to New York to see the ball drop. She was embarrassed every time he announced the staggering rate for their Times Square hotel stay as if somehow it was a good thing, an achievement of some sort rather than an extraordinary waste of money. It never occurred to him to ask her how she felt or if she wanted to go. What she wanted was not a consideration. She was just an extension of him, an accessory.\nThe five years of their marriage were long enough to turn her life into a nightmare. The attributes that she had admired in Jeff when they first met turned against her after exchanging their vows. His ambition was nothing more than a power hungry aggression. His partners were his competition. His social media accounts a place to display his achievements like trophies on a shelf. She, the beautiful wife on his arm, was nothing more than an addition to his collection of accomplishments.\n***\nShe stood in her high heels with the wind blowing through her sheer skirt, dressed for the image rather than her comfort. She had cringed coming out of the shower seeing the clothes he had laid out on the bed for her. Attempting to change the outfit wasn’t worth the effort as it was a fight she wouldn’t win.\nIf the camera captured the whole story rather than those carefully orchestrated moments in time his followers would see the latest bruises on her upper arm. After voicing her opinion to his client, he immediately corrected her while sitting with his arm casually looped around her at the restaurant. It was subtle but painful. \nAs the ball started its descent into the New Year he held the camera in the air for the iconic selfie. It would be posted before the countdown was over, Sophia knew. For once she was grateful for his narcissism, his predictability of putting himself first. Always the picture of himself followed by the picture of them together. “Smile, Sophia,” he would say, pressing his fingers too deeply into her shoulders or back of the neck. “Smile.” The world saw a smile that lit up the room, but she saw a twisted grimace that had grown more grotesque over the years. \nAs he held the phone up grinning into the lens with the ball over his head she knew it was time.\nNow. Or. Never.\nAnd Never was not an option.\n***\nAlthough earning the same college degree that Jeff had, she was not allowed to pursue her own career. It did not send the right message he had stated when demanding that she quit her dream job. She was, however, allowed the ‘charity work’ as he called it on good days versus ‘loser work’ when being nasty. His clients always took an interest in her volunteering to help women and children, wanting to hear more but understanding her need for discretion. \nPublicly it was another trophy on the shelf, but privately it triggered him.\n“You think you’re something special flirting with my clients?” He had shoved her against the wall after the dinner party last month. “You think I don’t know your tricks? Your little games? You’re a loser like those women. A bunch of pathetic bitches.” She was immune to his abuse, his accusations. They had become part of the deal.\nHer work was her life, giving hope to the women who found the strength to get out and start over. The day she had walked into the shelter with her bag of expensive clothes was the day her life pivoted. \nJeff didn’t want her to be seen in the same outfit twice as image was everything he always said. She couldn’t bear to toss or save the clothes, each outfit having its own special story attached to it. The day they got back from their honeymoon when she was told that her cute jeans were too tight, who did she think she was? Her little black dress worn that night of his first big promotion when he had too much to drink. That unforgivable night when his ugly words turned into actions surprising them both with the first angry red mark on her face. \nWhat she had wanted to do was burn it all, but her upbringing told her to donate it. Seeing the women’s eyes light up when trying on the clothes validated her decision. Those outfits with their private traumatic history came back to life to help provide a future for the women. \n***\nOne step back. That was the instruction. She did it quickly as she had a span of only ten seconds. One step back in those blasted high heels and the crowd absorbed her spot, closed it up in front of her.\nOne step back. She did it again, her heart racing wildly. The crowd replaced her instantly leaving no void, no clue that she had ever been there.\nOne step back. She couldn’t see him anymore, couldn’t hear him. Did he notice? Did he finish his series of selfies and turn to her to capture their moment together? The power couple, the beautiful people celebrating the good life. Smile, Sophia, smile. Not this time. Those few seconds were all she had needed to set the plan in motion, to knock down the first domino.\nKeep going. Don’t look back, don’t turn around, don’t look scared, don’t make eye contact. Just keep going.\nShe was deep into the sea of revelers quickly moving further and further away from him. It was amazingly simple. She had become lost in the crowd.\n***\nThe Sarah B. case had become her obsession, her mission occupying every thought throughout her waking hours. It allowed her to get out of bed each morning despite the words from the previous night hanging in the air replaying over and over becoming the soundtrack of her day. \nIntricate details had been worked out over months until certain there were no flaws in the new identity. The location was carefully scoped, a greeter in place with instructions. The envelope of money, bag of clothes and toiletries were placed strategically as arriving with just the clothes on one’s back was often the case. \nAll transactions were paid in cash careful to never leave a paper trail. Their fundraising events brought in staggering amounts but were a drop in the bucket compared to the vast ocean of need. Trying to look like the big man that he wasn’t Jeff had made generous donations in front of clients, starting a chain reaction of open wallets and checkbooks around the dinner table. Her galas and auctions were the perfect networking events for him to pass around his business card and shake hands like a crooked politician while showing off his beautiful wife. The irony was not lost on her that Jeff had supported this very case that had become her heart and soul.\nEvery domino set with precision and purpose for if one piece was off the entire chain was to fail. And failure was not an option. Not when a life was at stake.\n***\nThe crowd grew manic as the iconic ball reached the end of its journey. Three, two, one, the numbers went backwards along with her steps. Sophia quickened her pace feeling increasingly confident as she turned and made her way through the mob. As the masses screamed Happy New Year and the confetti rained down from the sky she knew she was safe. It was officially New Years Day. “A New Year, A New You,” the fitness slogans promised. For her it was more than a slogan.\nShe quickly found the designated landmark and went through the double doors of the old hotel. Quite the contrast from the hotel he had booked for them, all glitz and glamour. She approached the modest front desk with aching feet and a winded exhilaration. \nThe manager looked up from the computer screen asking, “Can I help you?”\nSophia smiled a real smile and nodded. “Yes. Sarah B. checking in.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Cattle Call\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2769\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character practising a speech in front of the mirror. What are they preparing for?"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“‘Tis true my form is something odd\nBut blaming me is blaming God…\nCould I create myself anew\nI would not fail in pleasing you.\nIf I could reach from pole to pole\nOr grasp the…”\nOne steamy summer day in Boston, Jared Mann stared into the mirror and practiced a poem for his audition. He managed to sail through the first stanza, but for some reason, blanked out halfway through the second.\n“Damn!” He closed his eyes and tried again.\nIf I could reach from pole to pole\nOr grasp the ocean with my span…”\nGood! He was home free.\n“I would be measured by the soul\nThe mind’s the standard of the man.”\nPerfect. These beautiful lines were by Joseph Merrick, better known as “The Elephant Man” and adapted from a longer poem called “False Greatness,” by Isaac Watts. \nMerrick used to sign his letters with this poem, called “Measured by the Soul,” and it must have meant a lot to him. He had a terribly disfiguring condition that caused tremendous overgrowth of bones, nerves and skin. People were so terrified by the sight of him that he was forced to wear a mask in public. Yet his sensitive soul craved dignity and humanity. The poem gave him the strength to feel he was a man, not a monster.\nBack in 1980, a film about Merrick had taken the world by storm. The title was “The Elephant Man”, starring the wonderful British actor, John Hurt, who played the role beneath pounds of makeup. But the film was somewhat fictionalized for drama’s sake, so a new one was in the works. The new film would portray “John Merrick,” whose real name was “Joseph,” as a rough-and-tumble young man from Leicester who ran his own life and was never owned by any man.\nThe new version of Merrick’s life would be called “Measured by the Soul,” and the producers were searching for a skillful young actor who could see into Merrick’s heart and bring him to life again. Along with thousands of eager actors around the globe, Jared Mann wanted to prove he could do the job.\nOn the day of the audition, Jared took the T downtown to the swank River Plaza Hotel on Dartmouth Street. The bus was late, and the train was packed. Naturally, the air conditioning was busted. Jared tried to stay cool. He'd done this a million times before on his way to dozens of acting gigs.\nHis dark good looks sometimes landed him lead parts, but being short, he mostly ended up in character roles. This time he had a fighting chance. If he did get the role as Merrick, he would have big shoes to fill. There had been an award-winning play about Merrick as well, starring all kinds of famous Hollywood stars as the Elephant Man. Everyone would be comparing this new film to those interpretations.\nAt last the train reached Copley Station. Jared bounded up the escalator to the street, already late for the audition. Outside the hotel, he saw a long snake of guys waiting to go in. Some were sitting on the ground staring at their iPhones. Others leaned against the wall, smoking and trying to look like Marlon Brando. What the hell? This wasn't \"On the Waterfront,\" for chrissakes. Jared shrugged and joined the line.\nInside, the air conditioning was busted too, and the sweaty crowd pushed towards a banquet hall, where a frazzled receptionist signed them in and sent them towards a table to fill out forms.\nJared leaned against the wall, ponded the role of Joseph Merrick. Should he be like John Hurt, sweet and dignified? Or should he try something different?\n\"Jared Mann?\"\nJared almost dropped his phone.\n\"Present,\" he called.\n\"They're ready for you now.\"\nA young woman with a bright blue ponytail and a nose ring stood close by. Her name tag read “Kira Atkins, Director’s Assistant.” She smiled and ushered Jared down a long carpeted hall to an office.\n\"Here's Number 61,\" Kira announced. Jared felt more like Prisoner #24601 and had to resist the urge to say, \"My name is Jean Valjean.\"\nA silver-haired man lounging in a leather office chair said, \"Thank\nyou, Kira. Could you filch more muffins for us from the Dentists' Convention?\"\n\"Sure thing, Mr. Shay.\" She smiled at Jared as she left the room. He gulped and almost tripped on the carpet.\nMr. Shay scanned Jared's resume. \"Jared Mann. I see you had the title role' in \"The Charles River Stalker,\" Emerson College. A student production?\"\n\"Er, it was their master's thesis.\" \nA blonde woman sitting next to Shay played with her hair and sneered slightly. Jared tried to backpedal. \"It took first prize at the Back Bay Film Festival in 2015.\"\n\"Are you SAG?\" The Screen Actors' Guild. Most actors didn't stand a chance of landing a role without a union card.\n\"Not yet but I'm planning on it.\"\n\"What do you know about Joseph Merrick?\" asked Shay.\n\"He was a young Victorian man with something called Proteus Syndrome and possible neuro-\" Jared stumbled a little.\" -fibromatosis I. It caused massive deformities in his bones, nerves and skin. He had a rough start in life--\"\n\"That's putting it mildly,\" commented the blonde.\n\"And so he signed up for a sideshow career as \"The Elephant Man.\"\nShay interrupted. \"You say he signed up? He wasn't sold to a cruel 'owner?'\"\n\"No sir.\"\nThe casting director smiled slightly. \"Good lad. You've got it right.\" He handed a script to Jared. \"Read the highlighted lines on this page.\"\nHis eyes ran over the lines, first skimming and then absorbing. As Jared read them, his thoughts flashed back to the impromptu research he had done What was Joseph Merrick thinking and feeling during this scene?\nIt was THE poem. Good thing he had memorized it.\nSlowly, Jared allowed his body to fall into Joseph's twisted posture. His right arm drooped down until his crumpled hand rested just above his knee, while his back doubled-over. In a matter of minutes, he felt a dull ache in his spine and shoulders. Good Lord, was this what Merrick had felt every hour of every day?\nJared thought of scrunching up his face to imitate Joseph's deformity, but decided against it. That's what makeup was for. Instead, he adjusted his voice, not only giving it a thoroughly English accent, but also angled it into a semi-high pitched tone. As he recited “Measured by the Soul,” he put his whole heart into it.\nHe waited for the response from the casting directors, only to be greeted by silence.\nAs Jared slowly straightened up from his contorted position, a bolt of pain shot down his spine. He had to massage his back for several minutes before un-corkscrewing and rising up to his normal stance. Only then could he look Shaw and his companion in the eye.\nThe blonde woman was staring down at her half-eaten muffin. Jared thought he saw a tear in her eye but told himself it was wishful thinking. Mr. Shay was leaning forward with one hand covering his eyes.\nJared heard the other actors joking and horsing around in the other room. Kira was leaning against the door and smiling that megawatt smile right at him. If nothing better happened that day, it was worth it.\nFinally, Mr. Shay sat up and cleared his throat. \"Thank you very much, Mr. Mann. We'll be in touch. Kira, bring in the next one, please.\"\nAs she closed the door behind them, Kira whispered, \"He really likes you. When he says he'll be in touch, he means it.\"\nAfter a mercifully hassle-free ride home, Jared climbed the stairs to his modest apartment. A pleasantly chubby tabby cat slept serenely on the sofa he had bought at a Scratch-and-Dent establishment years ago.\n\"Busy day, Bear?\"\nThe cat responded by stretching leisurely and curling back up into a furry ball on the cushion.\n\"Thought so...\"\nSetting his backpack down, Jared sagged onto the couch and reached for his trusty laptop. He made sure to keep his phone by his side. Though he was reassured that the audition had gone well, he wasn't 100% sure he had landed the role.\nStill, even if there was the slightest possibility of him getting the part, Jared clicked Youtube and typed in \"The Elephant Man\" in the search bar. At once, he was greeted with a multitude of videos, some from the David Lynch film, some from documentaries, and some from theatrical productions.\nAs Jared pored over the videos, he suddenly felt very tired, but didn't find it out of the ordinary. After all, it had been very hot out that day, and he DID have to put up with a lot of annoyances. Plus, he nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to emulate a character he had a hankering to play.\n\"Why not...\" he figured. \"It's early. I can always microwave something.\"\nBefore he knew it, Jared was fast asleep.\nIn the sticky humid night, strange dreams zigzagged through his brain. He was back in Pasadena, California again, watching the New Year’s Day Rose Parade with his little brother Archie. The floats were fantastic and all were made of flowers. Some had Disney characters, or surfer scenes, or giant balloons. A Harry Potter float nearly blew off its moorings and the truck had to stop. Finally the parade started again.\nSuddenly there was a rumbling in the ground. It sounded like army tanks. But it turned out to be a line of elephants. Real elephants, parading trunk to tail, decked in glittering streamers and colorful blankets. Ladies in spangled costumes sat astride each of them, waving to the crowd.\nThe excited crowd pushed closer to see. Jared grabbed Archie’s hand but his brother got pulled away and knocked to the ground just as an elephant marched by. Archie screamed, “Jerry, help me!” Jared lunged between the forest of people’s legs and dragged Archie to safety just before the giant animal’s foot came down. It would have crushed his little brother’s head like an egg.\nThe blasting of U2’s “Sunday, Bloody Sunday” in his ear shattered the dream. Thank God. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and saw sunlight outside. He fumbled for his cell phone and croaked, “Hello?”\n\"Mr. Shay would like to schedule a meeting regarding your audition. Are you able to come today?\"\nHis voice got caught in his throat. \"Oh. Oh yes, that will be fine.\"\n\"Do you have a ride? We can send somebody to pick you up.\"\nJared blinked in astonishment. Sure,\" Jared blurted. \"Thank you.\"\n\"Great! We have your address, so somebody will be around your apartment complex shortly. We'll be in touch.\"\n\"Thank you very much.\"\nAlmost shaking, Jared hung up the phone. He was breathing hard. Once the magnitude of the situation began to wear off, he turned and regarded the cat dozing next to him.\n\"This could be big, buddy.\"\nBear responded by sleepily pushing his head against his owner's petting hand.\nBack at the hotel, Jared nervously ran a hand through his hair as he followed Kira down the corridor. He hoped his hair was looking okay. He spent more time than usual taming it that morning. It felt like he didn't have enough time to make himself look presentable.\n\"Right this way, Mr. Mann.\"\nOpening the door, Jared entered Shay’s spacious office again. This time his gaze zeroed right on a large blown-up photograph of Joseph Merrick that was hanging on the wall.\nShay held out his hand. \"Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Mann.\"\nEmbarrassed at ignoring him, Jared shook hands. \"Glad to do it, sir.\"\nShay said, “We’ve been auditioning for two months now, and I must say, I was very touched by your work yesterday. Even Courtney liked it, and she's very hard to please.\n\"\nThe blonde who never once looked him in the eye? Well, that was a point in his favor.\n\"Now we'll be running cattle calls--I mean, auditions--for another two months at least. We're looking for an unknown actor to play Joseph Merrick. This could be the break they're looking for, but no one will recognize them.\"\nJared said, \"That didn't bother John Hurt.\"\nShay blinked, then laughed. \"You do know your facts. Now, let's see what you can do. We've found a boy to play Joseph from age 10 - 15. You would take over until Joseph's death at age 27. Are you up to the challenge?\"\n\"I sure am. I mean, I'll give it my best.\"\n\"Good.\" Shay stood up and handed Jared a script. \"Here's Scene Nine. Read it for me, please. I will be Joseph’s father, Rockley Merrick.\"\nAt once, Jared's mind raced back to his research. He remembered Rockley Merrick. The father might have loved his first born son at one point, but wanted nothing to do with him once he became too to work. Standing in the plush office and getting into character, Jared suddenly felt a twinge of fear at the thought of facing such a titan.\n\"You ready?\"\nHe gulped nervously in spite of himself. \"Yes...\"\nShay cleared his throat, his voice becoming booming and Cockney.\n\"Where's the money, boy!\"\n\"It... isn't it all there?\" Jared read. For some reason, he was feeling genuinely scared. It was making acting painfully easy.\n\"No... no, no, no, this doesn't add up. You sold five guineas worth of merch, but you're missing tuppence. So where's my tuppence, boy. Did you steal from me?... ARE YOU STEALING FROM ME!?!\"\n\"I... I was hungry.\"\nShay’s voice was soft and dangerous. \"What did you just say?\"\n\"I was hungry. Mrs. Antill didn't... didn't give me anything to eat today, and--\"\nWith a striking swipe, Shay mimed a savage punch. Had it been real, he would have struck Jared in the eye and sent him careening against the wall. The actor responded, falling to the floor, quivering and moaning.\n\"I knew you were worthless. I told Mary she should ‘ve ripped you right outta her and tossed you away. And you know what? She agreed with me. She said you were worthless too, she did.\"\n\"No she didn't!\"\nThat was not part of the script. Jared kept going.\n\"Mum would never say that. She loved me and you're a liar, and liars burn in hell, father!\"\nHe was panting now. Was it his imagination, or did it really feel like he had just gotten hit?\n\"Easy, son, easy.\" A gentle hand touched his shoulder. \"We're done now.\"\nJared opened his eyes. Shay was leaning over him. Jared recoiled as if he were Rockley Merrick, then came to his senses. Shay offered a hand to help him up, but he stood up on his own. He brushed off his nice trousers, struggling to come back to the present.\n\"Please sit down, Jared. You look all done in.\"\nShay poured a glass of sparkling water and offered it to Jared. He took a sip, and the glass rattled against his teeth.\n\"You were quite a spitfire. I wasn't quite expecting it. Usually we think of young Joseph as a victim who bore his sufferings in saintly silence. You gave him a bit of backbone just now.\"\nJared found his voice. \"Yes sir. He was strong, in spite of his condition. He had a fighting spirit and that's how he lasted as long as he did.\"\nShay smiled. \"You seem to know him well. I like the method approach. It has its limits sometimes, but in this case, I think we'll need an actor who can become Joseph Merrick, as much as possible, anyway. No one can really fathom how it felt to be him.\"\nHe stood up. \"Thank you so much for your time today, Jared. As I said, we'll be auditioning for another month or two, so please get on with your routine in the meantime. We'll let you know one way or the other.\"\nThey shook hands. Jared was still out of breath. Kira escorted him back to the car. “Good luck, Jared!”\nOnly three weeks later, Jared’s phone rang while he was in the shower. “Christ!” He grabbed a towel and ran to his room, dripping wet. “Hello?”\n“Mr. Mann, it’s Kira Atkins.”\nJared’s heart started pounding.\n“You’ve got the role. Congratulations!”\nJared collapsed on the bed and kicked the air like a little kid. “Yippee!” Then he felt the full weight of portraying Joseph to a whole new generation.\nHe sat up and raised his right hand. “Joseph, I swear I'll never let you down.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The head of Johhny Burns\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2343\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a limited edition item going on sale."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "We knew we were in the right place when we pulled up to a Shelby Cobra in the drive-way and what looked like a time-capsule for a house. My business partner, Josie, was unimpressed but he was new to the scene of these types of antiquity situations. It wasn’t an original Shelby Cobra, mind you, but that’s what made it special. When we got out and sized it up, it was signed by Caroll Shelby himself. Once Josie saw that, his eyes glazed over. We were in the right place after hours of searching the L.A. hills.\nI was excited the second we pulled up to the house; 10050 Cielo. The address remained in the back of my head for the longest time and I didn’t know why until I saw the house. Like the flip of a switch, darkness became day; it was the Manson Murder house. Like a time-capsule from the 60’s Josie and I embarked onto the journey in to the Manson-Tate House. \nAnd that’s what I offer; the weird, the bizarre. You see, Caroll Shelby would have never signed a Cobra replica. His followers know it, many people in our trade know it but here it was, plain as day. You see, it was insulting to him. Caroll hated Cobra replicas. It was insulting to him to think you could build a Cobra just as good as Shelby himself. He may have been a jerk, yes, but his legacy remains; he’s a legend and people pay top dollar for pieces of pop culture history like this. How and why will always remain a mystery to the common man, but what people want in this field, I can provide. \nThe retailer industry would put a price on this but you but I know this is priceless. It would change hands countless times but the price will only go up. The host knew it and I did too. Our names will be associated with a ledger that kept track of these rarities throughout the years and that was a real high of the job. That piece of history had my name on it. I did something to preserve my part of this sick and twisted humanity in hopes of future generations understanding the grotesque nature we currently live in. No matter how tasteless it may be, hopefully one day the future generation will have it a little better and laugh at these horrific acts like they're something out of a fairy tale (not the Disney fairy tales, the real ones they take from). Someone from generations apart from me, maybe 500-1000 years from now will look at what I collected and thank and praise my name rather than the rebuke I obtain on a daily basis in this lifetime. \nWe were greeted at the door by the host holding an automatic rifle but this was to be anticipated. I knew going into this he was a showboat. It was 1 of 4 Tommy guns once owned by the North Side Gang. He showed us on the video call before flying here and I figured he would greet us with it in hand. He was truly engrossed in his newly acquired off-putting asset. He was proud to obtain it and rightly so; it was a good find. Once said to be in the vault of Al Capone, luckily, Geraldo Rivera saved us all the embarrassment of opening. If you know the story, good for you.\nHe welcomed us in while ranting and raving about his abode like it was the holy grail; it was close. He may have greeted us with a smile and a handshake but the conversation started and ended with the proclamation of his success. He had all the toys and was not afraid to show them off: autographed Avia shoes in a glass case highlighted the foyer (the shoes worn by the Night Stalker), an autographed Kobe Bryant basketball, specifically his last 60-point game, an autographed picture of the Pope blessing a man signed by a Geoffrey Epstein (No clue the significance. I’ll have to research that later), baseball bats signed by the killers who used them (very, very rare), driving gloves from Ted Bundy’s kill kit, autographed pictures hanging, etc. He even had a piece of the little bastard hanging above his mantle. (For those of you who lost, the “Little Bastard,” was off a 1955 Porsche 550 Spyder that killed James Dean). He was a serious dealer despite his brazen personality and could ask top dollar and would. Mind you, the shock of this collection was almost overwhelming, but I endured as calmy as I could. It’s no lie he was sitting on an accumulated gold mine but I've been in this situation before. I was here for a specific rarity of bizarre for a customer who, for lack of a better phrase, loved the sheer bravery exhibited in this piece. \nIn the living room, I suspect, is where he must have spent the majority of his time. In the center of the conversation pit was the new Thanos Scorpion gaming chair, retail $10k not including installation. To be clear, it was shaped like a scorpion’s tail and tailored for professionals with long gameplay times. It was basically a chair that wrapped around you when you sat to play games making it more comfortable for the long haul. He was a self-proclaimed streamer but I never heard of him and I kept up with that sub culture. Anyway, the chair was signed in white marker by someone, but I couldn’t make it out. He was using it, so I’m guessing it was of little value. \nAnyway, I was always interested in history. It almost felt like something of legend and mythology. But, to hold it in your hand was an unimaginable feeling of complexity, disheartened horror, happiness and sadness all at once. It was crazy to think of the appetite people have for these trinkets of horror. How about an IRS notice for Al Capone? The tunic worn by the BTK killer at his last Halloween party? Son of Sam’s postal bag (yes, he was a mailman), John Lennon’s personal piano, etc. The list goes on and on. If you could think of it, chances are they were out there. These were items lost in time but reclaimed by people like me. People who did their research. Savants of the weird history known as mankind. \nWe stepped over the abundantly organized stacked cords, uniform for the most part, that lined the back hallway leading to the outside and guest bedroom. We had to practically jump over the cords to get to our destination. The cords were lined with plastic so as to not to destroy the original carpet beneath. If you were to ask a professional like me, if I owned this treasure chest of ghostly murder, I would sleep in the guest cottage and leave this time capsule alone; lock the doors, seal the windows and build a house around the house. But that was me. \nEntering the back guest bedroom was like removing myself further from reality, going further into the void. Not only was it not a guest bedroom, it was a kid's room. A light blue painted kids room. The darker painted blue clowns on the wall, the red and yellow painted circus animals were a perfect touch. The little white crib in the room was especially unsettling (I swear I saw a pregnant woman walk past the doorway we entered previously but your mind plays tricks on you in these type of situations). \nBut there, in the crib, sat my treasure. Josie saw it first. I was still trying to get over the complex situation we were in; a collector of rare and bizarre antiquities led us through a circus of hate and lead us into an epicenter of wrong. The sheer dichotomy of sick and twisted rested here. You could smell it, like a faint stench of 30 yr. old rotting death. Not only were we in a death house, but we were in the never-born kids room gawking over a children’s card. What was the treasure that wisped us away from this freakshow? The 1990 HOOPS #205 Mark Jackson signed basketball card. Let me reiterate and expand for those of you who don't know; a basketball card signed by Mark Jackson and 2 men sitting court-side watching the game. What’s the significance? It was signed by Erik and Lyle Menendez. Let me explain.\nWhile these brothers sat courtside watching a game, a picture was taken for a basketball card. It was unknown at the time that the same men sitting court-side brutally murdered their parents just days before.\nThey went on a spending spree while their dead parents lay in the trunk of their car in the parking lot of that game where their picture was taken. They treated themselves to lavish vacations, expensive tastes, a dream of life and luxury while their parents were carted around by them in the back of their car. They touted at the trial they were the victims of their parent's abuse yet as I stand here I see an autographed picture of them having the time of their life while they just killed their parents. And here it was, victims signed a basketball card at a time when their supposed loved ones were outside in a truck of a car. Mind-blowing...\nThis. This was what I was after. The sheer arrogance and grotesque image of humanity summed up in a children's pastime. Faith in humanity, yet again, lost by yours truly. It was rumored this card didn’t exist until the host contacted me. I wish it wouldn’t have been true but it was legit. After studying the signatures for weeks and seeing them on this card, it was not fake; it was the real deal. The gravity of the situation hit the room. The deafening silence was unbearable. No words were spoken from then on out. The money was exchanged and we left the scene with the card in hand. The devilish grin from our newly formed contact churned my stomach. We never know who we deal with as we deal with each other anonymously, I believe, sometimes, it may be the devil or something close to that idea. He was in human form but the lack of empathy or sympathy for his trinkets was never shown. It was a price tag, not a piece of history for him. He may have a collection that exceeds anything I have ever seen but he was not like me. I was not like him, yet. \nThese relics are the relics that are now seen as myths can be obtainable looking through the right avenue. I spent my time on the deep, dark web. If the internet was an iceberg, the part we use normally, or above the water, is only 5%. The other 95% is the deep, dark web. The blackest of hearts to the known saviors of heaven reside there. Everything from one site dedicated to selling drugs, to the other selling anime. Then, there’s the dark, black web. The dark cloud that surrounds the deep dark web. The web no one speaks of and the ground we do not touch. The part we know is there but dare not mention for we know the horror of man is the backbone of this nasty and dreadful, most appalling reality. That's how I meet these people, that’s how I find these people, or how they find me. It’s the new underground; or the old underground digitized. It offers the most horrid visions of human indecency to the dilapidated, most infamous vision of luxury. It could be the most luxurious, delectable of human consumption to the sickest, most malformed, deplorable delivered, or put on display. A conceivable Hevan and Hell, in digital form. Your soul will never recover if you venture too deep. \nPeople are evil in the most luxurious sense of the word down here yet they hide in the open with us. They will fill their flasks with the blood of histories victims and sip on the souls of the fallen to fill their appetite while they approve your bank loan. We pass them on the streets, we talk to them in the office, we workout with them in the gym. So, the next time you have a meeting in your boss's office, look at those framed pictures a little closer; they may reveal a horrific story of their appetite for destruction. These rich monsters have money to burn and will pay top price. Maybe people were always this way? Maybe this is no revelation for you. I do not blame you if you see what I see professionally and personally. We see it on Tv, we hear about it on the news, we read about it in the papers, it’s mentioned to us by friends. The horror of the human race. I have the autographs to prove the existence of evil and the atrocities of men are a dime a dozen. But that’s what I do; people give me stipulations for an item and I go out to find the closest thing that comes to their enticing sin. Or, I research and set out to find them myself. I don’t think of myself as a bad guy, I just sell to bad people. What now? Now that I left this mini mansion of horror and dread, I’m off to score my next piece of history; A piece of the propeller that killed Vic Morrow during the movie The Twilight Zone, signed by John Landis in black magic marker. Don't know the significance? Google it, research it, read about it, watch it on youtube and you'll find me narrating it for your enjoyment but don't venture too far. You might lose your way back to sanity. My name is Johhny Burns and I’m a rare antiquities dealer. Don't let the title fool you, I don't sell chandeliers, unless someone famous hung from it."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Package With The Amulet\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2753\n\nPrompt:\n\nA package arrives at your character’s house, but they didn’t order anything. Write about what happens next."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It looked like a perfectly ordinary cardboard box. Just sitting there on the floor in the barracks. There was nothing strange or suspicious about it. What was suspicious was the fact that it was there. Its mere existence was strange, and Sergeant Plundell was only just starting to get used to the fact that this place was indeed very strange.\n\nWhat made things stranger was that the box had his name on it. There couldn’t be any other Sergeant Plundells, could there? And there weren’t any other prisoner-of-war camps with the same number.\n\nEvery soldier in the barracks had been staring at the box, which was about the size of a coffee table atlas, for the last several minutes. It hadn’t moved, but Private Kesby kept reaching over with a poker to prod at it.\n\n“It just . . . showed up at the door?” Plundell asked.\n\n“I guess so,” Kesby said. “Corporal Viermitz knocked and said it was there. He said it just appeared. One minute, the doorstep was empty. The next, poof! Package.”\n\n“Why don’t we open it to see what’s inside?” Private Wraight asked.\n\nThe barracks fell silent. Plundell shook his head. “Remember the poltergeist in the radio a couple months ago? We don’t need a repeat of that.” He took another look at the package. “Honestly, I’m afraid to touch it.”\n\n“It wasn’t very heavy,” Wraight replied. “I don’t think there’s another radio in there.”\n\n“No, but it could still be cursed.”\n\n“I think you’re overthinking things because of what happened in October, mate.”\n\n“Well, it’s not from the Red Cross. They’re not scheduled to deliver for another two weeks, and there aren’t any markings on it. Could it be from family?” Kesby asked.\n\n“I doubt it. I don’t recognize the handwriting. There’s no stamp, and no return address. That’s what has me worried,” Plundell said.\n\nWraight shrugged. “Take it to Westheimer. I’m just he could tell you if it’s cursed or not.” He snapped his fingers. “What if it’s from him, though? After all, Viermitz didn’t take it to get inspected when he found it.”\n\nKesby snorted. “Oh, please, have you just met Westheimer? He doesn’t strike me as the gift-giving type.”\n\n“Good point.”\n\nSighing, Plundell picked up the package. It wasn’t too light, but it wasn’t too heavy. He shook it, not hearing anything inside. “I’ll be back, then.” He put on his heavy jacket, and tucked the box under his arm before stepping out into the camp yard, which had been turned into a winter wonderland. The trees surrounding the camp were weighed down with heavy snow, and big snowflakes continued to fall from the dingy gray sky. Guards now walked around with shovels along with their rifles. A couple of prisoners were assisting with digging out the vehicles in the motor pool. Snow would occasionally slide down from the roofs of the barracks and guard quarters and Westheimer’s living quarters, creating large piles around the camp.\n\nPlundell hunched in on himself as he trudged through the snow toward Westheimer’s quarters. A part of him regretted bothering the commandant so much, but he wouldn’t have gone out that day if it wasn’t important. He minded the steps, knowing one of the guards broke his hip after slipping on ice a few days ago. He didn’t want to suffer the same thing, nor did he want that package to accidentally break open.\n\nThat guard’s replacement, Private Liebermann, gave Plundell a look, then looked at the box. “What is that?”\n\n“Truthfully, I don’t know. That’s why I’m taking it to Captain Westheimer. I’m . . . afraid it might be cursed.”\n\nIn any other scenario, Plundell would have been afraid of getting laughed off the stairs. It was still so strange to see how . . . normal magic was here. Liebermann simply opened the door. “Go on inside, and do exactly as the commandant tells you.”\n\n“Thank you.” Walking into the entryway, Plundell suddenly found himself in a maze of old boxes filled to their brims with Christmas decorations. There were little statues of snowmen and mice and birds and deer dancing on a desk. Carefully, placing the box down on the floor, Plundell rubbed his eyes. These definitely weren’t toys. There weren’t any windup knobs on them. How were they moving?\n\nThe smell of smoke filled the room and Plundell turned to see Westheimer leaving his office with his pipe in his mouth. The warlock held up his cane, and there was a soft sound, like a short gust of wind. The little figurines on the desk stopped moving. Plundell smiled a little. “I should’ve known.”\n\n“My daughters loved those when they were children,” Westheimer explained. “The hardest part was convincing them not to tell every other child at school about it.” His smile faded. “What do you need today?”\n\n“Well . . .” Plundell knelt down to pick up the box. “This showed up on the doorstep to our barracks. I-I don’t know who sent it, a-and after what happened with the radio . . . I’m afraid to open it.”\n\nWestheimer gestured for Plundell to follow him into his office. “You did not request anything from home?”\n\n“No, sir. And I don’t recognize the handwriting. There’s no stamp, no return address. It’s not from you, is it?”\n\n“If I was going to give you anything, I would have just handed it to you directly.” Westheimer took a long look at the writing on the box. “It is not from one of the guards.”\n\n“Is it cursed, then?”\n\n“The only way to find out would be to open it. Get behind the desk.”\n\nPlundell could imagine the horrible-looking skeletal shadow from the radio crawling out of the box. He drew his legs up to his chest, breathing hard and squeezing his eyes shut. He heard Westheimer cut open the box with a knife, and hugged his knees tighter.\n\n“You can come out, son.”\n\nPlundell cautiously stood up. The package now sat open on Westheimer’s desk. Inside, neatly packed, were tins of tea, hot chocolate, Christmas candies, cookies, a black knit hat, a pair of gloves, and a blue pendant. The stone of the pendant was marred with silver veins. “This certainly wasn’t what I was expecting.”\n\n“What were you expecting?”\n\n“Another radio. A magic book. Human organs. I don’t know. Something dark and evil.”\n\nWestheimer picked up the pendant with the end of his cane. “This was exactly what I was expecting. Something that looks very innocent, but is hiding something very dark and evil indeed.”\n\n“You mean, that pendant is—”\n\n“It could be cursed, yes.” Westheimer brought the pendant closer to his face. “Pendants like this one are often used to protect the wearer from harmful spells. Witches will hang them around the necks of their children until they are old enough to defend themselves. They have to be re-enchanted every so often because the magic will wear off. However, some witches take advantage of these and instead of enchanting them to protect, they curse them. That is why among witches, you will hear them say, ‘Never buy an amulet from someone you do not know.’”\n\n“How can you tell if it’s cursed?”\n\nWestheimer walked the pendant over to the fireplace. He slowly lowered it into the fire, watching the flames dance harmlessly around it. Then he lifted it out, and cupped his hand under it without touching it. “Well, it is not hot, so we have proven that it is enchanted, but now we just need to figure out whether this was done by a good witch or a bad witch.”\n\n“Can’t you reverse it? Put a good enchantment on it?” Plundell asked.\n\n“Oh, I wish it were that easy. No. You cannot just change an amulet’s enchantment by casting another spell on it.”\n\n“Why?”\n\n“That is not how it works. Magic has its own rules. We must strip the previous enchantment before we can put a new one on.”\n\n“I don’t know even know if I want it. There’s no point in keeping it.”\n\n“I can put a protection spell on it.”\n\nPlundell shook his head. “Every time I get mixed up with magic, it makes a mess. Someone sent that bloody poltergeist and now someone’s sending me a cursed necklace. What did I do to upset this person? Why do they want me to suffer?”\n\n“You did nothing, but you harbor painful memories. Everyone here does in some capacity. There are witches and warlocks out there who get their pleasure out of torture. Some like a quick rush. Others prefer a slow, satisfactory burn.”\n\n“Why, though? They don’t gain anything from it.”\n\n“They gain a sense of control. Witches, for centuries, believed the fact that they possess magic should give them control over those who do not. Many still believe that. Others, like myself, do not. I told you that when we discussed my family last week.”\n\n“You did. But . . . why me?”\n\n“Circumstance. You have not left the camp.” Westheimer raised an eyebrow. “Have you?”\n\n“No. Only for work details.”\n\n“I am trusting that you are telling the truth. That eliminates you accidentally disturbing a witch’s territory, which leaves us with the idea that it is poor circumstances. And, perhaps, the use of a specialized crystal ball.”\n\n“I had always thought those were fake.”\n\nWestheimer shook his head. “Crystal balls have a myriad of uses. Some are enchanted to see events in a person’s future. Others can be enchanted to see someone’s dreams as they happen. In my experience, someone being tormented by a witch can almost always be traced back to a crystal ball. This particular witch was likely probing the area—he or she likely has a hut in the woods around the camp—and found you.”\n\n“All because I have nightmares.” Unable to stand anymore, Plundell sunk to the floor, staring into the fire. “It doesn’t help with the poltergeist incident. I keep hearing its voice in my dreams at night and sometimes I wonder if it’s actually gone. Now I’m going to start fearing that there’ll be witches outside the barracks windows.”\n\n“I can promise you that will not happen, but—” Westheimer held up the pendant, “that is why I suggest you wear this, with a protective spell on it. It does not have to be visible. You can tuck it under your clothing.”\n\n“You’re certain it will be safe?”\n\n“Sergeant, do you trust me?”\n\nPlundell nodded.\n\n“It will be safe. I have done this before. It will not be complete until tomorrow morning, so, you do not have to hang around here.”\n\n“Alright.” Plundell stood up, and looked at the box. “What about the hats and gloves and tea and food?”\n\n“I have my concerns that some of those might be poisoned. I will let you know tomorrow morning.”\n-----------\nAs the sun set, the snow had slowed a little. From a window in the barracks, Plundell watched clouds of steam rise up from the mugs the guards were passing out to each other. A part of him felt sorry for those who had to patrol during the night, especially in this weather.\n\n“So, Westheimer thinks the necklace is cursed?” Kesby asked from a small table where he and another POW were playing chess.\n\n“He didn’t say whether or not he knew, just that it was highly likely,” Plundell replied.\n\n“Or he’s just messing with you to keep the necklace and sell it,” Wraight said from his bunk.\n\n“I don’t think so. He tested it in his fireplace. It’s definitely enchanted.”\n\n“Still. Maybe he has other witchy friends he’d like to sell it to.”\n\nPlundell narrowed his eyes. “Again, I don’t think so. Besides, have you ever seen him leave the camp?”\n\n“Plundell’s got a good point, there,” Kesby added. “I’ve never seen Westheimer’s car leave the motor pool.”\n\nWraight shrugged. “He might go when we’re on work detail.”\n\n“I mainly work in the motor pool. Westheimer doesn’t take his car out very often. Frankly, it’s not good for the car to have it sit like that for weeks on end.”\n\nWraight glanced over at Plundell. “You trust Westheimer?”\n\n“I do,” Plundell replied. “I don’t think that package was a silly prank from one of you or the guards.”\n\n“Yes, but who was the person who said he saw it magically appear on the doorstep? One of the guards.”\n\nKesby shook his head. “Viermitz doesn’t strike me as the pranking type.”\n\n“Didn’t Westheimer once tell you some of the guards are warlocks?”\n\nPlundell nodded. “He didn’t specify who for their privacy.”\n\n“You don’t suspect one of them gave you that package?”\n\n“I thought of it, but Westheimer didn’t recognize the handwriting.”\n\n“You don’t think for one second that he could be lying to you about that?”\n\n“Why would he? There’s no way any of the guards could have gotten all that tea and candy.”\n\n“Not any of the regular guards, but one of the witchy ones may have. I’m not saying you’re wrong, Plundell, I’m just asking that you think about it.\"\n------------\nIcy winds battered the walls of the barracks that night. Plundell could see snow blowing in through the cracks in the window frames. Every soldier had his blanket wrapped tightly around his body, struggling to keep warm. The next several months were going to be hell.\n\nPlundell had been lying awake for the last hour, unable to fall back asleep. His thoughts kept turning to the strange package, as well as Wraight’s comments earlier in the afternoon. Could one of the guards have brought it? If so, why? Did they mistakenly buy a cursed pendant, or had they enchanted it themselves?\n\nIn the morning, he got himself out of his bunk with the rest of the POWs to stand outside in the snow for morning rollcall. Dunes of snow had piled up throughout the camp, but as Plundell watched a group of Germans attempt to shovel one of the larger ones, he nearly tripped over a box on the doorstep.\n\n“What is it?” Kesby asked.\n\n“It’s another package.” Plundell picked it up, wiping the snow from the top. “It’s for you.”\n\nKesby raised an eyebrow. “No, there’s no way.”\n\n“It’s in the same handwriting, too.”\n\nAs they got in line, Plundell watched Westheimer leave his quarters and limp over to the camp’s sergeant, saluting before going over to the group of prisoners. Behind Westheimer was an embarrassed-looking Private Liebermann.\n\n“Sergeant Plundell,” Westheimer said, “I tested that pendant last night, and it turns out that it already had a protection spell placed on it. Someone—” He took Liebermann by the shoulder and gently nudged him forward, “was clearly in the holiday spirit.”\n\n“I thought you said you didn’t recognize the handwriting,” Plundell replied.\n\n“At first, I did not. It was not until after I found out that the pendant was safe that I started pondering the idea that possibly it was one of the guards who gave you a gift. I compared the writing on the box to all the records I have, and found a match.” Westheimer looked at Liebermann, who was still looking down at the snow.\n\n“So, I take it this box is also from him?” Plundell held out the package addressed to Kesby.\n\n“It is,” Liebermann said.\n\n“Why didn’t you say so when I brought this to Westheimer yesterday?”\n\n“I wanted it to be a secret. That, and I didn’t think you would trust me.” Liebermann finally made eye contact with Plundell. “I had overheard you had been very scared ever since the incident with the poltergeist in the radio, and . . . I thought a protection amulet would help. Same with Private Kesby, and everyone who saw it. I got amulets for the whole barracks.”\n\n“I think we would’ve appreciated you coming clean with this,” Kesby said.\n\n“We were worried someone was sending cursed items,” Plundell added.\n\n“I understand. I’m very sorry about that.” Liebermann resumed staring at the ground.\n\n“Your heart was in the right place, son.” Westheimer gently squeezed Liebermann’s shoulder, then glanced at Plundell. “The pendant is in my office if you still want it.”\n\nLooking at Liebermann, Plundell said, “You didn’t have to go to that effort for any of us.”\n\nLiebermann shook his head. “I have been haunted by a poltergeist before. It’s not a pain I would wish on anyone.”\n\nFor the first time in a long while, Plundell smiled. “Thank you. I guess I should go get that amulet, then.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Report on the Activities of the Chapman Family, December 2023\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1615\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Sir,\n\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/2:\n\nJOSH: Kept his cool on a work call when a coworker tried to goad him into a political argument. Nice.\n\nMADDIE: You know that ‘One Margarita’ song from TikTok, boss? In an attempt to be ‘the cool mom’, she sang it in front of Mackenzie’s friends. …There was a dance, too. From what I hear, their parents are no longer letting them come over. Naughty.\n\nMACKENZIE: Broke up a fight between Alex and Rachel. Nice.\nALEX: backtalked at Maddie for asking him to put away folded laundry while he was scrolling TikTok. Naughty.\n\nRACHEL: Told Maddie that dinner was ‘gross’ and ‘Kaylyn’s mom makes this better’. Naughty.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Decided to give herself a makeover. Resulting haircut required professional intervention. Also crushed two of Mackenzie’s lipsticks into the bathroom carpet, left large gouges in Maddie’s Dior eyeshadow palette, and covered the bathroom and herself in black hair dye. You know what, boss, I’m gonna let you make the call on this one. I didn’t see the crime scene firsthand as I was stationed in the kitchen that day, but I certainly heard the uproar it caused. I’m not authorized to rule on whether this is a ‘seven year olds will do that’ situation or a ‘she’s old enough to know better’ kind of thing.\n\n\nSir,\n\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/9:\n\nJOSH: Disinvited his mother and stepdad to visit for Christmas. Okay, boss hear me out on this one—I was stationed on top of the TV and saw the FaceTime where it all went down. The woman was insisting that Mackenzie ‘dress like a lady’ while she was here, said she showed too much skin for a girl of her age and all that makeup made her look like a ‘streetwalker’. And that was just the start—she kept going, criticizing pretty much everything her own granddaughter did and being pretty cruel about it. I’ve never seen the vein in Josh’s forehead stand out that much. He told that woman that if they, as parents, didn’t have a problem with Mackenzie’s fashion choices, then she had no right to say anything. The he told her to cancel her plane ticket and hung up. It was epic. Feel free to overrule me, but I’m giving him a big, fat NICE.\n\nMADDIE: Noticed Mrs. Figueroa across the street sprawled out at the bottom of her front steps. Took her to the emergency room. Sounds like the poor lady broke her foot. Since then, Maddie’s been over there three times a day, sometimes for up to an hour, usually carrying a meal with her. Nice.\n\nMACKENZIE: Volunteered last-minute to babysit the Jeongs’ three-year-old when Mrs. Jeong went into labor prematurely. Handled dinner and bedtime solo before Mr. Jeong’s sister arrived to relieve her. Refused pay. Nice.\n\nALEX: Ate the entire bag of Mackenzie’s allergy-friendly cookies, and showed no remorse when there was nothing left in the house she could have as a snack. Naughty.\n\nRACHEL: Did lots of research on her social studies project and wrote it all herself, without asking Maddie, Josh, or Mackenzie to do any of it for her. Nice.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Threw a tantrum because the Christmas dress Maddie got her didn’t have gold sequins all over it like Rachel’s. Naughty.\n\n\nSir,\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/16:\n\nJOSH: Came home with a puppy and didn’t ask Maddie first. Plus…well, see Mackenzie’s entry below. Naughty.\n\nMADDIE: Wrote Rachel’s teacher an absolutely unhinged email, in which she used no less that twelve words she would normally punish her children for saying (believe me, I was reading over her shoulder—Maddie was low on inspiration that morning and literally stationed me on a shelf). Demanded a change of grade on the social studies project despite clear evidence Rachel hadn’t followed the rubric the teacher laid out. Naughty.\n\nMACKENZIE: Unleashed a fifteen-minute rant at both her parents about how the younger kids are constantly taking her stuff and Josh and Maddie never do anything about it. Reacted, um, pretty poorly when Josh subsequently grounded her. Stormed out of the house and didn’t answer calls or texts for several hours. I mean, yeah, naughty, but the kid has a point.\n\nALEX: Offered to play video games with Rachel when she came home from school crying about a low score on her social studies project. Let her win. Nice.\n\nRACHEL: Played on her phone instead of socializing when Maddie’s sister and her family came over for dinner. Naughty.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Snuck into Mackenzie’s room and stole her expensive art markers (you know the ones, boss, they were last year’s big ticket Christmas gift). She completely used up the sky blue, broke the tip on the skin-tone shade, and left the caps off several others. Naughty.\n\n\nSir,\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/23:\n\nJOSH: Bought his mother a book on etiquette for Christmas. Wrapped it in a box with a charcoal briquette. Nicccceee.\n\nMADDIE: Trips to Mrs. Figueroa’s house have continued throughout December, and in fact, have increased in frequency. Yesterday I even saw her wrapping a bunch of presents, then taking them over there. Last week, she went over there with a bucket of cleaning supplies and didn’t come back for hours. A few days ago, she strongarmed Josh into coming with her one evening, and within a few hours, the tree was up and decorated in Mrs. Figueroa’s window, and the eaves were strung with lights. Josh was grumbling as they came back, and she shut him up by saying, “The whole time we were in the ER, poor Luz was sobbing because her kids are coming into town for Christmas and there was no way she could get everything ready with a broken foot. I promised her I would make sure Christmas still happened.” Just really nice.\n\nMACKENZIE: Took Josh’s car keys, snuck out of the house. Nice. Yeah boss, I’m saying ‘nice’. Yeah, boss, I know sneaking out is an automatic lump coal, but you gotta hear the mitigating factors. See, I was stationed hanging from the light fixture in the second floor hallway, it’s probably 10:30 PM, everyone’s all settled in for their long winter’s nap, and I hear a phone ringing in one of the bedrooms. Turns out it was Mackenzie’s. I could only hear so much of the conversation through the door, but it went like this: “Hey Grace, what’s… Holy… Are you okay? …Nuh-uh, doesn’t matter if he’s your boyfriend, that is NOT okay, it’s not okay for ANYBODY to… Well, I’m glad you got out of there. Are you someplace safe? Where are you? …Okay, good call, there’s lots of people around, even at this time of—me? I mean, I feel like you should probably call your parents to… Okay, okay, just get yourself a coffee and go browse the makeup section for a while. I’ll be there in ten minutes, I promise.” At this point, she opened her door very quietly and stepped lightly down the hallway, whispering as she went: “yeah, I’ll stay on the phone the whole way, promise. You’re gonna tell your parents, right? …Well, he DESERVES to get in trouble…”\n\nShe was back before midnight. Feel free to overrule me on this one, boss, but I’m saying nice.\n\nALEX: Charlotte came home from school crying because some kid at school had told her you weren’t real. Alex was the only one home at the time. You know what that kid told her? “Santa is 100%, absolutely real, Charlie. I know because…I’m him. And Dad is him too, and Mom. See, Santa isn’t actually just one guy--it’s a secret club. To join the Secret Society of Santas, you have to solemnly swear to spread joy and kindness all year long, and then you get officially named a Santa Claus. Usually you’ve gotta be bigger to join, but since you know the truth now…wanna join up?”\n\nI know it’s a load of hogwash, boss, but it’s not like I could correct him, and you should’ve seen the smile on that little girl’s face when she solemnly swore to keep Christmas in her heart all the year. Nice.\n\nRACHEL: Turns out, she’s been secretly packing herself a second lunch since about October. Maddie finally noticed and confronted her about it. According to Rachel, there’s a kid in her class who only ever has a single granola bar for lunch, and Rachel’s been secretly making sure she has extra to share. Rachel said the kid’s name, and from Maddie’s expression, I’d say she knows the family and has some idea why the kid never has a real lunch. Once school kicks off again in January, Maddie is 100% onboard with Operation Feed Carly. Very nice, both of them.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Went shopping with Maddie. Saw the toy donation box and asked what it was for. When they got home, Charlotte went upstairs and came down with her arms full of literally all her toys. Maddie tried to talk her out of it, but the kid spent the next three days insisting that it was ‘her job as a Santa’. As a compromise, they went out and bought some (brand new, in-the-box) toys together that they donated to the toy drive. Really, really nice.\n\nSo there you have it, boss. Nice all around, checked it twice and everything. I’ll head back to HQ as soon as the family packs up the Christmas decorations—I estimate sometime around January 6 or so. And…sir? Gotta say, I wouldn’t mind getting this assignment again next December."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Vemork & Hitler's Atomic Bomb\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2563\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone giving or receiving a gift."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends\n(John 15:13)\n\nThe old Lie: Dulce et decorum est \nPro patria mori. - Wilfred Owen\n\nDedicated to the 42 men who gave their life on this mission.\nThe Bomb\nThey had no idea why, but in early 1941 the Norwegian Resistance was asked to report on the production of heavy water, at the In Vemork Norsk Hydro near Rjukan. In early June 1942 reports showed a marked increase of heavy water being stockpiled at the plant. The Resistance was asked to immediately start planning for the destruction of the plant. \n\n1942 the atomic bomb was very much on Churchill’s mind. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was or why it was important, he just knew they were spending a lot of money on it. Now there was a report that the Germans might be doing the same. He needed answers and he knew where to get them.\n\nFrederick Alexander Lindemann - Churchill’s chief science advisor was ushered into Churchill’s office.\n\n“Prime Minister.”\n\n“Sit down Fredrick . . . Tell me again about this atomic bomb. And, don’t say super weapon, every scientist in the country seems to have one of those.” Churchill had his usual - don’t get me any bull shit look.\n\n“Yes Prime Minister.” They might have been on a first name basis outside the office - but here it was always formal.\n\n“Consider a single bomb dropped on London - everything out as far as Kensington was completely destroyed and out as far as Hammersmith in flames.”\n\nChurchill’s scowl had returned. He was used to bad news, this was something he understood.\n\n“Tell me about heavy water”\n\n“Prime Minister - heavy water occurs naturally, it is chemically identical to regular water except instead of two hydrogen atoms it has two deuterium atoms.” Churchill was chomping on his cigar - not a good sign. ‘Get to the point’ “Heavy water is critical to the research into an atomic bomb. However, it is extremely difficult to build an atomic bomb using heavy water.”\n\nChurchill waited for the ‘but’ - there was always a ‘but’.\n\n“But, if they continue their research they will find that graphite can be substituted for heavy water to make a simple atomic bomb and a by-product of their nuclear reactors, an artificial element called plutonium, can be used to make an even more powerful bomb.”\n\n“Our bomb?”\n\n“Time and money Prime Minister. We know what has to be done, we are working on how to do it. Getting the equipment and material is costly.”\n\n“The Americans”\n\n“They are well behind us in research. But they are spending vast amounts of money to catch up.”\n\nWith a wave of the hand Lindemann was dismissed.\n\nChurchill was used to signing memos that would send men to almost certain death, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed it.\n\nMemo to Field Marshal Alan Brooke: “The heavy water plant at Vemork Norsk Hydro and any existing stockpiles of heavy water must be destroyed. AT ALL COSTS”\n\nThe Norwegains\n\nOn 19 October 1942 four Norwegians, Jens-Anton Poulsson, Arne Kjelstrup, Knut Haugland, and Claus Helberg were parachuted into Fjarifet on the Hardangervidda wilderness. In spite of being dropped into the wrong location and dodging German patrols, they crossed the mountainous terrain to Møsvatn in two weeks. They had picked a landing zone for the gliders on a frozen lake and would set up the transponder that would guide the planes to the site.\n\nRAF Skitten\n\nOn the morning of November 19, 1942 the forty eight men of Operation Freshman were told they would be leaving that evening. Even the months of training in demolition and arctic survival had been classified as ‘Top Secret’. The men had been told to grow long hair and shave their moustaches. Having learned some basic Norwegian expressions - they knew where they were going. They didn’t know why this mission was so important - they only knew it must be critical.\n\nTwo Handley Page Halifax bombers would each act as a tow plane for a Horsa glider. Each glider would carry eighteen commandos and all the equipment necessary to complete the mission.\n\nSpecial Operations Executive (SOE) expected at least one of the gliders to make it safely to the landing site.\n\nThe seven man air crews along with the two pilots of the gliders checked over the planes and gliders. The pilots, navigators and leaders of the two commando squads got their final briefing on the target area and weather conditions, which weren’t good. Fighting headwinds and pulling the fully loaded gliders they should be over the drop zone in just over three hours.\n\nA mixture of bravado and anticipation fueled the day for the remaining thirty four men. Some tried to get some rest, others kicked around the soccer ball. At one time or another, most wrote their ‘final letter home’. Letters to be held by the chaplain to be sent if they were dead.\n\nThe two planes left RAF Skitten, Killimster in Scotland at 18:50 hours\n\nVemork\n\nOnly the steady drone of the four Rolls-Royce Merlin X engines powering the Halifax tow plane could be heard inside the glider. The bravado of earlier in the day had gone. Sitting in two rows facing each other, each man was contemplating the mission. Inside their vest pockets six morphine pills that could be used to ease pain, or end a life.\n\nIn the lead glider, Lieutenant Alex Charles Allen wondered about himself and the fourteen men under his command. All picked from the volunteers in the 9th Field Company (Airborne) Royal Engineers and 261st Field Park Company (Airborne) Royal Engineers, they, like him, had never seen action. His orders were to take no prisoners and to leave any injured men behind. He worried that he couldn’t carry out those orders.\n\nHe needn’t have worried.\n\nNeither of the planes could get a response from the short range transponder system, called Rebbeca/Eureka. Flying at night in poor weather, the pilot of Allen’s tow plane, tried circling the area trying to trigger a response from the transponder.\n\nLieutenant Allen kept checking his watch. At 22:30 he did a check of the men and equipment. At 23:00 he started to worry - something was wrong. At 23:45 the glider pilot came on the intercom to say they were heading back to Scotland. A feeling of relief and regret went through the plane. All wondering on the fate of the second glider.\n\nOn the tow plane, with no response and running low on fuel the decision was made to return to Skitten. As the plane started back toward Scotland, ice started building up on the wings of the plane and the glider as well as on the tow rope, causing the tow rope to snap. Thinking they were over the North Sea, at 23:55 the pilot radioed \"Glider in the sea\", hoping the navy could make the rescue.\n\nHe was wrong, they were still over land. \n\nThe glider pilots fought the controls trying to get the glider out of its steep dive. Crashing the glider near the Lysefjord Fjord. \n\nMiraculously, the glider had remained more or less intact. The equipment, loaded towards the front of the glider, had flown forward and was now where the pilots should have been. \n\nLieutenant Allen was sitting toward the front, his head was hanging at an odd angle. Lance Corporal (L/Cpl) Jackson, sitting near the rear of the glider, could see Allen was dead. Sapper (private) Walsh, sitting next to him and sapper’s Bonner, Blackburn and Walsh, sitting opposite seemed uninjured. The rest of the men were either dead or injured.\n\nAs his head cleared, L/Cpl Jackson was surprised to find he was the highest ranking person able to take command.\n\n“OK let's get the injured out of their seats and to the back of the glider. I’m going outside to try and see where we are.”\n\nJackson scrambled over the equipment working his way out of the wreckage. As emerged from the plane he was surprised to see two men approaching the downed glider. Not knowing who they were, he brought his gun to bear on the men. They immediately put up their hands.\n\nThorvald Fylgjedalen and Jonas Haaheller were local farmers who had heard the glider crash. Through pointing and the little Norwegian Jackson could understand, they indicated they would help with the injured. Soon, other villagers arrived to help - all risking their lives should the Germans find them helping the British soldiers.\n\nBy the next morning, only nine of the seventeen men on the glider were still alive.\n\nJackson and the four other uninjured men planned on making their way to the Swedish border. The villagers soon convinced them that the plan was impossible. They would have to cross the entire width of Norway in the middle of winter - an impossible task.\n\nWhile they were trying to come up with a viable alternative a German patrol arrived. The four injured men were taken to a hospital, the rest were taken to Grini Prison Camp.\n\nGrini Prison Camp \n\nGrini Prison Camp had been set up to house dissident Norwegians; captured Soviet prisoners were later sent to the camp. \n\nThe British prisoners were housed in a hastily converted storage shed at the rear of the compound. On their arrival on November 21th, they were stripped of their uniforms and given civilian clothes. Since then, the only time they were allowed out of the shed was to visit the privy, ten metres from the back of the shed.\n\nOn December 14th, Able Seaman Evans, who had been captured in a separate operation, had joined the group.\n\nHunger, cold, isolation and boredom were taking their toll on all the men. L/Cpl Jackson in particular was feeling the pressure. In spite of the fact he wasn’t an officer, as the highest rank in the group, the German guards would only talk to him. \n\n18 January, 1943\n\nHaving trouble sleeping, at 4:00am, L/Cpl Jackson decided he needed to clear his head. \n\nA walk to the privy was in order.\n\nThe German guard barely looked up as Jackson made his way out. The walk out had done nothing to improve his thoughts:\n\n‘Is this how I am going to spend the next weeks, months, years - how long will this all last?’\n\nHe stopped on the way back. The northern lights were dancing across the sky, the distant mountains silhouetted against the sky, black and foreboding. \n\n‘This could be such a magical place. Sandra would love it.’\n\nThe thought of his wife, two months pregnant when they started the mission, was like a splash of cold water in the face. Once more, her last words cut through him\n\n“Why? Why did you have to volunteer?”\n\nA question he left unanswered, because he didn’t know how to answer it.\n\n‘I’m no hero. It is just something I know I have to do.’\n\nBy 8:00am the men were all up and waiting for breakfast. The breakfast was late - not an unusual occurrence.\n\nThe door suddenly flew open. SS Untersturmführer (Second Lieutenant) Möller stepped in waving his Luger. There had been early morning inspections before by their Wehrmacht (German Army) guards. That a SS officer was now in charge was an ominous turn of events. It could only mean one of two things torture or death.\n\n“Raus. Raus. Alle rause!”\n\nTwo SS-Schüze (privates) were waiting outside pushing the men into a rough line with L/Cpl Jackson at the head and Able Seaman Evans at the tail.\n\nThe Untersturmführer stood inches away from L/Cpl Jackson. If everything went well he expected a promotion.\n\n“März!” he bellowed, using his pistol to point toward the gate.\n\nL/Cpl Jackson didn’t move. \n\n‘OK mate, I know what you are here for. . . You may have taken our uniforms, but we are British soldiers and you are going to show us some respect.’\n\n“März!”, the German was glaring at him. Not used to having to repeat an order.\n\n‘OK, here we go’, L/Cpl Jackson came to attention, matching the German’s glare.\n\n“Squad . . . Fall In!”\n\nJackson wasn’t sure how the men would react. As Lance Corporal, he was only marginally higher in rank than the others. He was also the youngest in the group. In the two months they had been in the camp he hadn’t given an order, he just passed on what the German guards had told him.\n\nThe men looked surprised - this was a far cry from a parade square. However, seeing L/Cpl Jackson at attention toe-to-toe with the Untersturmführer, they quickly formed a parade line on his right, tallest to shortest. Able Seaman Evans anchored the other end of the line. \n\nThe sight of an SS officer was not lost on them either.\n\nWaiting for the men to get into a line - “Right DRESS!”\n\nHeads snapped to the right, looking at the man beside them. Except for Jackson, the right anchor, left arms came up to set the distance between the men.\n\nJackson looked down the line as the men shuffled into place.\n\n‘This is going better than I expected’\n\nWaiting until there was no more movement:\n\n“Eyes Front!”\n\nThe line stood at attention facing the shed. Untersturmführer Möller had taken a step back. If he was impressed he wasn’t showing it. He had, however, holstered his pistol and was just pointing toward the gate.\n\n“Left TURN!”\n\nThe Norwegian prisoners were coming out of their barracks to see what was going on. The guards were ordering them to get back inside - but nobody was listening.\n\n“Quick MARCH!”\n\nSomeone in the squad started whistling the Colonel Bogey March and the rest of the squad quickly picked it up. There were some cheers from the Norwegian prisoners. The German guards had stopped trying to get the prisoners back into the barracks and were watching as the British soldiers marched by.\n\nAs they got closer to the Norwegians, Blackburn stopped whistling and started singing the words the British soldiers had set to the tune:\n\n“Hitler has only got one ball,\nGöring has two but very small,\nHimmler is rather sim'lar,\nBut poor old Goebbels has no balls at all.”\n\nThe Norwegians that could understand English were rolled over with laughter. The others, sensing the situation, started cheering and applauding. Lagerkommandant Zeidler came out of his office. Shook his head ‘Dummkopf’ and went back inside.\n\nAfter leaving the camp the soldiers were led down a narrow path into the Trandum Forest: \n\nLance Corporal Wallis M. Jackson - age 21\nSapper Frank Bonner- age 25\nSapper John W. Walsh- age 21\nSapper James F. Blackburn- age 28\nSapper Thomas W. White- age 23. \nAble Seaman Robert Paul Evans\n\nWere executed by firing squad and buried in a shallow grave.\n\nLoose Ends\n\nThe first tow plane made it safely back to Scotland\nThe injured men from the first glider were taken to hospital were they were murdered\nThe second tow plane released its glider moments before crashing into a mountain killing everyone onboard\nThe second glider also crashed. The eleven survivors were quickly captured and executed.\nA Norwegian team was parachuted into the area in February 1943 and completed the mission. \nIn August. under the Quebec Agreement, Britain, Canada and the United States agreed to pool their research."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Benni\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1092\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that hides something from its reader until the very end."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Clarence’s feet slid into his worn-out brown leather slippers before the old radio clock even blared to wake him up. Still spry in his older years he jumped up to start his day. Clarence’s face showed that of someone who has experienced much life and joy and had many stories and lessons to share. But no time for that, today is Christmas Eve. Which means one thing: get to the woodshop and build Benjamin, his grandson, the perfect rocking chair that he’s been asking for, just in time for Christmas. Taking his first sip of coffee as the lights in his woodshop flickered on, the hot liquid started coursing through his body invigorating him with motivation, so he immediately started to draw out the templates for the pieces he needed to build the rocking chair. Pausing momentarily and glancing at the photo of Benni above the shop door he lightly sings,\n“It’s like one, two, three\nJust as easy as can be \nJust the way you look at me\nYou make me smile.”\nClarence’s woodshop wasn’t your normal run of the mill, homeowner woodshop. No, Clarence had a large setup with many industrial machines for his carpentry business he used to run before he retired. Many machines had vacuums built in and large tables and benches for working on. A true craftsman Clarence took pride in everything he built, and he took pride in teaching his grandson those same values and morals. Always taking time to clean up and put everything away, \n“A place for everything, and everything in its place.” Clarence muffled seemingly lost in thought.\nSnapping safety goggles over his eyes he switches the bandsaw to life humming like a large hippo snoring alongside the roaring Nile. The industrial machine's loud hums and powerful motor sends the blade whirring around with enough force to cut each piece of lumber with the ease and precision of a razor cutting the most intricate design out of paper. A skill that is only bound by that of the operator, and old Clarence ain’t no slouch. Putting his years of experience on display, he pays close attention as each blade violently rips through each fiber of wood yet leaving a clean and defined cut in its wake. Ensuring each piece is exactly as it’s supposed to be, Clarence turns his attention to sanding. For such a smaller piece he decides to do all the sanding by hand. He starts to slowly knock down the edges and smooth each piece of wood. Gently mimicking the grain of each piece. Blowing plumes of saw dust with each movement, to keep a clear view of his workspace.\nFrom the saw and sanding to the drill press. Plunging drill bits in precise locations of each piece of lumber will guarantee a perfect fit, for a strong chair that's meant to be played on. Double checking each measurement, one at a time, Clarence places each piece on the press and flicks the switch, while the machine drones to life, Clarence lines the holes up, like a skilled brain surgeon drilling a patient's cranium. Slowly drilling bone out of the way yet leaving a clean precise hole. Taking a second to assess his work, Clarence glances at the clock and notices it is almost dinner time and can’t believe where the time went.\n “No time for that,” he muttered to himself under his breath. \nClarence hurriedly starts lightly hammering each piece into place with the proficiency of an assembly line robot zipping pieces together. First a dowel then the piece: First the two rocker pieces with perfectly curved edges connect to the seat with round legs. The seat includes nice indents for Benni’s little bottom. From there the arm rests are curved down then back up to the backrest. Now that was a sight to see. Standing a bit taller than most with knobs at the top on either side, and right in the middle of the backrest as large as can be is the letter B burned into the wood so skillfully it seemed like it was meant to be there. Now really focusing on the details Clarence spends time cleaning up some edges and blending corners together after fitting all the pieces. \nAfter a final inspection and wipe down the rocker is finally ready to be stained. Dipping his cloth into the rich walnut stain Clarence is sure to take his time rubbing it in with the grains and all the corners and details. The dark black wood grains resemble those of a tiger against the dark stain. Glancing again at the picture of Benni he whispers\n“It’s like one, two, three\nJust as easy as can be \nJust the way you look at me\nYou make me smile.”\nClarence’s feet slid into his worn-out brown leather slippers before the old radio clock even blared to wake him up. This morning was Christmas though, he gets to finally show Benni his chair that he’s been asking for. Taking his time, Clarence makes his way to the woodshop and watches as the lights flicker on. Inspecting the chair one final time, he ties a red bow around the front, being careful not to cover the B and carries it to the house.\n Clarence has always been a Christmas lover and enjoys how close it brings the family, and this year wasn’t going to be any different. Decorating the tree himself with bright white lights wrapped around the trunk and sprawled out across the branches giving the tree a sense of depth and beauty, like that of the night sky on a clear brisk winter’s night. Adorned with a brightly lit star at the top. The real beauty of this tree, however, wasn’t in the lights or the shape or smell. You see, Clarence's tree told a story, an adventure, each ornament, a memory. There’s one from the family trip to Disney, and one shaped like a pyramid from Egypt, one made from popsicle sticks with a picture of Benni and Grandpa going ice fishing for the first time. But just above that almost to the very top of the tree underneath the star, there’s a brand new one he just added. Slowly reaching for it he sits on the new rocker as he reads it for the thousandth time just as a tear splashes onto the picture of Benni on the ornament,\nIn Loving Memory \n “Benni”\n 10/17-11/23\n“It’s like one, two, three\nJust as easy as can be \nJust the way you look at me\nYou make me smile.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Better a live doggerel than a dead Lake Poet\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1142\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which someone gets credit for something they didn’t do."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Pa pushed another heft of carcass into my unripe arms. I staggered down to the cellar, burdened the bloody mass to the butchering table and turned about for the next.\n\nI tramped back and forth through that sawdust twenty times and more a day, carrying quartered animal parts. I helped him split the cuts, salt the joints and take the meat back upstairs to hook on the brass rail at the front of the shop.\n\nThe regulars came in cheerfully to purchase their victuals, gesticulating at the counter and passing the time of day. After they headed home I'd clean the knives and scrub the block; then there was all the clearing up.\n\nIt was a living for my father - the Wesleyan preacher - and though there may be profit in all labour, it wasn’t for me. Having a bent for poetry and composition, I knew I could write in rhyme and I’d plotted the story of my days.\n\nAs I’ve said, I had a rare talent and I’d a pennyworth or more to say about things, especially the way of things round here. Though still a butcher’s lad, by sixteen I was making some riches from poetry, selling cheap-jacks at the markets, but I was always on the lookout for new opportunities, you know, to extend my craft.\n\nIt began to shape up after I took to posting handbill verses out to persons who might value a fancy remark or two in a Christmas Book - nobles, justices, yeoman and the clergy. And it has to be said, the Christmas Books were a success; the eminent men of Westmorland lent good patronage to my sketches about their kindness and generosity. As to the rest of the town - well, for their own interest and amusement they anxiously awaited my chronicles about gentlefolk of their very acquaintance. So that’s how I began to accumulate my publishing dealings. I worked hard at my ink-blotted desk and the trade grew. \n\nVolumes, series, pamphlets, issues, I reproduced them all from my Poet’s Hall. As to my achievements as a public writer in prose and verse, I have amply provided for the valuable education of others: penning, illustrating and printing the legends and antiquities of these parts. I have scripted memorials for the living and the dead, and afforded readers with the most valuable, acclaimed and enjoyable work.\n\nHard work and hunger made my name, but beyond my wildest was the applause I received from The Earl of Carlisle and the most gracious Sir Hugh Lowther, Earl of Lonsdale – two lords, no less, giving statement of my literary genius! Above this, Hugh affirmed I am the author of a quantity of meritorious work which is worthy of commendation (like the other Lake Poets). He insisted that I - being of half-taught intellect - deserve a place beside Burns and was emphatic I should receive, as a mark of Royal favour, a pension from Her Majesty’s Treasury.\n\nUpon such recommendation to the Crown, my name, Poet Close, was placed on the Civil List (as a recognised Lake Poet) and alongside Wordsworth himself I was endorsed to become the recipient of a Civil List Pension - fifty pounds per annum. Such highest prize bestowed upon me, a Kirkby butcher’s boy!!\n\n* * *\n\nOh jealous souls! The resentment of certain detractors festered already, and that is the crux of it. I was ordered at Liverpool to pay the sum of three hundred sterling to compensate a woman from my neighbourhood who claimed I had defamed her. How can someone without reputation in the first place be so insulted? How can writings from my pen adversely affect the credit of any being? Yet I was browbeaten by the judiciaries to print a paper confessing I had authored slander - or my injuries would have been the more. Still, I have amply demonstrated in recent fly-sheets that the trial was an occasion when I was mulcted for writing the truth.\n\nI tell you straight, it got no better. Those envious snakes and wriggling fools calling themselves literary critics saw the libel performance as reason to plant their claws in my coat. They called me an imposter - merely a scribbler, no ornament to the literary world. Worse still, their spite, formed out of jealousy, robbed an honest, hard-working, sober man with four boys and a daughter to sustain, of that most valuable pecunary reward.\n\nI was fobbed off with £100 from the Royal Bounty and received no enduring income. I vow that I will fight absolutely and without reserve to restore my rightful place. I will defend my offspring’s legacy and campaign against this injustice ‘til my strength fails me.\n\n* * *\n\nToday, I toil on the station platform in Kirkby Stephen where I have set up stall. I stand in my Fedora, firm at my post, and when the engine stops for refreshments my good wife Eliza serves our visitors with a brew of the finest, best and strongest tea in town. Strewing the express train with poetry, I visit the windows of each carriage to recite my rhyme for the entertainment of the passengers and though I may have not a spark of literary intellect my work seems to amuse the crowds. In the summertime I decamp to the landing stage at Lake Windermere where I erect a stall with a large placard announcing my presence for the season to offer my books and pamphlets under the trees.\n\nJust last year, in the preface to my Christmas Book, I drew a sketch of the kindness of that most distinguished Lonsdale Family. Upon his return to the Castle after His Lordship was last in my town he sent me a game box of two large hares and two fine pheasants. Fast on its heels a hamper came by rail containing the heftiest Stilton cheese and a paper with the words “From the Hon. Hugh Lowther” which astonished and pleased the Poet and Mrs. Close no little. \n\nQuite apart from my notations on local life, I do continue to quietly write poetry for posterity.\n\nThere is the grievance: you know it now.\n\n* * *\n\nIn the 20th Century, a verse entitled ‘A Vision of the Gods: Halos Not Hats’ won John Close a posthumous citation. As it happens, it affirmed his place among the best of bad poets in the Stuffed Owl: An Anthology of Bad Verse. \n\n‘Around the gods, each seated on a throne,\nThe poets, crowned like royal kings they sat,\nAround their heads a dazzling halo shone,\nNo needs of any mortal robes, or any hat.’\n\nIn the 21st Century there continues to be interest and amusement in his work especially by those who know this northern district well. The trouble lies in the difficulty of ascertaining what and what not to believe."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Death Did Us Part\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2363\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who struggles to express their thanks."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "This story is a retelling of the tale of Echo from Ovid’s Metamorphosis book III.\n\nNot even the withered roses could understand my anguish, not even did the forlorn rain begin to fathom out how unloved I felt, and neither did the forsaken Juno begin to grasp my melancholy. I am of the echoing voice, who cannot be silent when others have spoken, nor learn how to speak first myself. I speak of myself in the past tense, for I am dead. My sleepless thoughts waste my sad form, and my body’s strength vanished into the air.\nAnd the only thing left is my bones and the dismaying sound of my voice.\nMy voice remains; my bones were changed to shapes of stone. I hide in the woods, no longer seen on the hills but heard by everyone.\nIt is merely sound that lives in me.\nDisarray escaped when the Lord of the Sky came to visit. Back then, I still had a body and was not only a voice – but though I was garrulous, I had no other trick of speech than I have now. Juno made me like that. Jupiter wishes his women to be human, so of course, he would come down to earth to fulfill his needs with a pack of nymphs, including myself, my sisters, and my friends.\nThey would, of course, never refuse the king of the Gods. So they did as he said – and the hapless nymphs really thought that they would be rewarded; they really thought they would get something in return, and so they would stretch out their chest, look him in the eye, lick their lips and try their very best to please him, in the tiny hopes that they would maybe get something out of this woe.\nNevertheless, their efforts to please him, he did not give them anything back – he only came down here, to use them, just like he did with everyone else – just like he did with countless men and women, he used them. They could not reject him, for they did not want to endure the wrath of the god of sky and thunder. And so he utilized us.\nAmid the copulation of Jupiter and the nymphs, I saw Juno. It was as if she took gasoline and poured it onto the spark of fear in my stomach. I knew I had to do something; I knew I needed to save my sisters. I had heard tales of Juno and what she did to other women Jupiter formicated. My friends and sisters were lying beneath her Jupiter; they were behind us, they were on the mountain slopes.\nVacca stulta, I uttered, and I did not know if I directed this to myself or the nymphs behind me.\nJuno fretted towards me, face filled with fury. So I devised a plan of how I could distract her, it would only take a short time for Jupiter and the nymphs to flee, I thought.\nSo I knowingly held her in long conversations while the nymphs fled.\n“Greetings, Queen of the Gods, you are looking lovely today,”\nShe did not answer me.\n“The weather sure is looking lovely today, is it not?” I began to sweat.\nShe did not answer me.\n“It is such a pleasure to meet you here; what is the occasion?”\nHer face did not lighten up, as I hoped, instead almost darkened; it was as if heavy rocks laid on her eyebrows.\n“I know he is here, nymph.” She said this with such hatred in her voice that I found it hard not to despise her.\n“Who are you talking about?” I asked, trying to seem oblivious. I wanted least of all to get caught by Juno, the goddess of marriage, ironic really.\nThen, like I was a feather, Juno tossed me out of her way with a swing of her hand. I quickly looked back and sighed in relief. So I saved them, now Jupiter was gone, and the nymphs have also fled.\nNaïve me really thought that Jupiter would come to me – and say something to his wife, rather than leaving me alone with her. He did, of course, not do that. Then, trembling, I looked up at Juno. Her eyes looked almost like they were falling off; veins popped out on her face, painted with acrimony and antipathy.\nShe knew...\nI stood up and ran; I ran as fast as I could; I ran in the forest choked by its own branches, a sprawling fortress, barricading the earth from the warmth of the sun and the blue of the sky. I moved branches and leaves out of my way – but of course, she caught up to me. She is faster than me, she is a goddess, and I am only a nymph. And so she stood before me, almost hovering from the ground, dark clouds formed above her, and the weather was not as lovely as it was before.\n“I shall give you less power over that tongue by which I have been deluded and the briefest ability to speak,” Juno howled, with a loathsome cry that hurt my ears.\nAs she said these words, I could feel my heart beating faster, and I felt myself begin to sweat; I thought about running away again but then reminded myself that whatever was going to happen next was absolutely inevitable.\nYet still, I ran, but Juno did not chase after me this time. She knew that she had punished me enough. Nevertheless, I ran into the warmness of the forest, hoping that it would embrace me, but it didn’t. And I understood now that I was utterly useless; I was merely a body now. Tears fell to the carpet of fine evergreen needles beneath me, and I started to run faster; I didn’t know from what, maybe reality.\nMy depression was soul-sucking and drained every single bit of life left within me, sadness crushed me like a tidal wave, and I drowned in its embrace. I wandered through the remote fields for days, mourning the loss of my voice, and drove frightened dears into their nets.\nI was Echo, of the echoing voice. Once, nymph of the forest, I tended to nature, I looked out for my family and friends, I liked to talk with my loved ones, I liked to laugh, but now, I was nothing more than an echoing voice. I tried to scream in between the silent sobs of tears, but I couldn’t; no matter how hard I tried to scream, I couldn’t.\nAnd one day I saw him, a boy so beautiful that I really thought he could fix all my problems. I felt such beauty could cure me. I thought I had found my voice again, my life, my purpose. He was the son of Cephisus, god of rivers. He is the son of the loveliest of nymphs. It was him, the most beautiful man in the world, my saviour.\nI had never seen such beauty anywhere before. Walking there through the fields like it was nothing, I could not imagine what he was doing there – he looked like a nobleman. However, he was more perfect on closer inspection. His skin was clear, smooth like porcelain. Yet, far from delicate, I could clearly make out his toned muscles. He ran his hand through his silky, brown locks, which shone gold in the sunlight, before falling back in place perfectly.\nHe was absolutely divine.\nSo, of course, I followed him. You might call this love unrealistic, you might say that this did not happen, you might not believe me, say that no one can fall in love that fast, and to that, I will tell you to look Narcissus in the face – the prettiest of them all. Neither man nor woman could ever, as long as the sun shone, resist him.\nOh, Narcissus, you were the light in my obscurity, the fire in my heart. My soulmate. Narcissus, oh how I wished to speak his name, Narcissus I tried to say, but nothing happened, no words escaped my mouth, oh sacred Narcissus, fix my senseless life, stabilize me and save me, set me free from my endless sorrow. Oh, Narcissus, I said, I even screamed, but nothing happens. Oh, Narcissus, not even death himself could do us part. Oh Narcissus, I will forever follow you secretly, i swore, and the more I followed, the more I burned with fire, no different than inflammable sulphur, pasted around the tops of torches, catches fire when a flame is brought near it.\nOh, how I wanted to get close to him with seductive words and call him with soft entreaties, but nature denies it, it will not let me begin, but I was ready for what it will allow me to do, to wait for sounds, to which I can return words.\nIt was like fate heard me, for I fell.\n“Is anyone here?” he yelled, a bit scared; I loved to see the frightened look in his eyes. Then, I realized that this was my chance.\n“Here!” I replied, jumping up from where I fell.\nHe looked astonished and glanced everywhere around him.\n“Come to me!” he shouted in a loud voice.\n“Come to me!” I yelled back, my body getting warmer as I said the words.\nHe looked back, but no one appeared behind him.\n“Why do you run away from me?” He asked\n“Why do you run away from me?” I replied.\nHe stood still and deceived by the likeness to an answering voice.\n“Here, let us meet together!” He screamed again, looking around himself.\nI was ecstatic; I knew what I could answer him now.\n“Together!” I screamed back, never having answered to another sound as gladly.\nTo assist my words, I jumped through the woods and surprised him. “Surprise!” I wanted to scream, but I could not – so I threw my hands around his neck in longing. I felt the stiffness of his body, I felt his pulse as my hands touched his neck, I felt his breath on my face, and I smelled him.\n“I love you; you are the solution to my disparity.” I wanted to cry.\nHe threw me off him, and on the ground, I laid. I quickly looked up to him, so very confused – there I was greeted by a face filled with repulsion. I can’t explain how my heart felt now; I did not believe in heartbreaking but trust me when I say that it was like I felt my heart explode within me, I felt the blood running in streams from it throughout my body, and I felt how I could not breathe.\n“Away with these encircling hands! May I die before what’s mine is yours.” He barked, and for a second, I thought that he was about to spit on my face. But he did not; instead, he just walked away.\nI just wanted to thank him for saving my life.\nI just wanted to thank him for being my light.\nThe light has now faded, and the only thing that stood left was the darkness.\n“What’s mine is yours!” I said back, crying this time, as I laid there on the ground.\nI was Echo, of the echoing voice, once a beautiful nymph, but now merely a scorned body, wandering in the suffocating woods, hiding my face in shame among the leaves, and from that time forward only living in caves.\nThen Narcissus fell in love with his own reflection, oh how insensate he was, falling for the same thing I did. He could never have himself, no matter how much he wanted it. I still often observed him; I swore, of course, that I would follow him endlessly. I stood in the woods, watching my beloved, who was so utterly in love with himself.\nAnd when he saw himself reflected in the dissolving waves, he could bear it no longer, but as yellow wax melts in a light flame, as morning frost thaws in the sun, so he is weakened and melted by love, and worn away little by little by the hidden fire.\nStill, when I saw this, though angered and remembering, I pitied him, and as often as my poor beloved said, “Alas!” I repeated with my echoing voice, “Alas!” and when his hands struck at his shoulders, I returned the exact sound of pain. His last words as he looked into the familiar pool were “Alas, in vain, beloved boy!” and the place echoed every word, and when he said “Goodbye!” I also said, “Goodbye!”\nAnd so the River-god clasped him in his winding streams and took him by force under the waves. A heavy blanket silenced his screams, dulled his senses, and tightly wrapped him in a suffocating embrace. He no longer retained his color, the white mingled with red, no longer has life and strength, and that form so pleasing to look at, nor has he that body I loved.\nBut as a maniac, he struggled to regain control, thrashing until his limbs gave out, and the light above the surface drifted away, leaving him in the numb of darkness. Oh, how stupid my love was, did he not know that it is impossible to flee the wrath of the gods?\nBut my love endures, increased by the sadness of rejection. My sleepless thoughts waste my sad form, and my body’s strength vanished into the air. Only my bones and the sound of my voice are left. My voice remained; my bones were changed to shapes of stone. I hide in the woods, no longer to be seen on the hills but to be heard by everyone.\nI was Echo, once a nymph, but now a miserable voice, madly in love with a dead man, I was Echo, unable to express my love, my thanks – it is funny that the thing I was most thankful for ended up destroying me. I was Echo, of the Echoing voice, once a nymph, but now, nothing. \nIt is only the sound that lives in me now."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: T'was Three Nights\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1096\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list of New Year's resolutions."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "T’was three nights before New Years, and I decided it’s time to write my resolutions and this year make them rhyme. Is there a task so fulfilling, as that of resolve? The future’s so thrilling, my list I’ll evolve. Searching my mind, and the depths of my soul, to change for the better, this time, I know. The instantaneous edification washes over me, as I prepare to become self-aware, leaving behind 2023. I feel so empowered, so fresh and renewed, as I pen all my promises of goals to pursue. \nFirst, I will promise myself to take much better care. Trade my wine for more water, hydrating my skin and my hair. Who wants to look older? Certainly not me. A simple change in routine, and healthy I’ll be. I’ll make myself smoothies with protein and greens, my body will thank me by not making me scream. I’ll go through each cabinet purging the mire and muck, to help me be healthy with a little luck. Sorry about your Oreos guys, you don’t need the sugar, it’s bad for my thighs. \nSecond in line is my attitude daily; I will forgive and forget and treat others fairly. A strategically placed smile, and a few kind words, will all be worthwhile when negativity is purged. I won’t be compelled to argue my side, and in every debate, I will swallow my pride. I’ll adhere to the principle that less is indeed more, and not feel compelled to even the score. Don’t ask me if everything is ok, I’m intentionally quiet, it’s better this way. \nThird on my list of things to achieve, is to finally become famous, now this I believe. No more excuses for slacking, my writing will no longer be lacking. I’m not an imposter, I can hang with the best, my talent I’ll foster, and be recognized like the rest. I promise to stop throwing things when rejection comes to be, I’ll handle the word “sorry” with class and dignity.\nFourth would be finally fitting into those jeans. I’ll chase away twenty, by any necessary means. Those pesky pounds plaguing my middle-aged bottom, I will conquer and vanquish, although everyone’s got ‘em. I will move my body off the damn chair, bending and stretching in the name of health care. Maybe some yoga, or Pilates will do, to strengthen my back, and my hips and knees too. If you find me sprawled out, and writhing on the floor, I may just need a helping hand, keep your laughter down to a dull roar. \nNumber five on my list is to be more present. Stop hiding away from a world I resent. My voice, it does matter, and my thoughts, quite enlightened. I vow to speak out, and no longer be frightened. In this world of unrest, I’ve become so complacent, waiting my turn, and losing my patience. If you’d rather not be in my company, it’ll be up to you to leave the room, I’m ready to be seen. \nIf that isn’t enough, I’ll declare number six to be an expansion of my own business, throwing new ideas into the mix. Be more innovative, and step far from the zone, for comfort will not bring great wealth or my dream home. I’ll only fail if I do nothing at all, but with little to lose, and not far to fall. So let me throw it all up against the wall. I can predict, something’s bound to stick, if you believe in me at all. However, if my ideas elude you, get out of my way and let me play through.\nSeven is for solutions where problems once were. Take action not refuge when complications occur. Worry is wasted time not recovered; energy used best is when we discover. Anxiety and stress causing rifts in relationships, when the focus should be on flipping the scripts. Nor offense or defense bring about resolution, effective communication will be my contribution. Expecting an argument? You won’t find one here, not at least any time this year. \nBe charitable and give of my time and my earnings to those most deprived. Generosity, and philanthropy is how number eight has been derived. It is always rewarding to give, rather than get. I will reach personal enlightenment and have no regrets. There are so many ways to help those in need, no room for selfishness, no need for greed. I was thinking just the other day, I’m glad there’s still time. because I’m certain I threw those donation envelopes away.\nNinth on my list of how to live best, is to quit smoking, now that’s a real test. Bad habits are good when left in the past, should I go cold turkey, or do this half-assed? It’s been so many years, it’ll be like losing an old friend, but on this poisonous crutch I can no longer depend. I’ll likely experience some major withdrawal and get kind of bitchy and want to brawl. If by chance, it happens to you, remind me of this list’s number two. \nWell, now it seems that we have reached my coveted list’s end. I think I’ll declare gratitude, my last but not least number ten. As I consider my blessings, rather than lack, I’ll Thank the Good Lord for having my back. My home could be better, but for now I am warm; a roof to shelter me from any storm. My table is full, and my heart is as well, and with room for improvements, it will continue to swell. I must admit, I am rather pleased with this year's list of things to achieve. \nI’ll start this new year feeling I can accomplish anything, I made my list, you get the gist, it’s so inspiring! I’m ready and willing as I’ll ever be, this new year will surely bring about a perfectly brand new me. \nBut first I think I’ll go outside and light a cigarette, pour myself a glass of wine and sit out on my deck. Someone really should confiscate my phone, for the more I drink, the more belligerent I’ll become. Easily tempted to tweet or text my unsolicited banter, can I really be the only one who appreciates my candor? Maybe in a little while, I’ll indulge in the last piece of pie, then go online and take some time to buy what catches my eye. It fills a void, so don’t get annoyed as I engage in my old selfish ways. The truth is clear, it’s not yet the new year, I still have a few more days!"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Excalibur Blacksmith\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1274\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone giving or receiving a gift."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The vultures hovered over the corpses of Heasean soldiers in circles; it was more of a celebration dance before they enjoyed their feast. Knights, archers, spearmen, swordsmen, militia all lay dead on the ground. Heasean standard-bearers and those alive could be seen at a distance fleeing the battleground. Some on horses, some on foot. \n\nHeasea and Nazodour, the two neighboring kingdoms, had been at war for as long as the stars twinkled in the sky, and it was the umpteenth time we mighty Nazodourians had crushed our neighbors. \n\n\"Arlotto!, Hey, Arlotto!\"\n\n\"Huh!\" I turned to look at the shabby blacksmith who walked beside me, on an uphill climb towards his forge, in a discolored cloak fiddling with his long white beard. People chuckled when he claimed he forged the Excalibur. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. Whatever the case, I saw no point in ridiculing a guy who meant no harm to anyone, always had words full of encouragement and an ear-to-ear smile to offer.\n\n\"What are you thinking, my friend?\"\n\n\"Nah! It's nothing ... Larkin,\" I lied. \n\nIn reality, I just couldn't stop thinking of our past battles with Heasea. We managed to rout them in every freaking battle, like always, until the most recent ones.\n\nThey ... they've changed somehow ... they are now different. Scary, bulkier ... and ... and that darkness in those eyes, as if they were being controlled by something or someone. The way they tore apart our spearmen with sheer muscle power is just appalling. Some of the close witnesses to the horror say the devil is now on their side; Heaseans had traded their souls for mysterious powers. \n\nWell, whatever they are now, they've butchered most of our men. Not much is left of us, and soon, they'll come to wipe Nazodour off the map.\n\nDespite having the best soldiers and the blacksmiths in the entire realm, here we stand...\n\nI look at Larkin crestfallen, and as always, he stands smiling right at the door of his forge. \n\n\"Arlotto! Just so you know, I'll always be indebted to you for hiring me. You have a big heart.\"\n\n\"Oh! Don't mention it, Larkin!\" I said, looking at his humble forge. \n\n\"No, No, I must say. You've always been kind to me, unlike the other Nazodourians.\" Larkin then gazes onto the distant land, contemplating. \n\n\"Um ... Anyway,\"—he smiles and then looks at me—\"I believe I have a gift for you, Arlotto. Consider it as a token of thanks for being kind to me.\"\n\nLarkin then hastens inside his forge, gesturing to me to follow along. He takes a few steps before he ceases turning towards me with a spark in his eyes. \"I think it's time I hand you the gift over. I've been working nights on this for a couple of months. Do you want to have a look at it, Arlotto yes? Are you excited?\" \n\nI roll my eyes, thinking, what does it matter now. For me, everything felt hopeless. Still, for his sake, I enter the forge. \"Sure, show me. What do you have?\"\n\nLarkin moves over to his table, picking up a seemingly long double-edged sword. And as he pulls it out of its scabbard, his eyes light up. He chuckles, \"Presenting ... the Atomblade. Ta-da!\" He raises his arms, holding his new creation with both hands with his eyes stretched as wide as they can be due to sheer excitement. \n\n\"You know Arlotto, this weapon summons ignis from heaven; you just point it towards your enemy, marking them, and then, bam, the ignis strikes from heaven, taking care of the rest.\" \n\nI look at Larkin trying hard to put on a good face, slightly nodding, who appeared rather high-spirited as he explained his weapon. He spoke with such enthusiasm as if he had forged his most incredible creation ever and was contented with the result. \n\n\"... also, you can literally slice anything with this, even the darkness. So, what do you think? Huh?\" Larkin nodded his head, looking at me, waiting for my reaction. And I stood there staring at him, blank-faced, thinking to myself. Oh, dear! After all, people were right about him. He is crazy. \n\nAs I turn to walk out, he interrupts. \"Why don't you try this blade, my friend? Huh! I would be delighted to see you take a swing.\"\n\n\"Just so you know, Larkin, to test it, if it really works, as you say. I need to mark someone to summon the strike from heaven, don't I? Who do I mark exactly? You? myself?\" I say in a frustrated tone with my teeth clenched. If it was some other time, I would have let this jest slide, but certainly not in these grim times when Nazodourians were on the verge of extinction.\n\nHearing this, Larkin dashed towards the back of his forge. I shook my head in disbelief and was left with no option but to follow him. \n\n\"Larkin! ... Where do you think you are going?\" \n\nAs I slouched to the back of his forge, my eyes widened with disbelief. I looked at Larkin with my mouth a tad open. \n\nLarkin said, \"Well, I was testing my weapon deep in the forest, slashing rocks and by good fortune, this creature or\"—He bows down before the Heasean giving him a warm smile, who lay in shackles smothered with cut marks with dried blood, and dust—\"... Heasean, as I should call him with all due respect, attacked me. Bad timing, eh? Well, ... I then escorted his highness here.\"\n\n\"Arlotto, don't you think this mucky creature would be a perfect one to test your blade on?\"\n\nI, still in disbelief, without wasting a moment any further, raised my arms to point the blade towards the Haesean. As I was about to try Larkin's weapon, he interrupted me. \n\n\"My friend, you would want to take a few steps back; keep your distance, please ... I am sure you don't want to kill yourself in the process.\"\n\nI move a few steps back and finally point my blade towards the Heasean, whose eyes were as dark as night, and continually let out a low groan. I close my eyes, and the next moment, I hear a low rumbling in the sky with a sudden loud crack. \n\nJolted by the sudden strike, I open my eyes and see the Heasean ripped apart into pieces by a bolt of fire discharged from heaven, just like Larkin had described. The land was littered with burning bits and pieces of what remained of the Heasean's corpse. The rest was up in smoke. \n\nI see Larkin jumping and clapping with joy like a kid relishing those enthralling fireballs and the falling stars in the night sky.\n\nTears rolled down my eyes, and I yelled, \"Yes, yes, ... this is our way out, finally. We can defeat them.\"—I raise my arms with the sword drawn like a world conqueror—\"It's possible; we can defeat them. After all, we are the mighty Nazodourians who are the best soldiers and blacksmiths in the entire realm.\" \n\nI walk over to my friend, nodding my head in acknowledgment. \"You really did forge the Excalibur, after all. Larkin, my friend, ... Every Nazodourian who will ever tread this land will be indebted to you for as long as the sun shines in the sky. Thank you, my friend. Thank you for this gift.\"\n\nLarkin responded with a warm smile, \"Arlotto, the blade has chosen you as its wielder. Not everyone can summon the ignis, but only those with the purest of heart. I believe it's time to lead your men one more time.\""
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Reasons to Live\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1273\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "(TW – depression, suicidal thoughts)\n\n\n---\n\nReasons to not kill myself – Dec 22, 1981\n\n1. It would ruin Christmas for my family.\n\n---\n\nReasons to not kill myself – Dec 23, 1981\n\n1. It would destroy my mother.\nEven though I once told my mother I was considering killing myself and she didn’t take me seriously, it is still the only reason I can think of to not actually do it. It would destroy her. And she doesn’t deserve that. It does seem a bit pointless to stay alive for the sole purpose of another person who doesn’t even realize it. It’s something to think about.\n2. Find a second reason.\nIf I am going to stay alive for my mother then I need to find another reason as well. Something. Anything. Now I have an assignment. A to do list. Find another reason. I have the next few days off from school. I will find a reason. \n\n---\n\nReasons to not kill myself – Dec 24, 1981\n\n1. Scott called. He wants to see me tonight. Said he has a Christmas gift for me. It’s been months since we broke up. What does this mean? I have a reason to at least stay alive today to see what he wants. If he breaks my heart again I don’t know if I can take it. But he sounded nice on the phone, so I’ll see what he wants. I do miss him.\n\n---\n\nReasons to not kill myself – Dec 25, 1981\n\n1. It’s Christmas Day. Is that a reason or just a fact? \n2. My grandparents are here. All four of them. Two from Brooklyn, two from the Bronx. They traveled here by subway and bus to stay for the next few days. They are so old they scare me when they look at me from behind those thick glasses. I know they love me, and I can imagine their hands holding mine even when it’s not happening. Do they know they are very old? Are they scared? Were my grandmothers just like me when they were seventeen? It's hard to imagine. Maybe I will ask them.\n3. Ask Grandma Suzie and Grandma Rose what they were like as seventeen year olds. Suddenly it’s important to know. \n4. Find a better hiding place for this list. If my grandmas found it they would be very sad. \n5. I saw Scott last night. He gave me a gold bracelet. He said wear it or don’t wear it, but he wants me to know he still loves me. I keep it in my pocket but so far I haven’t worn it. Maybe soon. \n6. My list is getting longer. Maybe making this list is a good thing.\n\n---\n\nReasons to live – Dec 26, 1981\n\n1. I changed the name of my list. I couldn’t bear putting that title down on paper again. I’m feeling a bit more optimistic today. Is it because Christmas is over? The approaching holiday always makes me depressed. Not sure why. I have to explore this to maybe prevent this from happening again next year. \n2. I put the bracelet on. Mom noticed it right away and smiled. She said it’s always nice to get presents and to enjoy it. Maybe she’s right. I can take it at face value and try not to overthink it. See where it goes. It does make me happy to wear it.\n3. I’m going to speak with my grandmas today after dinner about their teenage years. Mom says she wants to join us and will make a special pot of coffee for us girls. I think that’s kinda cute that she’s excited. I feel happy about this.\n\n---\n\nReasons to live - Dec 27, 1981\n\n1. I have a BIG project! My two grandmas and I stayed up for hours talking about being seventeen. My mom was really into it also and talked about a magazine she thought I would like to read called Seventeen. I was more interested in my grandmas’ stories than that, but she did give us a great idea. We are going to write a story, maybe an article, maybe a novella or maybe a book!! All about being seventeen from three generations perspectives. I actually can’t wait.\n2. I’m seeing Scott for New Years Eve. I don’t know how I feel about this. I will tell him about the project and if he’s excited about it I will have my answer that he’s a good guy for me. If he acts like he doesn’t give a shit I don’t know. Maybe it will be time to move on. For good.\n3. I feel a bit down that the grandmas went back to the city, but we promised to meet again in a month. I will have my outline done and they each promised me a list of ideas. They wanted to know if I like lists. I laughed so hard thinking of this one. I might take those first few pages and burn them or shred them or I might keep them to remember that when I get depressed to just hold on it will get better. \n\n---\n\nReasons to not be depressed - Dec 28, 1981\n\n1. I see I get depressed when the holidays arrive. It’s a few days before New Years Eve and I am getting that feeling again. I am going to take the rest of the day to relax, walk, read and just be. I know the feeling will pass. I have a lot of things I am looking forward to, so I won’t let one down day put too many big thoughts into my head. Maybe I’ll listen to some really loud music and dance up a storm in front of the mirror. Ha ha. Hope no ones takes a picture. That reminds me. The grandmas called. They each have old photos for the project. Old black and white photos. I can’t wait to see them. They are going to put them in the mail for me. I’ll check the mailbox in a few days.\n2. I told Scott about the project. He said it sounds cool and asked to read it when it’s done. I think that was a pretty good response. I’ll let him read a little bit before giving him the whole thing to read. Kinda get his reaction. \n\n---\n\nReasons to stay upbeat – Dec 29, 1981\n\n1. It’s raining hard today. All gray and depressing. Feeling the downward spiral coming at me strong. Trying hard to fight it. Trying not to lose.\n2. Maybe I should talk to my mom about this. It’s getting hard to handle on my own. I will say something tomorrow if it doesn’t pass. \n3. Or even today. Maybe I will say something now.\n\n---\n\nReasons to be happy – Dec 30, 1981\n\n1. Mom was really cool listening about my depression. She said she gets down also from time to time. She is going to teach me how to cook some new dishes because sometimes diet can help. We are also going to start running together, maybe we can even make it around the track at the high school. I’m ready to try! I’m glad she wants to help me. \n2. I decided not to burn or shred my first few pages of this list. Maybe I’ll have a kid one day and it will help her. Or maybe I’ll put it in the book I’m writing with my grandmas. Or maybe I’ll just keep it for myself. For when I need to read it all again. Who knows."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Nana's Gift\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2618\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone giving or receiving a gift."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Gertrude Swartz passed away peacefully in March, but in her final Christmas, Gertrude or Nana as I knew her gave me a gift that I will treasure for the rest of my life. As we stood around our Christmas tree, she handed me a small package she had in her wrinkled hands. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but this would be her last Christmas with us.\n“Talia, this is for you.” She smiled as only she could. \nThe scent of cinnamon clunk to the air as I peeled back the wrapping paper of what she hand handed me. I could hear my mother’s voice call out, “Now everyone, we shall follow our Owens’ family tradition of opening one gift on Christmas Eve.”\nMy father nodded as he had a couple of large mugs of eggnog and was in a most joyous mood. My younger brothers Evan and Spike were poking each other and giggling as each of them had selected a larger box they knew was an XBox. Upon my mother’s nod, they tore into the wrapping and let out a “Whoop!” when their wishes were fulfilled. \n“I got an Xbox!” Spike declared.]\n“Me too!” Evan added. \n“We can plug them into the television in our room.” Spike’s grin was missing a couple of teeth. Before anyone could say “Jack Robinson,” both of them bound up the stairs with their new Xboxes in tow. \n“I guess we won’t see them for a while.” Dad said jovially as he took another sip of his eggnog.\n“Talia? You haven’t opened anything.” Mom put her hand on my shoulder.\nWhen I looked at Nana, she was smiling, but her crystal blue eyes seemed all a-glow as she tilted her head toward the package I held in my hand that was still unopened. I had peeled the delicate wrapping paper off of the box, but had not opened it. \n“Go ahead dear.” Nana urged me.\nWhen you are a senior in high school, Christmas is no longer a mystery since you go with your mother as she does the Christmas shopping. You witness all of the things she buys for you as you have to try them on. I know just about everything that is wrapped and under the tree with my name written on the tag. Next year I will be starting college and it feels like I am destined to inhabit another planet. \nI wanted to tell my parents to slow down the train and give me some time to get my heart to stop thumping against my chest or the headaches I get for thinking too much.\n“I am so proud of you my dear.” Nana says as I put my thumbs at the lid of the box. \nSuddenly I am crying. Not just a few tears. Nope, the full water works. Nana is confused at my emotional outburst.\n“What is wrong, Talia?” She asks, hugging me close until all I smell is the sweet scent of talc. \n“Oh, Nana…” I could not speak. Mom and dad came to my side instantly.\n“Did someone slap you?” Dad asked teetering on his shoes knowing Evan and Spike were fond of a slapping game which was half the reason they both got an Xbox. \nI just shook my head.\n“What is it, dear?” Mom asked.\n“I don’t know.” I sobbed into my grandmother’s shoulder. Dad just stood there flummoxed by my emotional outburst. Mom kept stroking my shoulder, but feeling her touch only made me feel worse. \n“Dear, we are all so proud of you.” Nana said in a voice as sweet as her scent, but this only made me sob harder. “I wish I knew what to say to make you feel better.” \n“I am scared.” I finally was able to say.\n“Scared of what?” Mom asked as I lifted my head off my grandmother’s shoulder.\n“Of what’s next...the future.” I shuddered.\n“The future is bright.” Nana held my shaking hand. \n“How come I don’t feel like it is?” I asked, wiping the last of my tears on the cuff of my blouse. Mom looked at dad. Dad looked back at mom.\n“Open the box of my liebchen.” She insisted on gently touching my hand. It was the hand where years ago someone had left an ugly tattoo just above her wrist. She was my mother’s mother and I had heard some of the stories I wasn’t supposed to as I sat at the top of the stairs. They were stories of her life in Germany when she was a young girl. \nIt sounded like a magical place filled with old castles and hardy food, but there were other stories where her friends and relatives had died in places called concentration camps. It was no secret to any of us that Gertrude Schwartz was Jewish. She was proud to be one and would tell me of all of the times she went to temple with her father Abraham.\n“He had the name of the Father of the Jewish faith.” She would tell me when she drank kosher wine at Hanukkah. “He was a good man. He would have loved you.” \n“I wish I could meet him.” I could smell the strong aroma of the wine she was drinking.\n“He died a long time ago.” She would smile and shake her head. \n“Do you have a picture of him?” I asked.\n“I wish I did. We were poor and only rich people could afford to take pictures.” She explained. \nDeath was such an enigma to me. It seemed a lot of people close to Nana had died, but she never talked about it. Even my pain in the ass brothers would cause me unbearable grief if something were to happen to them. My friend Marcy lost her brother in some place called Vietnam. She still grieves for him even though the school counselor tells her she needs to \"let him go.\" I know she won't. When she comes over to my house, sometimes I find her crying in our broom closet. I hold her hand and let her cry for him.\nNana doesn't cry. When grandpa died, I never saw her shed a single tear through the three days of the Shiva. Mom was a wreck, but Nana held her as if she was just a young child, stroking her hair and talking to her in that stance language she calls Yiddish. \n\"He was such a handsome man.\" She would smile whenever I ask her about Grandpa Saul. \"And so smart.\"\n\"What happened to him?\" I would ask her and a strange expression Always crossed her face. It was the closest she ever came to grief, but then her smile would reappear.\n\"It was a long time ago.\" She' d answer in what I called her ghost voice. I called it that because It was barely a whisper and yet it went straight to my heart as if he was in the room watching over us Still.\n\"I'm so scared.\" I told her as she sat next to me on my bed. I could hear Evan and Spike laughing uproariously in their room next to mine.\n\"Why?\" She gently stroked my hair just like she did when I was a little girl.\n\"I will miss my friends.\" I took a deep sigh.\n\"Oh Talia, you are so smart and kind, you will make new friends.\" She kissed me on the top of my head. I wouldn't even let mom do that anymore.\n\"I don't want new friends.\" I whined.\n\"Sometimes we don't get a choice.\" She held my hand, \"Sometimes life doesn't give us a choice.\"\n\"Life is stupid!\" I blurted out, but when I looked at her, I saw her expression change to a much more somber one. She looked so hurt and sad. \"I'm sorry, Nana.\"\n\"Liebchen, life can be cruel at times. \" She said in her ghost voice, \"Please open the box. It will make you feel better, I promise.\"\nThis time I did as she requested. Inside the cardboard box was delicate wrapping paper and she I reached inside, past the paper and confetti that she liked to wrap her gifts in, was a locket.\n\"Open it.\" She urged me. \"The clasp is right here.\"\nPressing the clasp, the locket opened and instantly revealed inside was a faded photograph of three people, two adults and a very small child.\n\"That child is me.\" Her finger touched the glass protecting the photograph. When I took a close look, I could see her crystal blue eyes I had come to know and love over the years.\n\"My parents Ida and Abe.\" She had tears in her eyes. This was truly astounding to me, because I had never seen Nana cry. \"They Both died in the camps before the liberation.\"\nCamps? Liberation? My history teacher, Mr. Barton had briefly mentioned this as his father Survived the landing at Omaha Beach during D Day. Anything else was just an add on to the narration.\n\"I tell you the story of that locket you hold in your hand, lipschen.\" She took a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her red eyes.\n***********\nWhile I tell many people that we were from Germany, that isn’t quite true. My father changed his name to Schwartz to blend in as a German after the invasion. He went to work in a German factory in Dresden, but we were really from Krakow in Poland. Our real name was Zlotofacet or Goldman. My father was a devout Jewish man, but with what was happening, he had to give up his religion or wear the gold star. Those wearing such a thing were seized by the Gestapo and would disappear. We knew where they had been taken. It was no secret. \nBut in February 1943, we were taken to a place called Auschwitz despite my father’s testimony we were good German citizens. It was our landlady Fraulein Schenze who turned us into the Gestapo. I had just turned seventeen and thought I had my whole life ahead of me. I played on the girl’s soccer team at school, because I was such a Tom-boy back then. I never thought for a minute that I would be packed into a cattle car with so many other people. It was so hard to breathe. Many of the older people passed out, but they could not even make it to the floor of the car, because there were so many of us.\nIt took over ten hours to get to the awful camp where the words “Arbeit Macht Frei,” work makes you free. \n“Gertrude.” My mother called me when the train stopped.\n“Mama.” I answered. \n“You must do me a favor.” She said in a low voice so others would not hear. None of them seemed to care anyway as they all began to groan at the toxic air that filled out lungs.\n“What?” I asked. I was so scared that I was shaking even though I was not really cold.\nShe took the locket she wore on a chain around her neck and without hesitation ripped the locket from the chain. “You need to swallow this.”\n“Mama?” I shook my head. “It’s too big.”\n“I have some water.” She insisted.\n“I do not want to.” I began to cry.\n“Swallow this, you must. It’s all I have.” She also began to let her tears fall on her cheeks.\nI took the locket from her hands.\nShe nodded.\nI put it in my mouth. She handed me a small hip flask of water she had smuggled in her coat pocket.\nGerman soldiers began shouting orders to those who were leaving the train. There was a rifle shot. An old man fell to his knees as he had been struck by the bullet fired from the rifle. A German officer stood over the wounded man. He removed the pistol from his holster, put the barrel up to his forehead and shot the wounded man.\nSeeing this made me swallow the locket I had put in my mouth. The old man was a watchmaker, but no more as he lay there in the snow, his eyes open toward the heavens for a moment before a couple of soldiers removed his body.\n“They will search you.” Mama told me as we made our way to the gate, “They will take everything you have. Your hair. All of it. But they won’t be able to get the locket until it passes. It will most likely pass in a day or so. I will find a hiding place.”\n“Yes mama.” I said as a guard seized my mother’s arm.\n“Dis way, frauline.\" He pushed her toward a line of other frightened women who were standing in a line. \n“You are a fine looking specimen.” One of the other guards snickered as he pushed me along. Soon my mother was lost in a crowd as I walked with the group I had been chosen to be with.\nIt was the last time I ever saw her. I had no way of knowing that back then. There is so much I wanted to say to her, but I have a feeling she already knows.\n***********\n“This is it, isn’t it?” I said examining it closely. She just nodded her head. I put my thumbs to the latch. It popped open immediately. Inside was a photograph of two people holding a toddler. The man wore glasses, a stiff white shirt with a bow tie while the woman holding the child was wearing a traditional dark Polish peasant dress while the toddler was wearing some sort of dress with leggings. “Is this child you, Nana?”\n“Ja, it is.” She hugged me close. “And that is Abraham and Ida. They went to a studio and had that picture taken when I was just three years old.”\n“It’s beautiful.” I gasped.\n“Ja, my mama treasured it more than anything else she owned.” She tried to smile, “I found a hiding place that no German guard would ever find. I buried it in a small hole near the barbed wire where the search lights would not find me. I would try to go there every Sabbath and open the locket so I could spend some time with them. I was lucky, but I think they looked after me.”\n“What happened to them?” I asked, dreading the answer that would come.\n“I went to a Red Cross camp after the war, but we never did find their records.” She held her head in a very thoughtful way, “One of the survivors said that she was taken to the showers where they killed so many of our people. Another survivor said my father was put into one of the ovens. I don’t wish to think about that. I would like to think that God took his hand and led him away before they could do anything bad to him.”\nIt would be the only time I would hold her as she sobbed uncontrollably. \n“Talia.” My mother called me from downstairs.\n“Yes mother.” I closed my math book.\n“I have some bad news.” I could hear the tears in my mother’s voice.\nI ran to her. I did not have to ask what the matter was, I already knew. We embraced as she began to sob.\n“It was peaceful according to the hospice nurse. She just went to sleep. She’s with Saul and her parents.” My mother managed to say through her tears.\nLater in my room, I opened the locket she had given me and let the tears flow as I said my farewell to Gertrude Zlotofacet, my Nana."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: A Look Into The Past\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1097\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character looking through an old family photo album."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Photo albums, a journey into the past through pictures, for Ember looking through her families photo albums is a way to connect and to learn about where her family comes from.\nEmber doesn't know much about where her family is from, the only thing she knows is that the beginning of her family begins at Ellis Island.\nEmber has tried everything to know more about her family, looking through records at the library, documents from Ellis Island, even ancestry.com, nothing has worked, now Ember is at her grandmother's house looking trough the family photo albums.\nEmber is sitting by the fire place looking at the first album dated 1915-1925, she opens the photo album to the first page.\nIn the first page Ember comes across a picture of two people, a man and a woman. She looks at them closely, and takes out the picture. She turns the picture over and sees the names of the man and woman.\n\"Their names are Emer and Finlay Lyons, my grandparents, your great great grandparents. That picture was taken the day they arrived at Ellis Island.\"\nEmber looks up and sees her grandmother Maggie.\n\"Hi grandma. I was just looking at the family album.\"\n\"Its alright dear, keep looking. If you have any questions just call.\"\n\"Okay.\"\nEmber puts the picture back and continues to look. She looks at more pictures on the first page.\nEmber takes each picture out turns it over and looks at the date. Another picture she takes out is a picture of her great great grandfather Finlay dated 1918.\nEmber looks at the picture closely and sees Finlay wearing a uniform, it's a military uniform. She knows this during the time World War 1 was happening.\nEmber never knew one of her relatives fought in World War 1. She puts the picture and wonders what other surprises she is going to find.\nThe last page of the photo album is a picture of a woman who looks like her great grandmother. Ember turns the picture over and sees the name.\nThe name on the picture is Nessa, born 1919. Ember puts the picture back and looks at the last remaining pictures, then closes the photo album.\nEmber puts the photo album back on the shelve and takes out another one, this one is dated 1930-1940. She wonders why it took five years to make another album.\n\"This time period was one of the worse periods in America.\" Ember says to herself.\nEmber opens the photo album. On the first page is a picture unlike any other. She calls her grandmother. Maggie comes rushing to see what's wrong. Ember shows her the picture.\nMaggie looks at the picture and tells Ember her grandmother took the picture to show what life was like during those times and there are many more pictures like this one in the album.\n\"So, this is not a family album?\"\n\"There are pictures of my mother, but they are not all happy ones.\"\n\"Because of the Depression?\"\nMaggie nods.\nShe hands Ember the picture and puts its back.\nEmber continues to look through the album and her grandmother was right, its filled with pictures of the Depression.\nTowards the end of the album Ember begins to see pictures of her great grandmother.\n\"Wow, she looks beautiful.\"\nEmber closes the photo album dated 1930-1940. She puts the album back on the shelf. The next album Ember takes out is dated 1940-1950.\nAt the time of this photo album Ember's great grandmother is 21 years old, America is getting out of the grip of the Depression, but trouble is brewing in Europe, but in the photos, Ember sees a beautiful young woman having the time of her life.\nEmber opens the album and on the first page, she sees a picture of her great grandmother, she is wearing a knee length dress with short heels, loose curls falling down past her shoulder and a big smile plastered on her face. Ember turns to her grandmother and asks about the picture.\n\"Is this a dance?\"\nMaggie looks at the picture and nods.\n\"This picture was taken at the annual fall dance.\"\n\"Great grandmother is so beautiful.\"\n\"That she was, keep looking.\"\nEmber nods.\nThere are more pictures of the dance. Ember sees her great grandmother smiling and dancing with her friends.\nOn the next page Ember sees another picture of her great grandmother and a man.\n\"That man is your great grandpa Max. it was at that dance they met and fell in love.\"\n\"That is so beautiful.\"\n\"There love story is a beautiful story.\"\nEmber looks down at the next picture of her great grandparents, and it's one of her great grandpa hugging her great grandmother. Ember smiles.\nShe goes to the next page and sees a somber looking woman. Ember doesn't understand why this picture looks so sad.\n\"This picture was taken the day after Pearl Harbor.\"\nGreat grandpa got drafted?\"\n\"No, he enlisted, great grandmother wasn't happy/\"\n\"Why not?\"\n\"At that time no one believed the war was going to catch up with us, but it did. All the young men were signing up before they got drafted and so did great grandpa.\"\n\"He survived right, of course he survived or we wouldn't be here.\"\nMaggie smiles.\n\"Keep looking at the album.\"\nEmber looks down at the next picture and the next picture and the next picture and sees many pictures of her great grandmother at her home at the beach and at the pool. She sees pictures of her great grandpa in uniform, but towards the end of the album, all Ember sees is letters, letters written by both her great grandparents, she reads the letters.\nThe last letter Ember reads has tears running down her face. Their love was so strong it lasted through out the war.\nOver the next few hours Ember goes through all her family albums and sees one thing in common, their family service to their country was so strong and fierce that it started at the very beginning when their great great grandparents first arrived at Ellis Island and lasted all the way to the present with her brother serving in the military.\n\"Find what you are looking for?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Tell me what you found.\"\n\"Our family has a strong desire to serve their adopt country from great great grandfather Finlay in World War 1 to the present with Joey serving.\"\n\"All we wanted to do is prove we belong here.\"\n\"Our family did a good job.\"\nEmber hugs her grandmother.\n\"I love you grandma.\""
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Countdown\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1117\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story framed by a single scene: something happens, a flashback or inner monologue intervenes, and then the story ends with the rest of the original scene."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "TEN!\nNINE!\nEIGHT!\nSEVEN!\nSIX!\n***\nThe crowd chanted along, the excitement building as the second hand ticked away to a new year.\nShe desperately wanted to be part of the merriment, the celebration, the “this is our year, babe” sentiment that Joe was brimming with. He was still in the blissful state of “it’s finally happening” but she knew better.\n“Ready? Remember, no champagne for you!” He had teased her before leaving the house, smiling at her from his bubble of one. She would be more than happy to do without the alcoholic midnight toast, thrilled to choose sparkling water for herself. It’s all she ever wanted.\nFor years.\nShe watched from the sidelines as a spectator rather than a participant on the only team she wanted to join. She cheered on the women, her friends and coworkers, attended their baby showers with the expected oohs and ahhs at the unwrapping of the tiny outfits. She listened to their concerns over labor and beyond, watching their bellies grow rounder each day.\nFor they did not know her struggle. She and Joe had put every drop they had into the process. Only to remain empty. \nFor years her life revolved around the calendar, her cycle. “This is the month, babe. I can feel it.” And they would plan their special night and lay in bliss afterward wondering if the magic was happening deep within her where they couldn’t see the miracle. Then inevitably the disappointment a few weeks later. \nThe specialists ran the tests, so many tests, like lab rats until feeling more like specimen than human beings wanting a result rather than a baby. Their special night turned into an appointment marked on the calendar and circled in red. That dark angry red. Why would they choose that color, the color of their inevitable disappointment, the red she saw that made her heart break a little more each month. Perhaps they should have circled their appointment in green, the color of spring, of growth, of life. Maybe that way they could have been fertile.\nThey gave it one more year. The procedures didn’t work, they were out of funds and barely hanging onto the house. The doctors still had hope for success ‘the old fashioned way’ so they agreed to one more year amidst her tears and frustration.\nWhat was wrong with her? The despair filled her every space, every crevice, preoccupied her every thought. Gone were the days of socializing with friends, chatting casually over a cup of coffee, having a laugh or two at a movie. Her family called and left messages expressing their concern, their encouragement. She didn’t know which was the worse of the two. ‘Delete’, ‘delete’, ‘delete’ as she removed those unheard voicemails. \nHer time was dictated by her calendar. Counting the days until … then counting the days during … and then finally counting the days after. The bitterness rising in her throat when that red disappointment became apparent yet again. Once upon a time it would make her lie on the bathroom floor sobbing. Eventually sobbing required more energy than she had.\nThe young women at the park pushing their babies in strollers were a cruel reminder. Seeing them play in the grassy fields, running after a ball on a sunny day was more than she could bear, choosing to drive the long way home from the office to avoid the playground. It was not for her.\nShe felt resentment grow towards her husband knowing that was irrational but unable to help herself. Did she still love him? Did she even like him? Would she stay with this man with whom she shared nothing more than broken dreams?\nAnd then the slightest bit of queasiness upon waking up. She had sat up in bed and froze. Was it possible? Counting and recounting on her fingers over and over she woke her husband. \n“I’m nauseous.” She lay on her side nose to nose with the only one who would understand. \n“Do you think?” \n“I do.”\nShe rolled over to be the little spoon to his big spoon basking in the emotion. He stroked her hair, put his hand on her still flat belly. She wouldn’t let herself be fully immersed in the possibility; it was a long way from fact, but the glimmer was more than she had hoped for as their promised one last year was drawing to a close.\nThe blissful cocoon of togetherness sharing the joy, the long anticipated miracle. “Let’s take time off to enjoy,” Joe suggested, and she blocked off the rest of the month. The calendar that had become her enemy was now once again her friend redeeming itself before she turned it in for a new one.\nSitting in the rocking chair she dared to dream her dreams. She closed her eyes in the nursery empty of furniture but full of hope. \nImagining her belly growing larger until her child was ready to meet her. She saw the baby in the crib, placing a hand on her back checking the rhythm of her breathing. Then sitting up, standing up, the crib tucked into storage replaced by a toddler bed. Stuffed teddy bears and blankets while curled together for story time. “One more story, Mommy, please.” “Ok, my little love, one more.” Tears at the bus stop, would they be her own tears or her child’s tears as the bus drove away leaving her alone on the street?\nProm, boyfriends, heartbreak. The pain of her daughter’s heartbreak was unimaginable. What about the pain of her own heartbreak when they have their first fight, their first angry words, the inevitable slamming of doors and shouting. Would they be quick to forgive? Guilty images of her own youth floated around her in the empty nursery as she rocked with her hands on her still flat belly.\nThen the very last day as she dressed for their evening out she looked at that calendar and smiled. It had been worth it; their dreams were coming true. She applied her lipstick and fluffed up her hair while Joe turned on the hall light to keep the house safe. \n“Ready?” He smiled at her.\n“In a minute,” she called out having to use the bathroom one last time.\n***\nFIVE!\nFOUR!\nTHREE!\nTWO!\nONE!\nThe biting wind as December turned into January made her eyes sting and finally released the tears she had been holding back the last few hours. The crowd went wild with cheers and well wishes. Confetti spilled down from the heavens crossing paths with the secret only she knew. As Joe leaned in to give her the first kiss of the year she turned away."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Family Demons\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2543\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character looking through an old family photo album."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Snow and ice blew against the windows as Captain Westheimer limped into his office. He glared at the massive, leather-bound book on his desk before sitting down to open it to a yellowing page with only his name written on it. The book had been sitting there since the previous night, when he had been going through his cabinets and bookshelves in search of it. He just didn’t have the motivation to actually look through it when he found it. Outside, the yard of the prisoner-of-war camp was empty. It was too cold and too windy for anyone, guard or prisoner, to be out there. At least, over the last several weeks, there hadn’t been anymore ghosts popping up in the barracks.\nIt had been the middle of October when Westheimer had to deal with a poltergeist inhabiting a radio one of the POWs had smuggled into the camp. One of the prisoners, a British sergeant named Plundell, had never believed in magic or ghosts before, but upon discovering Westheimer was a warlock, he had been insistent on learning everything he could. It seemed to be his way of getting over the shock of his entire world being flipped upside down.\nAt times, it was a little annoying, especially since Westheimer hadn’t given much thought about himself being a warlock over the last several years. I spent all this time blending in with people who do not possess magic. I wanted to get away from it. I wanted to use it for something else, something good, and yet I also hate it at times.\nHe had hunted ghosts, werewolves, vampires, and even his own people. Witches and warlocks like himself, who still practiced gruesome human sacrifices and hunted people for their organs to use in potions. Those horrific rituals were what pushed him away from his witch family.\nThe book of photographs on his desk were all that remained of his time with his blood family. For the longest time, he never understood why he kept them. Was it a reminder of why he left? Possibly. The very first photograph in the book was of him as a small boy with his parents. His father was smiling a little bit, but his mother wore no expression. She was young, but she was beginning to turn gnarled and haggard from years of using dark magic. Granted, she was no necromancer, but she still held contempt for people with no magical abilities. She saw them as tools to further her talent as a witch. Nothing more.\nHis entire family was like that. After watching innocent people be brutally maimed and slaughtered for annual rituals and ingredient harvesting, Westheimer had enough. The screaming and pleading burned itself into his memory, and so he ran, taking what little he had in terms of belonging. He couldn’t be a part of that anymore.\nThere were photos of some of his relatives. His older sister, older brother, and younger sister. He had no idea how they were doing. All he knew was that he left them behind. All of them. His siblings, his parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents.\nThe question on his mind was whether or not he regretted it. They were terrible people, but they were still his relatives. Did he owe them any sense of loyalty?\nHe stared at the photo of him, his parents, and his siblings. This wasn’t a perfect family. It was missing something, something obvious just by looking at it.\nLove. Westheimer couldn’t recall one instance of someone within his family saying that they loved each other, and he certainly never felt it. The only time he had ever felt love was when he met and courted his wife. He felt love when his two daughters were born. There was no love in his original blood family. There was just . . . existence. Sharing in the blood and gore of the harvest rituals and the foul, burning smells of toxic potions.\nHe kept staring at the photographs. That’s all they were to him. A reminder of what he didn’t want to be. A reminder of why he ran away and tried to start anew, tried to assimilate into the cultures of people without magic. He succeeded. He found a new family, and yet he still felt tied to his old one. He had been trying to figure out why for years. He wasn’t afraid of them finding him—he knew they didn’t care, but they would take revenge if he showed up at their village.\nTheir vileness still appeared in his mind, and at times he wondered if he would ever be able to feel like he let them go.\nThere was a knock at the door. Sighing, Westheimer said, “Who is it?”\n“Corporal Viermitz, sir,” a young man’s voice replied. “Sergeant Plundell would like to speak with you.”\nWestheimer couldn’t believe that Plundell had trudged across the snowy landscape of the prison yard to see him. “Let him in.”\nThe door opened, and Plundell walked in. The door closed behind him, and he nervously looked at a chair, shivering. “Sir? I hope I’m not interrupting anything—”\n“You may have a seat, son,” Westheimer said. “I am surprised you decided to come here despite the weather.”\n“I couldn’t focus on anything else. Everyone . . . still doesn’t want to talk about the ghost in the radio, even though that was over a month ago.”\n“Why would anyone want to discuss it? This problem was resolved.” Westheimer looked Plundell in the eye. “Or, perhaps, no one wants to discuss it because it was traumatizing. I am sure you would not appreciate people constantly asking you about what had occurred in Italy.”\nPlundell looked down at the floor, paling. “No, sir, I wouldn’t want that.”\n“Exactly.” Westheimer glanced back down at the photo album. “Now, what are you hoping to learn today?”\n“If you don’t mind, something personal. You mentioned a while back that you left your original home because you were different to other witches and warlocks. What did you mean by that?”\n“Exactly what I told you. I have nothing in common with them aside from the fact that I can perform spells and brew potions.” Westheimer kept staring at the album. “Remember I told you not to go looking for more people like me, because not all of them are friendly. When I say that, I mean many of them are nothing short of evil.”\nHe had been looking at a portrait of his parents. The picture was unusual because they were smiling. A dull ache started in his chest. To anyone else, this picture seemed so normal. Two regular people, a happy couple. But underneath, they’re bloodthirsty killers. They care nothing of others aside from their own kin, other witches and warlocks. “Everyone is a tool to them, and from an early age, they’re taught to kill, to maim. Not to defend themselves, but so they can have control.” Westheimer’s face heated up as tears threatened to choke him. “Nothing else drives them but control. They know nothing of love or forgiveness or common human decency!” In a fit of rage, he slammed shut the album, and shoved it off his desk.\nPlundell was frozen in place, terrified. His eyes flicked back and forth between Westheimer and the album on the floor. The book had opened to a picture of Westheimer and his wife on their wedding day.\nShivering, Westheimer covered his face. He drew in a ragged breath, the ache in his chest morphing into a pulsing pang of loneliness, uncertainty, regret, and guilt. “I left because I did not want to be a part of that culture anymore.”\nPlundell was silent for another moment. He moved to pick up the album, but decided against it. He kept looking at the picture of Westheimer and his wife. “I’m sorry I asked, then.”\n“Do not be sorry. I have yet to address why I have kept some of the pictures in that damn book.” Westheimer gave a nervous laugh. “It is quite a stupid thing to be upset over.”\n“I don’t think it is. My mother wasn’t close to her parents because they didn’t approve of my father. She kept pictures of them all over the house, and every time she looked at them, I could sense they didn’t bring her any joy. They weighed heavily on her, because of how she had been treated after announcing my father asked her to marry him. The house had been bombed in one of the Blitz attacks, and she lost those pictures. When she and Father moved out to the countryside, she . . . changed. She was happier, despite losing what little connection she had to her parents.” Plundell reached over the desk to touch Westheimer’s arm. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I have an idea.”\n“Be grateful your mother did not have to watch people die because your cousin was in need of a liver for a potion.”\nThe room was silent aside from the snowy winds battering the windows and outside walls. Plundell let out a sigh before saying, “You know, everyone else in the camp was afraid of you because you seemed so bitter and angry. Now, I understand your bitterness. You haven’t moved on from your own demons.”\n“These are demons that are hard to walk away from, because on one hand, it does not seem right to erase memories of the people who gave you life and raised you.”\n“They’re not your family if they didn’t love you.” Plundell looked again at the pictures of Westheimer’s wife and daughters. “I hate to pry, but you seem to have made a point with surrounding yourself with your missus and daughters.”\n“My wife helped me feel human. We love each other.”\n“I take it you never told your parents about her.”\n“No. I ran away, and I will not go back to them.” A chill moved down Westheimer’s spine. “They would kill her.”\n“Isn’t that reason enough to get rid of those pictures?”\nThe young sergeant had a point. Westheimer swore years ago that anyone who threatened the safety of his wife and children would get no mercy from him. When his sons-in-law proved they were good to his daughters, he swore to protect them, too, and that included protection from his own relatives. Marriage to a person who didn’t possess any abilities in sorcery was forbidden. Given that he had been an outcast for several years when he married Anneli, Westheimer wasn’t one to care about the rules of the witches anymore.\n“Could you hand me that album, please?” Westheimer asked.\nWithout a word, Plundell picked up the photo album. He handled it tenderly, afraid of damaging the aging paper and pictures inside.\n“Thank you.” Westheimer took the album, looking at the photograph it had been opened to. It had been taken in the autumn of 1921. He was only 30, but he was already using a cane for his limp acquired in World War I. He and his bride weren’t looking at the camera, but at each other, grinning gleefully, noses touching. It was there where Westheimer felt more like a human being and less like a monster, like he could use his magic to protect and heal instead of destroy and terrify. For the first time in his life, he felt loved.\nWhen he looked at the pictures of his parents and extended family, he suddenly felt cold and disgusted.\n“You’ve helped me with my trauma, sir, I think I should repay the favor,” Plundell said, taking the picture of Westheimer’s parents from its little sleeve in the album. He walked over to the fireplace, placed an extra log inside, and dropped the photograph in the flames. The picture, already fragile from age, burned to ash quickly. Plundell then turned to face Westheimer, looking somewhat afraid that he may have overstepped a boundary.\nTaking a breath, Westheimer looked back down at the album. I need to stop thinking about this and act. I will never move on if I let these festering links stay in my life. I have a new family now. He pulled the rest of the photographs of his blood family from the album, then took his cane to limp over to the fireplace. Staring into the flames, he held his hand over them, and let the pictures flutter down. The faces burned and disappeared, and with them went Westheimer’s feelings of allegiance to them.\nThe two stood, gazing into the fire, deep in thought. Plundell turned to Westheimer. “I didn’t want to make any decisions for you, but—”\nWestheimer held up his hand. “If you did not, I probably would have stood there for hours debating whether or not this was right, like I have been doing for the last thirty-four years.”\n“It’s not easy. My mother was the same way. The only difference was that she was close to her parents growing up. They raised her well, but they didn’t approve of Father.”\n“What was it they did not approve of?”\n“He had been homeless at one point. He was stable when they met, but my grandparents thought he wouldn’t be capable of taking responsibility.” Plundell let out a thoughtful sigh. “I learned a lot from Father. He said being homeless taught him a lot about being grateful and hopeful. No matter how hard things were, he never gave up. I took that with me when I was conscripted into the army.” Plundell looked down at the floor. “I gave up in Italy, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if we end up on bad terms when I go home.”\n“From what I was told, you did not have a choice. The rest of your platoon was gone, and you were the only survivor. To keep fighting would be suicide.”\nPlundell suddenly looked distant. “I had been with those men since North Africa. In some ways, they had become a family. I would have died for them if I knew what was going to happen.”\nWestheimer took the poker hanging from a hook on the side of the fireplace to push one of the photographs back into the heart of the fire. All that remained of them was ash. “That sense of loyalty is what many witch families lack. The deeper into dark magic they are, the more selfish they tend to be.”\n“My mother has thought about reconciling with her parents, but she’s not sure.”\n“There will be no reconciliation with mine. They will murder me as soon as I set foot back in the village. That, and my parents are very old by now. There is not much of a point.” Westheimer looked at Plundell from the corner of his eye. “Witches take grudges seriously. The last thing you want to do is mess around with them, because you could have a particularly nasty curse set upon you, or one of those damn poltergeists sent to mess with you.”\n“Human families can be pretty bitter, too, but at least we’re not capable of that.” Plundell glanced out the window. The camp had been enveloped in a whiteout. “I guess that makes us more similar than we realize.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: No Thicker Blood\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1359\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters’ different perspectives of the same past event."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "They say blood is thicker than water, but would it be enough? The end of the civil war was an interesting time for the Carson family, picking up the pieces of a forgotten childhood, a time when the only thing worth fighting over was Mama’s biscuits.\nKurt paced the parlor floor anxiously waiting for his brothers return, he earnestly wanted to reconnect with his little brother Jake, but still he felt betrayed, growing up they were rarely separated, and when war broke out, his brother left the farm to side with the Union, something he still struggled to understand, how could Jake leave every thing they had worked so hard for? And for what purpose?\nHe couldn’t hate his own flesh and blood, yet still he was very uncomfortable, and would probably never see his brother in the same light ever again, for four years they fought opposing sides, often times on the same battlefield, firing at each other, he had heard Jake was wounded several times, and often wondered if any were the cause of his own bullets, and how would Jake see him after all this time?\n“Kurt Carson, Stop pacing! You’ll wear a hole into the rug, your brother said he would be here with the eleven O’clock train, stop worrying, he wouldn’t have agreed to come if he didn’t want to see you, it can only mean good things”\nKurt shrugged and gave his wife a half of a smile “You’re right of course, but I’m afraid of how I will react, I can’t get over his betrayal, I’m not sure I ever will. Why did he do it?”\nMaggie looked thoughtful “Only Jake can answer that, now sit down and hold the baby a moment, I need to make sure the meal is prepared” she gently laid their daughter in his arms and stepped into the kitchen saying as she went “This war has torn apart many families, but not everyone is reconciling, we can only hope for the best and offer forgiveness if any good is to come of it”\nJake looked at his watch for the hundredth time, he hadn’t slept well since he received his brothers invitation to return home, and even the lull of the train did nothing to ease his nerves, He was surprised Kurt, was even willing to see him, he knew his brother would never understand why he chose the Union, and felt betrayed by his actions, but Jake knew in his mind he had done what he thought was right, Kurt sided with the confederacy fighting for his rights, but Jake felt those rights were nothing, if denied to half the population because of skin color, he read and reread the missive in his hands trying to see if there was hidden motive in between the lines, but couldn’t find any in the simple request.\nDear Jake,\nI hope this missive finds you well, too much time has passed between us, and I hope to reconcile our differences, I’m not sure I will understand why you fought for the Union, but you are my brother and deserve to have a say in your defense, please consider coming home if only for a short visit, I would love for you to meet my wife Maggie, and your little niece Jane. I only wish to see you well and whole, and maybe we can put the past behind, and resolve to only let the future give us new opportunities to build new memories.\n Your Brother Kurt\nJake folded up the letter and put it back in his pocket, recognizing the lay of the land as the train slowed to a stop, he tried to erase the memories of battle that still haunted him, and replace it with memories of Kurt and him going off to school or helping their Pa in the field.\nPasting on a mirthless smile, he stepped off the train and headed for the old homestead, the closer he got the slower his steps became, he kept telling himself to turn back, to start a new life, and forget the past, and move on, but his legs kept trudging forward till he found himself walking up the little path to the front door, he raised his hand to knock on the sideboard, but before he knew what was happening the door swung open, and two big arms pulled him into a bear hug, and he saw Kurt smiling at him, Jake hung his head bashfully\n“Hiya Kurt, it…It’s good to see you, looks like you came out okay, I…I, was always worried it’d be one of my minnie balls sending you to the great beyond, don’t think I coulda lived with myself”\nKurt looked at Jake, and suddenly nothing else mattered, he was just so happy to see his little brother alive and well.\n“Lil’ Brother It’s so good to see you, welcome home!”\nIntroductions were made, and Jake gingerly held his little niece, not sure what to make of things but relieved nonetheless, they talked for hours of times past, and when the initial ice had broken, they began to talk of their time in the war.\n“There I was at the top of the hill, fighting for my life, my unit all around me, surrounded by the confederate army, all I could see was gray for what seemed like miles, I could see the Virginia flag in the distance and knew you were there, and I prayed I would not see you face to face, it felt wrong to fire on what was most likely my neighbors, but I also had a duty to see all men free and if it meant I was to die, then I was ready, Kurt I loved our country too, I still do, but not at the price of slavery, the Union wanted to make all men free, and I wanted to be apart of that, I only wish the shedding of blood was unnecessary, but on the battlefield, I quickly learned it was kill or be killed, every man who went under my bayonet and rifle, I prayed their forgiveness, and avoided looking at their faces”\nKurt sighed he understood Jake to a degree, but he still felt strongly against the government for forcing their hand to make all comply “I remember that day well, though I didn’t know you were there till the battle was over. I was glad we were pushing the Union back, and every battle we won, I thought would be the last, I confess I didn’t feel a thing for my enemy, all I wanted was to end the bloody madness, and prove the south didn’t need the government telling us what to do, I knew you were in several of those battles but I chose to ignore the fact, I thought if I could keep pretending you weren’t there it would be easier, I became blind to my rage, I saw all their faces and the agony, but I was numb to their suffering, it was just one less man to contend with and one more victory for Virginia, I was hurt by your betrayal, I wanted you by my side, not facing me, but when I ended up in the hospital my life hanging by a thread, I knew I could never hate you, I understood you had to make your own choice, as I did mine… Maggie has helped me see that, I only want to put this all behind us and move on, Maggie and I are hoping to convince you to stay”\nJake listened, letting his brother vent and say his piece, he understood his hurt, but holding onto that rough part of their past, did nothing for either of them, it was best to just forgive and forget, with a smile he firmly shook his brothers hand “I would be happy to stay as long as you’ll have me”\nMaggie smiled from the doorway of the kitchen, happy tears filling her eyes as she hugged her infant close and whispered in her ear “There is no blood thicker in all of Virginia than Carson blood”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Dreaming As Wars Go By\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1644\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who yearns for something they lost, or never had."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The fire was low and the noise outside the school was getting louder.\n“Alice!” A frantic girl called. Alice looked up, hardly flinching as the windows and floor rattled under the shockwave of a shell landing. “They need you in the office! They’re performing an amputation!” Her French accent mangled the English words, fear thickening it. \nAlice swallowed hard and gestured to the soldier in front of her. “Take over here, Lucette.” She passed over the roll of bandages and dipped her hands in a bowl of cold, red water. She dried her hands on her apron and hurried to the office. \nIt used to be the place where the Headmistress conducted her business but it was now where soldiers who needed amputations were taken. The plaque that read Mme. Toussaint still inspired fear in Alice, but now it was a very different kind.\nAs she walked, another shell landed and several soldiers began to scream, their eyes bright with fevers and shock. Alice hurried over and pushed one older man down. \n“Lieutenant Crane, it’s alright!” She promised, pushing him down to the bed. “You’re safe, you’re safe. Belinda!” She called over the harried looking young woman. “I’m needed in the operating room!” \nBelinda nodded and hurried over, taking over in soothing the distressed men.\nAlice stepped towards the office and paused outside the door, taking a moment to smooth her hair back. Her eyes caught on the looking glass that hung across from the door. An adult looked back at her. But that couldn’t be—\n“Is she here yet?!” The doctor called. \nShe shook her head. No time for that when lives were on the line. \n\n\nThe girls' dorms had been changed. No longer was it two girls to a room; now it was four. The rest of the rooms were for soldiers to sleep in. That night, Alice was last to her room. She stepped inside and closed the door, taking care to lock it. She slipped off her shoes and hung her apron up where coats and hats had once gone. Next she unbuttoned her skirt and slipped it off, hanging it over the bed frame along with her shirt. Then came her bandeau, and then her girdle. She pulled on her nightgown. It was too small, and had been for nearly a year now. She had had to let the shoulder seams out twice, and it was now hitting the middle of her calf instead of her ankles. \nShe let her hair out of the bun, fluffing her hands through the brown strands. Her follicles ached, which she had never really felt before the war began. \nThe clock on the mantle softly chimed half past midnight. \nEven though Alice was tired, drop dead—well, maybe not that tired—even, she still wasn’t quite ready for bed. \nShe knelt on the cold wood floor and reached under her bed. From underneath, she pulled out a box. It was once a hatbox, and it used to hold her fine day hat, from when they used to take trips to the local town. But that hat was long gone, repurposed for what, Alice couldn’t remember. Instead, the box held her dearest childhood memories.\n\n\nBy the window, Alice used the moonlight to see. \nIn the box was a rabbit. A white rabbit with a red waistcoat, and a pocket watch that no longer worked. Alice stroked a hand over its ears and fur with a tender smile. She hugged it, a tear dripping down her cheek to its head. Underneath the rabbit were her drawings. \nHedgehogs and flamingos as parts of a croquet game. A fat striped cat with a wide grin and pulsing eyes. A flower with a face. A doormouse in a teacup bath. She had even made an origami tart that said Eat Me. \nAlice pressed her fingers to them, her heart aching. She missed the little girl who drew them. The same one that hummed about crocodiles and caterpillars and Tweedles. But that little girl wasn’t safe anymore. \n“A very merry unbirthday to me,” Alice whispered, promising herself that she would be that Alice again. This would not be the end of her childhood; just a hiccup. “A very merry unbirthday to me. To who? To me.” \nShe repacked the box, laying the pictures in one by one, with the rabbit carefully placed back on top. She swept her gaze over the windowsill and the floor around her, positive that she had missed one. Then she remembered, and closed the box. It was gone. She put the box back under the bed and slipped between her covers. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she dreamed of riddling cards and teas and rabbits late for croquet. The next morning, she gave up the drawing of the Doormouse to help build the fire. \n\n\n“Alice!” \n“I’m coming, Doctor!” Alice hurried, her arms full of freshly dried linens. Her hands moved with ease, tying and tearing and binding. She unwrapped a soldier’s eyes and handed him a small piece to dry his tears and blow his nose on. She helped little Meg—no longer so little, really—with dressing a soldier’s gangrenous stump and sent her to bed. She found three dead soldiers and called for the priest to come send them on. She washed linens until her hands were ready to crack and ate a dinner that hardly made a dent in her aching stomach. \nIn her room, she pulled out her rabbit and her drawings, and stood by the last little bit of twilight to look at them. \nThat night, she dreamed of walruses and cabbages and white roses being painted red as blood and a rabbit playing The Last Post. The next day, she tore the drawing of the croquet game into tiny strips for the officers to write on for the messenger pigeons. \n\n\n“Alice!”\n“I’m hurrying!” Alice wiped her hands and ran to attend. She handed tools and wiped foreheads. She disposed of organs and tied sutures. She ran from the school to the encampment with verbal messages and fed pigeons. She fixed uniforms and ran the laundry back. She washed dishes and assembled guns. She gave up her drawing of the Cheshire Cat to a soldier who needed to write a goodbye to his family and the origami tart to an officer who wanted to write his will. Her hands were shaking and sore by the time she was sent to bed. \nHer head hit the pillow and she dreamed of heads rolling and roses dripping with blood. Of cards ripped in half and a cat hanging.\n\n\nHer hands were bleeding. The harsh soap and bleach used to clean the bandages dried the hands worse than any winter wind could hope to. But the only thing she could do was rub grease from cooking over them in hopes that her hands wouldn’t be totally ruined. Her mother had once said that Alice’s hands were a lady’s hands. \nThey still would be after, Alice hoped. But right now, she needed them to be a laundress’ hands, a cook’s hands, a nurse’s hands. Who had time for being a lady when there were bandages to wash, potatoes to peel, and soap to make?\nAlice tied her hair back again and went to work. She memorized messages to take from the doctor to the camp officers, recited Bible and Torah passages to dying soldiers. She fed blind soldiers their dinners and helped dig graves down by the river. She hauled buckets of water and pumped more. She typed letters of condolences and forged officers’ signatures on them. \nAt the end of the day, she fell into bed and dreamed of screaming flowers and oysters smashed under foot and voices howling “OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!” all in the same pitch as shells hitting the ground.\n\n\nThe train whistle blew. Alice leaned out the window, waving goodbye to her headmistress and classmates. The war was over and it was time for Alice to go home.\n“Au revoir!” She called. “Au revoir!” \nMeg ran with the train to the end of the platform, waving Alice’s last drawing; the one of a flower with a face.\n“Au revoir!” Meg cried. “Jusqu'à ce que nous nous rencontrions à nouveau!” \nAlice waved until the train rounded the bend. “Until we meet again,” she echoed. \nAt long last, she was leaving France and going home. Home was no longer London, but a small town called Rye, in East Sussex. The Alice that would arrive there was not the little girl that London had seen off to France in 1938. This Alice was taller, older, and quieter. \n\n\nIn her new room, Alice sat on the bed with her rabbit. A toy she had once spent hours carrying around, talking to, bringing to life with stories and songs and memories of Wonderland. Now, it was just a toy in a threadbare waistcoat and a child’s pocket watch. \nFunny, Alice thought. It had seemed so much bigger when she first bought it. She looked at it again. What had once taken up most of her palm now only took up the same amount of space as a single hundred pence coin. \n“It’s time,” Alice said out loud as she stood up. “To put away childish things.” She calmly placed the rabbit in the box. As she looked down at the rabbit, her eyes began to burn. Slowly, Alice sank to her knees. Her shaking hands lost hold of the box and it tumbled to the floor, spilling the toy. Alice clawed at the floor and yanked it into her arms as she wailed, burying her face in the fur. \nHer parents rushed inside and began to ask what was wrong, holding her and murmuring questions and comforting words. But all Alice could do was scream into her toy, begging her childhood to come back."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Nostalgia\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1009\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character looking through an old family photo album."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "When I go through my dad's photo album and come across his photos while he was serving in the Royal Canadian Navy, November 11 has a special meaning. you see my dad served his country during the Cuban Missile Crisis\nMy Dad's Navy Service During The Cuban Missile Crisis\nDuring 1961 President Kennedy visited Ottawa and gave a speech in The House of Commons \"Geography has made us neighbors. History has made us friends. Economics has made us partners, and necessity has made us allies.\"(1)\nMy dad served on the HMCS Bonaventure, the Royal Canadian Navy's flagship. After World War 2 her hull was taken to Harland & Wolff Shipyard in Belfast Ireland. If this company sounds familiar to you it should. Harland and Wolff is the company that built the infamous RMS Titanic. The Bonaventure was to be updated to a Majestic Subclass Carrier equipped with anti-submarine warfare technologies or ASW for short. She steamed through the Atlantic Ocean with her 4 Admiralty 3 drum boilers and could maintain a maximum speed of 24.5 knots\nHow Did the Cuban Missile Crisis Begin?\nThe Cuban Missile Crisis began on October 14, 1962. The Kennedy's Administration failed miserably in the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961. After the failed attempt to overthrow Castro, the Soviet Union began to support his communist regime by sending over 20,000 Russian advisors.\nRumors' were working their way through the Kennedy's Administration suggesting that Russia was providing them with medium range ISBMs. The ISBM could be retrofitted with nuclear warheads. This was a serious threat to the United States. Cuba was only 90 miles away. They could reach all the way to the west coast reigning destruction on the American citizens.. This was a concern for the Canadian Government as these missiles can reach Canada.\nCanadian Maritime Command became alarmingly concerned when reports started flooding in to headquarters in Halifax, Nova Scotia.\nIn the United States NORAD went to a Defcon 3.\nU2 spy planes were sent over Cuba for reconnaissance missions. During these missions they were photographing missile build up in that country.\nThe Kennedy Administration reached out to Ottawa for help in the Atlantic Ocean\n\nBeing a young male at an age of 21 he was more interested in the local bar scene with his buddies. then the current events at that time.\n24 October 1962, the HMCS Bonaventure was given her sailing orders.\nAt that time he had no idea about the seriousness of this crisis or what was involved.\nMy dad was on shore leave at the time the orders were issued. They were docked at a port in North Carolina, United States. Him and his buddies were enjoying refreshments at the local bar. The Master Sea Man approached them and issued their orders.\n\"Gentlemen, shore leave has been cancelled.. Report back to the Bonny for further instructions.\"\n\"What is going on?\" dad asked.\n\"Sorry.\" The Master Seaman replied. \"Need to know basis only.\"\nMy dad looked at his buddies and asked out load, \"I wonder what is going on?\"\nHis buddy replied, \"who knows.\"\nAs soon as they boarded the Bonny her klaxon alarms sounded. \"Yellow alert, yellow alert\" \"All hands action stations.\"\n\"This is the Captain speaking.\"\n\"We have received orders from Halifax Maritime Command. Rendezvous with destroyer escorts and we will head to the Northwest Atlantic. We will be participating in a anti-submarine surveillance operation known as ORTSAC. Our orders, create a anti-submarine net. To discourage the Soviet Union Navy from assisting Cuba on it's nuclear arms build up.. Part of our orders includes listening to communications from Russian fishing trawlers and merchant vessels. That is all for now.\"\nThe engineering room reported the ships readiness for battle\nDad, double timed his pace to his station on the Bonny's flight deck were he worked as signals person. Assisting ASW aircraft taking off and landing. This includes the Banshee jet fighter planes that also assisted in the naval exercise.\nThe sonar radar operators put their headsets on and began. The radar glowed with a greenish color. A yellow horizontal line rotated in a clockwise rotation. Any time a contact was made the radar would see it as dots. The operators were required to take notes on when a contact was made, when, were, and what type of submarine class it was. Radar operators were aware of three types of Soviet subs. The ultra quiet \"Foxtrot\", \"Golf\", and \"Zulu\" class.\nLots of contacts were made but the Liberal Diefenbaker Government covered it up so as not alarm the Canadian Public.\nHowever, tensions between the two superpowers escalated when, on October 27, 1962, U2 spy plane pilot, Rudolf Anderson Junior was piercing the stratosphere with his plane. His mission was to take photos of the missile silos that were in Cuba. He was shot down and killed that day. His death saved millions of lives during the height of the cold war.\nConclusion\nSoviet leader Nikita Khrushchev came to his senses. He recalled the warships back to Moscow. The missiles in Cuba were removed and dismantled the missiles.\nThe Cuban missile crisis taught the United States what containment felt like.\nAfter the crisis, a hot line link was established between Washington and Moscow.\nCuba stopped America from bothering it.\nAmerican government dismantled nuclear missile sites in Turkey.\nChina stopped being allies with the Soviet Union.\nFor the first time since World War II, the U.S. has been a military superpower, it had never faced a nuclear threat close to it's borders.\nIt was a tense three weeks in October of 1962. The world came very close to a nuclear war. Canadian school students were practicing their drills by hiding underneath their desks.\nTo this day my Dad was afraid how close we came to nuclear annellation. I feel proud that my dad did his part to save us from this awful destruction.\nThat is all for now. I hope you enjoyed this version of the Cuban missile crises.\nWade Ritter\nW.A. Ritter\nComing Soon, Author, The Women Behind The Manhattan Project"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Ciqәne\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1015\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who yearns for something they lost, or never had."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Ciqәne\nCiqәne sat cross-legged as he gazed into the fire flaming before him. The dancing shadows it cast around him in the darkness reminded him of his inexpressible grief at the loss of his grandmother. Thoughts of her brought tears to his eye, that never managed to spill over. The lump in his throat did not change the stern expression on his chiseled brown face. His eyes closed and he saw her dancing again. Her legs had long lost the lithe of youth, yet with soft footsteps, she moved to the rhythm of songs from times past. Songs that only she heard as she mumbled the song’s words in a language that only she was able to speak or understand. \nHer village had dwindled one person at a time, until there were six elderly couples remaining. His grandfather had been tall and strong, even in old age, and was always telling the younger ones to learn as much in school as they could. When Ciqәne would go with his mom to visit the village, these school children would interpret for him and his grandfather. When Grandfather would take a group to teach how to fish or track, he always had some hard questions to ask. When Ciqәne would answer he ‘did not know’, his grandfather would say: ‘What you don’t know would fill a whole new world’ and chuckle to himself. \nGradually, these children had moved out of the village to go to school or to find good paying jobs. No one wanted to worry about the elders being at risk of health or life issues. These busy relatives had been the ones to force the final migration of the tribal remnants away from their homeland, culture and proud heritage. They took all connections with them. There was no one to leave contact information with. When his grandfather died, his mom had told Grandma she could not stay there alone. She had insisted it was better that she come live in safety. The village had simply died when the last elders left and no one from subsequent generations came to replace them. His mom had passed by once and sadly reported that nearby non-Native American townspeople with homes and businesses had moved in like weeds into a vacant lot. No one was there or willing to come back and fight for the government given land title.\nGrandma had come to live with them. There were times without warning, Grandma, would be inspired by something she saw or a distant memory to start dancing, a faraway look in her eyes. Being very young he thought this was great fun and would mimic her movements. He would cuddle up next to her when she grew tired of her dancing efforts and sat down. He would hug her tightly. She would look into his eyes and smile, saying his. It had always made him feel like he was the most important person in the world. Sometimes, it was as if she saw someone else there, but he could not ask her, who it was. He had not learned the tribal language, never having lived around people who spoke it. She spoke little English and spent much of her time crafting blankets, sitting by the fire. She hardly spoke at all. The words she needed were unavailable making her mute. There was nothing to be gained by it.\nWhen he was older and it became important to him, he sought for connection to his heritage. It was too late. He found it was only Grandma who spoke the tribal language fluently. His mother knew only a few words, remembered from early childhood. That was before she went to the small one room missionary school house, then later on to the distant public schools. Her older brother had died and her older sister had run away and was thought to be dead or at least dead to her family. The village was empty, without any means to even contact anyone to let Grandma to talk, who knew how to converse with her. There were only useless phrases in research book written by professors at universities far away. She still smiled when he hugged her and was happiest when he came home and took her for walks in parks. He always went through and picked up the trash beforehand. If he forgot, Grandma would spend their time together gathering the litter.\nCiqәne had chosen Environmental Science as his major, he felt compelled to preserve the land as it might have been for his forefathers, before the land was ‘discovered’. He was frustrated that not many people were sincerely concerned about this unrenewable resource. Trash, garbage, waste and pollution were a part of everyday life. Somehow, he felt close to his grandma when he worked on finding waste management solutions. This was deeply satisfying work, even if it meant that he had to pick up trash himself.\nHis mother had called him at his university graduate student apartment early in the morning, one day last week. She softly let him know Grandma had died and he should come home for memorial services that weekend. He suddenly felt hollow. That was it; the last thread was broken. There was nothing left, to anchor him to a family history tradition or people. Although he had the mark of his tribe with his name, Ciqәne: a racoon. His grandma had given him the name. Why she had given it or what it had meant to her, even his mom said she had never asked. Now, she was gone and with her enough answers to questions he did not know, to fill a whole new world.\nHe stared at the dancing flames a few minutes more. He sighed, scooted backwards to lift himself onto the armchair, removed the headband holding back shoulder length black straight hair and placed it beside the framed picture of Grandma. beside him on the small table. Standing, he flipped the light switch on and turned off the gas burning ceramic log in the fireplace. He stretched and shuffled off to bed."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Legend of the Canair Bells\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1297\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character saying “Listen, …”"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Listen… I’ve discerned a pattern.”\nA small group stood in the shadow of the church, at Canair, listening to James, the caretaker.\n“I first heard the bird’s call the morning of the baby Aiden’s christening.”\nThe widow, called Mad Agnes, spoke. “The bird didn’t bring the Christening.”\nSeveral moaned, “Oh, I pray not an omen…”\n“Of course not. Father Ambrose says a healthy baby is from God. No one disputes that. After many difficult months, that bright faced baby, truly is a gift. The bird heralded that.” That calmed them. “But I didn’t heed it until this week. In the gathering storm, I heard it again.”\nThe crowd murmured.\nJames tried to imitate the bird’s call.\nSweeny, the publican, said, “It sounds like ‘gardyloo.’” Everyone laughed at what town maids yell, when tossing night-water into the street.\nSomeone said, “Doves foretell disaster.”\n“Or a plover?”\n“This ain’t no dove. And I think it’s a boon.”\n“A stork?”\n“Never saw a stork here. This is large.” He spread his arms to indicate the bird’s wing span. “Don’t storks have long beaks?”\nMad Agnes said, “Keep storks from my house.” Everyone laughed. She wanted no more christenings.\nHer man died years before. Some said, after eight kids, t’was small wonder. And the twins came months after he passed. Village gossips always speculated. Were they late? Or early?\nSweeny asked, “Did the bird call from Higgins’ oak?” James nodded. Sweeny shook his head and muttered under his breath.\nThe recent storm toppled the Higgins’ ancient oak tree and exposed a canvas sack in the tree’s tangled roots, filled with gold coins. \nWord traveled fast. Everyone heard about, but few saw such a fortune. Some thought it must be pirate’s treasure. Why raiders would venture so far inland remained a mystery. A rumor the coins were Roman, made some think the druids buried them.\nHiggins’ clan kept to themselves. But when hooligans dug up their yard, seeking more loot, they withdrew all the more.\nFor some, a strange bird calling from the oak’s crest, before the burgeoning storm, put sense to these occurrences.\nAn eerie sound drew their eyes to the bell tower.\nPeople gasped and pointed. “Listen! Look! It’s there!”\nFlapping broad wings from atop the roof ridge, the bird called out. James was right. Iridescent feathers shimmered in red and green. A single feather floated to earth.\nSeveral ran to it.\nJames called out. “Don’t touch!” They recoiled in fear. “It might be cursed.”\nSweeny pulled his rifle from beneath his duster, and aimed.\n“Don’t!” James lunged. Women screamed at the report. Smoke filled the yard. The echo faded. The bell rang out.\nThe bird spread its wings and flew off, unharmed. Men tackled Sweeny, pinning him to the ground.\n“I had him in my sights!”\n“Aiming isn’t hitting.”\nFather Ambrose charged out of the chapel and strode into their midst.\n“Who dares fire at my church?”\nSweeny stood and sloughed off his restraints. His rifle lay harmless at his feet.\nAmbrose got into Sweeny’s face. “Are you mad? Whose tool are you?”\n“That bird is the devil’s messenger, Father. I acted on your behalf.”\n“Shooting does me no favors. ‘Take refuge beneath his wings.’ Did you never hear, ‘No weapon formed against you shall prosper’?” He spun to see who stood by. “The devil cannot touch me, lest you boost him.”\nSweeny looked down and kept his silence. No point in arguing with a priest.\nFather Ambrose leaned in. “All things are from God. It’s people who play the devil’s hand.” He gestured to the others. “You, who have spare time to gossip, would benefit from spending a bit more time inside.”\nPeople drifted off. Sweeny retrieved his weapon and left.\nHe said, “Drinks ‘round, on the house…”\nFr. Ambrose turned to James. “You’re not paid to spin tales in the church yard, James.”\n“Yes, Father. Of course.” He looked down. “I tried to explain omens and boons.”\n“Do you need direction?”\n“No Father… I know my job.”\n“You’ll do better attending to the task at hand.”\nJames nodded and returned to work.\n~\nBut James couldn’t forget the bird which entered their lives with such power. He spent his free time tracking it. He scanned the countryside from the belfry. It vanished for days and then reappeared, seemingly from nowhere.\nOne morning, he watched it. He noted its favored perches in the tall trees west of the village.\nJames planned. One dusk, the bird landed on a high limb. Its call echoed off the surrounding hills. Everyone heard it. They lay abed wondering what the morrow would bring.\nJames looked up and smiled. He pulled the dangling rope.\nThe next day, a young stranger entered the village bearing in large haversack on his shoulder. He had a familiar air but no one knew him. A few followed. Speaking to no one, he knew his way, directly to Mad Agnes’ house.\nAgnes screamed, dropped everything, and ran into his open arms. Ian, her eldest son, had finally returned. Gone to sea years before, he left to make his fortune. Few knew him. Most had forgotten him.\nAgnes never did. She always worried for lack of news.\nShe said, “I feared we lost you to the fiddler’s green.”\nHe comforted her, “I’m back now. And I’ll stay.”\nSome of her children had only worn hand-me-downs. Agnes brought the brood to the village and proudly introduced Ian to the shopkeepers. Happiness, never seen before, shone from her face. They now had food on the table. Agnes slept better that night than in years.\nThe mysterious bird seemed to have gone. For weeks, no one heard it calling.\n~\nThe Higgins looked at their yard, torn up by treasure hunters. The giant oak tree lay where it fell from the storm. They decided, with the tree cleared, they could expand their garden, and sell surplus produce in the village market.\nThey hired young men from the village to cut the huge tree into firewood. They had plenty to share with Father Ambrose. The two hardest workers stayed on, to tend the garden.\n~\nFr. Ambrose had an urgent task. He gave up looking for the elusive James, and set about finding a hammer. The tool shed door shrieked open and the good priest stood aghast at what he saw.\nThe great mysterious bird stared dolefully at Ambrose from the shed’s dark corner. Its bright feathers had dulled. James stood by with his mouth agape.\n“James, what have you done?”\n“I wanted to... I wanted it to sing for the whole village.”\n“But that’s completely wrong-headed.”\n“It hasn’t sung since I netted it.”\n“Free it then. The bird serves no more purpose here, than a key to a cat. Don’t you see?”\nJames unchained the bird. It hopped to the open door. No longer forlorn, its shimmering colors returned as it emerged into the sunshine. Wings beating, the bird went aloft, and soared away.\nJames never saw, or heard it again. He kept one secret feather in his room. Suspended from a loop of twine, its colors shifted, turning in the draft.\nLife in the village Canair carried on as it always had. The mysterious bird receded from memory. In the spring, rumors spread about a magical bird appearing in a neighboring village. Depending on who told the story, the bird either blessed or cursed the locals.\nSweeny chuckled at the trouble they received.\n~\nThe Higgins tithed to the church. Their contributions helped Fr. Ambrose fix the bell and add a second. Naysayers said it sounded off, and blamed the devil.\nBut the tower’s triplet notes from the double chimes reminded others of the bird’s mysterious call and beckoned them.\nThe two bells ring through the Canair glens, to this day."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Safest Place\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1049\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by a piece of music (without using any lyrics)."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Inspired by Led Zeppelin's \"No Quarter\"\n“Is daddy going to say goodnight?” My three-year old waits for my answer as I stroke his cheek with my hand. I can’t let him see me crying. \n“Not tonight, son.” I hear my voice tremble as I take in his expression. I try to memorize every part of this moment. His soft face and innocent eyes fill my heart with pain and joy. I pull him in for a hug and hold him tight. I don’t want him to worry. I hope he doesn’t notice me lingering, but mostly, I hope the embrace is not our last. \nI pull the quilt I’d made last winter up to his neck and kiss his forehead. No amount of blankets could keep tonight's cold at bay, but I will try to make him comfortable. Sleep is the safest place for him. I take the only blanket I’d left for myself from the chest at the foot of our bed and say a final goodnight to William. \nThe wind whistles through the empty fireplace as I step into the family room. I wrap myself in the blanket and turn my chair to face the door. There was no point in trying to sleep tonight with death so quickly approaching. \nI watch the exit carefully imagining how the night should have gone. The cold stew hanging above the wet logs would have been consumed hours ago when it was hot and steamy. It was lucky I’d found some left over bread or William might have gone to bed hungry. I could imagine my husband’s usual complements had he tasted the dinner I prepared, and picture the smile he reserves just for when his flattery makes my cheeks turn red. William would have been asleep by now after coming out of his room several times for one last goodnight. At this hour, I should be sitting with Joseph next to the fire trying to convince him to stay awake a little longer. I should be holding his thick, rough hand. \nI bury my face in the blanket as the tears begin to fall. I can’t stand the thought that he may not return. My chest aches as I muffle my sobs. It is a selfish thing to wish for us all to die together. The thought jolts me back to the present. I lift my head and wipe my nose. I cannot afford to keep crying. No sound is safe tonight. I hear howling and narrow my eyes. No amount of tears will return to me what has been stolen. \nI walk to the fire and remove the ladle from the stew before returning to my chair. I harden my face remembering what tonight actually brought. Hours ago, Thomas Hughes was knocking frantically at our door. Joseph rushed to answer it before it disturbed William’s nap. “What on earth is the matter?” \nThe boy answered quickly, “Vikings.” He rushed to the next door.\nThe word hung in the air as I struggled to make sense of the news. Joseph scooped a bucket of snow from the yard and doused the fire. My head was spinning. Joseph held my shoulders firmly in his hands to keep my knees from buckling. “You mustn’t draw attention while I’m gone.” His voice was steady.\n“But where--”\n“We must gather the men from the surrounding villages.” He pulled on his boots. “If our message does not reach them…” I put my hands over my mouth. I’d heard the stories. Vikings had no soul and they left none alive. He must have seen that I was about to fall. He wrapped his arms around me like a steel cage before stepping out the door. “Give my love to William.” That was the last I saw of him. \nI tighten the blanket around my shoulders and hold the ladle to my chest. His love I would give; and, if the time came, I’ll pay my life to avenge our son. \nThe cold is getting harder to ignore. Even with a blanket, my bones are aching. I wonder how far the men will get before winter claims their lives. I close my eyes and pray for Joseph’s safety. The words feel like a weak grasp at hope, but somehow it brings me closer to him. I can almost see his journey through the darkness. His chest aches with mine at the pressing need for success. He knows we will die without him and this keeps him moving forward. \nI imagine what he would say if he were with me. “Love never fails.” The voice is so real that I open my eyes expecting to see him, but it was just a memory. All the strength drains from my body realizing I may never actually hear him again. I let the ladle slip from my hand and crash to the floor. I doubt the phrase is true. Thousands have died by the same dogs that hunt us now, was there no love among them? How many wives have sat as I do now, waiting for the door to reveal their murderer and the murderer of their children?\nFootsteps startle me, but I recognize their pattern. “Sweetheart, what are you doing up?” I pull William and his thick blanket into my arms. \n“I’m cold, mommy.” I wrap as much warmth around him as I can manage. “Where’s daddy?”\nI swallow hard. “He’s marching.” Even as the words escape my lips, they feel empty. A tear rolls down my cheek and drops onto my shoulder. I know in my heart Joseph is gone. A few more howls ring through our window. They’re closer now. I pull my boy to my chest and cling to him. My mind races for a safe place to keep him, but I can think of none. “Try to get some rest.” I rock gently with him as I watch the door. I know what is coming, but what can be done?\nI let my head rest against William’s as I close my eyes. My body is too cold and tired to keep being afraid. I take several deep breaths and feel oddly calm as I drift away. Maybe the cold will claim us before the devils come. Sleep is the safest place for us."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Warrior\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1092\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with “Today’s the day I change.”"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Today’s the day I change.\nThe course of history. From mundane to exalted.\nThe hunchback has a very minute role in it. But I will give her due credit. For I know that the world is never kind to an ugly old woman giving clever advice.\nWhen the king walks into my royal chambers, he will find a stranger.\nA dishevelled woman lying on the floor who is beyond reason.\nThe reason that has been carefully formulated, calibrated and appropriated by men, made elusive to women. Even to the most intelligent and accomplished women.\nThat woman on the floor will remind him of the promise he had made her.\nThe first demand will jolt him out of his celebratory mood. The second one will turn my fragrant palace into a chamber of sorrows, for him.\nIt has been my burden to carry. Broken men and broken chariots.\n**\nThe lotus pond in my palace courtyard reflects the orange sun.\nI don’t recognise this woman on the floor, me. But I have been assured by Manthara, the only mother figure I have known all my life, this will work.\nThe chambermaid announces the king’s arrival. I cry unwillingly.\nThe king walks in. His happiness is hacked down by my sobs.\n“My beloved, what is the matter?” he stammers.\nI don’t answer right away. I make him wait. Till he looks wretched.\n“Oh, my queen, please tell me what is bothering you! I will do anything to make you happy”\nI half-open my eyes and sit up. I sense his desire to please me.\n“Will you do anything to make me happy?” I ask\nHis breath is back in his lungs now.\n“Do you doubt that?”\n“Are you sure?”\n“Yes. No one is dearer to me than you and Rama. The court has approved my proposal to anoint our eldest prince as king. I am extremely happy today! I swear on Rama, whatever you ask for shall be granted.”\n“YOUR eldest prince”, I say with a meanness new to me.\nThe king is taken aback, he counters,\n“Kaikeyi, what is the matter with you? You have always loved Rama as your son.”\n“Yes, I have, till now. Have you forgotten in your happiness the two boons you granted me on the battlefield?”\n“No, my dearest. How can I? They are yours to ask at any time”\nWhat I did in Dandaka forest as his charioteer was a child’s play for me. I slew a wild creature to save my seven brothers when I was a child. I grew up motherless and learnt every skill a princess should. And a prince should.\nThe king knew he had made the warrior princess his second queen. He had the good sense to value my counsel. He had the confidence to make me his charioteer in his campaigns.\nBut still, he was a man. He felt the need to feel superior. So, he granted me two boons for my child’s play.\nWhich I am going to wield against him now.\n“My first ask is Bharat should be made the king of Ayodhya!”\nThe king holds his head in his hands. He erupts,\n“How can this be? Rama is the eldest and is the rightful heir to the throne.”\n“Does that mean you are going back on your word?”, I dig in my heels.\nHe paces up and down and tries to convince me. I don’t back down. I might be his favourite queen. But I can’t let Kausalya become the queen mother.\nHe concedes and I ready my cudgels,\n“My second ask is Rama should be exiled to Dandaka forest for 14 years. He should live as an ascetic when in exile.”\nHe slumps to the ground. I stay my ground, undeterred.\nEverything that happens after this point is a blur. His repeated outbursts, appeals and wails fall on my cold armour.\nHe renounces me but stays in my palace. Till 6 days after Rama leaves the palace. Then he leaves this world. Changing me from a warrior to a villain.\nMy son Bharat jeers at me. Takes a vow saying he will never call me his mother again. My journey from a motherless infant to an abandoned mother is complete.\nBut that was not the history I was born for.\n**\nI was born to send men to face their destinies. I did it. Unflinchingly.\nSage Vasishta, the Head Priest of the Raghu dynasty. He knew how the destinies of father and son were going to unfold.\nWhen he knew that the king’s end is near, he came to me. He told me in a calm voice,\n“Oh Queen, the King was cursed by Shravan’s parents. He is to die without his children around to hold his hand. This is the only way he can go to heaven”\nI did not ask the good sage why he chose me over the other queens.\nI did what I always did. Take charge. Not by picking arms with my hand that was as strong as a diamond.\nTo take charge, I had to lie on the floor and plead, acting helpless. It took enormous strength to do so.\nNot just men. The destiny of Devas too hung on the outcome of my action.\nAs the asuras grew powerful in Dandaka and Lanka, the jittery Devas sent a message. Through the birds to my father. Through my father to Manthara.\nAsuras were reaching out to heaven.\nSomeone had to control them. It had to be a warrior. A man.\nBut to send him on that course had to be a woman, me.\nBlame looks good on a woman than an armour would.\nMuch as I loved Rama, I had to send him to the forest. To the sea. To the skies.\nI had to send him on a journey that would make him a revered deity from a mere prince.\nAnd change me:\nFrom a beloved to the despised, from a mother to a monster, from a warrior queen to a wicked woman.\nAt times I wonder, should I have kept my strengths hidden? Should I have just looked pretty, been meek and acted dumb?\nPerish the thought!\nI lent my hand as an axle to the wheel of the chariot on the battleground. And to the wheel of destiny in the cosmos.\nIt was never my destiny to be an adorable deity. It was always to be a fallen woman. But the warrior in me shall not back down till she gets her due.\nA rightful name in history."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Middknight's Cavalry\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1843\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during a sudden change of season."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "cw: violence\nLike lightning, Middknight’s cavalry never needed to strike twice.\nEleanor pulled the reins on her horse and cued him to turn. Hooves pushed into the field’s grass. They picked up speed, wind blowing her hair behind her, and Eleanor raised a stick to the air. Her makeshift sword—she would be the first woman from Middknight to ride a horse into battle.\nSomeday.\nUntil then, she found herself like every other woman training for the army. Atop a pegasus. A pure white, flying horse. One that could control the skies. The riders wore bright cyan-coloured jackets, lined with plates, a lion in mid-roar engraved on the right shoulder. The symbol of Middknight.\nEleanor could not find her balance with a pegasus.\nThe skies froze her hands despite her gloves, and she could hardly swing a sword. Her pegasus wouldn’t cooperate with her, and its wings would get in the way. She couldn’t turn the beasts and spin midair like the other women.\nThe skies did not belong to her.\nEvery chance she got, she showed off her skills on horseback. Solid ground. She’d ask the other boys to race, pick the slowest horse, then leave them in the dust. None of them wanted to joust her—she’d knock them to the dirt before they could see it coming.\n“Doesn’t make sense to me,” her captain said. Eleanor brushed dirt off her pegasus, who kept bringing its wing down to block the comb. “A woman of your skill should be untouchable in the air. It’s puzzling since you have the aptitude for it. With some coin, we could get you private training-”\n“Let me ride armoured cavalry,” Eleanor said. She dropped the comb into a bucket of water. “You’ve seen me. I’m better than all the men here. Don’t fault Middknight’s military for a cultural decree about man and woman. We can do more than art, dancing, and pegasus riding. Give me a chance.”\nHer captain considered it—and great tacticians learn that consistency often trumps potential.\nEleanor graduated as the first female horseback knight in Middknight’s history. \nA half-decade later, she stepped into a command tent. Her iron boots broke into melting snow. The weather had changed faces like a flipped coin—freezing cold to a humid warmth in a week. She approached the command table and saluted, a fist to her right shoulder. \nHer captain looked up from the table. Chess pieces, most knocked down, littered a map laid out across it. Lost territory. The people of the desert—Sola—had made quick work of them. While Sola struggled to fight Middknight’s forces in the winter, the sudden change in season had been the luck they needed. They fought in the heat like no other country.\n“Eleanor,” her captain said. “Speak.”\n“Sir,” she kept her eyes off the table. Too many knocked-over pieces. “My scout team has returned from their expedition west. Solan generals are moving toward the plains of Tian. One sandworm in their control. If they set up camp, they’ll cut off our supply routes and have a flanking position. We’d lose the war in weeks.”\n“And?” he said, “what’s your plan?”\n“Sir, I need siege equipment-”\nHe laughed, and Eleanor spoke louder.\n“A few ballistae. If we take down their sandworm, it’s easy pickings for my cavalry.”\n“El,” he stood from the table and pointed to a few standing chess pieces. Rooks. A warm breeze fluttered the tent’s sidewalls. “We needed the winter to build more siege weapons. Now we’re cut short. The second I move what little we have here,” he pointed to their current position, “they’ll advance right on us. It’s a straight road to the capital from this spot.”\n“Sir-”\n“Best I can give you is a force of pegasus riders.”\nEleanor clenched her teeth, but agreed. Her captain moved a knight piece to the plains of Tian before dismissing her. She would ride out at first light. Fifty armoured horses and twelve pegasi awaited her command, armed with crossbows, chain rope, and long pikes tipped with venom.\nNothing that had yet to be effective against the sandworms.\nAt dawn, Eleanor rode west. The pegasi soared through the air as the heavy cavalry clunked behind, the fliers leading them an hour out to the plains of Tian.\nMinutes from the Solan army, a rider signalled to her and landed. \n“Ma’am,” she said. Eleanor prompted her to continue. “I’m seeing double. Our scouts were wrong, because there are two sandworms out there. Sola must have brought in another.”\n“They know it’s an important spot.” Eleanor exhaled. The rest of her cavalry force shuffled on their saddles. If she squinted, she could make the fifty-foot beasts in the distance. Scaled in beige plates, with a maw of endless teeth. \n“Infantry numbers?” she asked.\n“More than us, ma’am. We couldn’t get too close, but we’re estimating a couple dozen camel riders and thirty or so archers. We need to consider retreating-”\n“No. Call your team down.” The rider hesitated, then whistled. Gusts of wind shifted branches as the eleven other pegasi—majestic beasts—landed. Eleanor breathed in, deep, and cleared her throat.\nA moment of calm before a battle can end the war.\n“I would never lead any of you into a skirmish we could not win. It’s a promise I don’t plan to break, but we will face death on these plains.” She rested a hand on her sheathed blade. “Know that a man’s life is the greatest gift he can give—and thousands of our soldiers have died before us, courageous, anguished, and far from meaningless.”\nHer soldiers watched, sitting upright. Horses nickered in the break of silence. Eleanor unsheathed her blade, cutting through air, light glinting off the steel.\n“Let the memories of our fallen serve as a lesson to us all!” her voice became a shout. “Their lives have meaning because we, the living, refuse to forget them! As we ride to our deaths, we will trust our successors and comrades to do the very same for us!\n“We will not yield to the adversity of this war!” She kicked her horse into motion. Her team followed. “The fate of Middknight depends on us! Ride with pride, strike with fury, die with honour!”\nThe armoured cavalry cried out and charged. Pegasus riders took to the skies. Hooves battered against the plains, trees shook from the winds, and the Solan army ahead readied their archers. Two sandworms, beasts over fifty feet tall, cast looming shadows over the grass fields. Long trails of sludge dripped down from their petal-shaped jaws. \nA river of melting ice snaked between the two forces.\nEleanor rode at the front—raising her shield to the volley of arrows, a temporary blot to the sunlight. Projectiles clinked against steel. A pegasus rider above fell from her mount. One arrow struck Eleanor where her plate connected to her neck guard and broke into her shoulder.\nA second and third arrow pierced her leg, hitting bone. Eleanor stumbled off her horse, collapsing against the dirt, rolling, hooves pounding the ground beside her head. Soldiers stopped, calling her name.\nBlood ran down her shoulder blade. Eleanor stood up, balancing on her sword, then swung it forward.\n“Charge, damn it!” she shouted. “Victory is right in front of you, do not falter!”\nHer cavalry force pressed on. A pegasus swooped down to pick her up, and she obliged—it’d be an easier ride while injured than a horse. The beast would put in more effort than she’d have to.\n“Work with me this time,” she said, finding her place on the saddle. Eleanor leaned her weight forward and tapped the pegasus’ faceplate. “I know we’ve had bad history.”\nThe pegasus beat its wings, rising into the air. \nAhead, her cavalry unit clashed with the Solan forces. Her soldiers sliced through camels. Horses trampled the leather-armoured infantry from the desert. Steel crashed against steel, drowning out battle cries. The sandworms shook the earth as they crushed soldiers from both sides beneath them, and her cavalry attempted to blind their exposed eyes with crossbow bolts.\nEleanor dug her heel into the pegasus’ side. She didn’t need to—the beast reacted to the incoming arrow on its own, spinning in the air, nearly dropping her from the saddle. She held on tight around its neck, as she had learned in training a half-decade ago. Her mount raised its wings to block a second.\nAnother pegasus dove, the rider swinging her sword to behead a Solan archer. Her pegasus kicked at a bowman. The iron hooves snapped the man’s head back, breaking his neck. The beast neighed at the kill. Blood coated its white skin.\nEleanor pulled up on the reins, flying towards the sandworm. She reached to the side, above the pegasus’ left wing, and detached a pike coated with venom. The desert leviathan roared. Spittle flew from its maw like rain.\nHer soldiers had blinded one, and she’d get the other.\nIt lunged for her. Its petal-shaped jaw opened, an abyss of jagged teeth, the limbs of her comrades and pieces of armour stuck within. Her pegasus pulled back. Sunlight stretched their shadows out across the field. Eleanor took the pike in her good hand, kicked her ride forward, then stabbed the sandworm’s crevice-shaped eye. Amber blood leaked.\nThe other riders followed suit and jabbed pikes into the sandworms. The combined venom—the strongest Middknight’s alchemists could create—would paralyze the beast, where her knights could then wrap them in chains.\nOne sandworm collapsed, horses jumping as the earth shook. The second followed, lashing out and snagging a rider out of the air before cratering the ground.\nEleanor landed. She would’ve collapsed if not for the pegasus' shifting its weight. Her heavy cavalry executed the remaining Solans and tied down their camels. They then shouted orders, working to chain the sandworms. A woman landed beside her. The leader of the flying team.\n“Ma’am,” she said. “We took down two sand beasts! They can be killed! We’re victorious-”\n“Send scouts,” Eleanor mumbled, “make sure there are no reinforcements. Send your fastest flier back and bring surgeons for our wounded.” Her pegasus raised its wing to prevent her from sliding off. “Casualty report?”\n“Half of our horsemen and four fliers. This is a monumental win. We—I need to get you to a surgeon, ma’am,” she dropped from her pegasus, stepping around a bloodied sword. “I’ll fly you myself. It’ll be less than a half-hour-”\nEleanor raised a hand. \n“No,” she said, “I’m staying here with my cavalry.” She turned her head. Her knights hammered poles into the ground to leash the sandworms. Some tended to the wounded with ripped-apart banners as bandages.\n“This is only the beginning of the war,” she continued, “and they need to see me as unbreakable. I’ll lead this cavalry force until Sola surrenders. Until their white flag is raised to the sunlight. Got it?”\nThe pegasus rider saluted, a fist to her right shoulder, then took off.\nEleanor sheathed her blade. She dismounted, stumbling.\nHer knights cheered—and she swore she would lead them to victory, no matter what."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: An Uninvited Guest\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1559\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who uses a night where everyone’s in costume as cover for something sinister."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Dancers spun past in whirling flurries of color: scarlets, golds, midnight blues and deep luxurious purples. Wine flowed freely and tables stood piled high with succulent dishes too tempting for even the solomnest guest to resist. Revelers drifted past on feet made light by merriment. Lightning split the sky outside, and a heavy rain beat a martial rhythm against the enormous windows but inside laughter echoed through the ornate hall, reverberating off marble columns and a domed ceiling gilded with filigree. The walls were adorned with the intricately rendered figures of fawns and fairies who’s extravagant carousing mirrored that of the partygoers who moved past them.\nOne figure alone among the crowd seemed to stand perfectly still. Solitary and aloof, she watched each flushed face that traveled past with a detached interest. Her clothing too stood out from the rest, the only figure in a mass of swirling color dressed entirely in black. In fact the only real similarity between herself and the others was the mask which obscured the upper half of her face from view. This too was an unassuming, plain black where those around her were adorned in glittering gems and feathers that fluttered lightly as their wearers spun on the dance floor. Golden curls were perfectly arranged atop her head but she wore none of the glittering adornment of the others and when she moved she did so silently, like a shadow given substance. What was perhaps most peculiar about the woman, was the way that despite the somewhat remarkable strangeness of her appearance, the eyes of the other party guests seemed to slide over her without really taking her in. \nThere is much to do tonight She thought, and tilted her head slightly, gazing around the room with mild disinterest. One pale, long-fingered hand slid out from beneath the flowing folds of her black gown and delicately reached for one of the many half drunk glasses of wine which now adorned nearly every surface of the hall like their own kind of vulgar decoration. This one stood abandoned on a silver tray at the end of one of the long tables piled high with food. The woman lifted the glass, gently swirled the wine and sniffed lightly at it. For the first time something like the ghost of amusement twitched at the corner of her lips. \nIt was at that moment that her gaze was met by that of a figure across the room. He was tall, slender, and dressed in the same garish fashions as the rest of the party guests; there was, at first glance, nothing particularly remarkable about him. Nonetheless, the woman held his gaze, interested, almost amused. She smiled at him, raised the glass in her hand to him, and pointedly set it back down onto the tray. The man’s posture stiffened, and he quickly turned away, disappearing back into the crowd. \nThe clock above the fireplace struck an echoing chord that reverberated through the room, sounding the arrival of one o’clock. The woman moved through the crowd, searching; drawn on by her ineffable purpose. She drifted ethereally through the crowd, touching no one despite the closeness of room and the number of dancers still spinning with a frenzied enthusiasm. At last she found her mark, at the far end of the hall. \nThe first was a man, middle aged and heavy set, a nearly empty wine glass still clutched in his hand. She stood over him for several silent moments; waiting. He began to cough, his breathing becoming more labored and his hazy, drunken eyes finding focus as they registered the woman standing over him. He wheezed and spluttered, trying to speak, but the woman merely smiled and shook her head. Laying one long, slender finger to her lips, she leaned down and gently touched the man’s thick hand which glittered with rings. He let out a shuddering breath, and breathed no more. \nThe woman turned her head, and fixed her gaze once more on the same young man that had seen her before. Sequestered in a quiet corner of the room he looked on with a strange expression; a kind of frantic exhilaration. He paled slightly when his eyes met hers once more, but that hard, implacable look remained. She made no motion towards him and spoke not a word but the man seemed to shrink under the piercing gaze with which she regarded him, and slunk back into the shadows that gathered in the corners of the room.. \nThe next to fall were a trio of women, they laughed as they died and the woman knelt to kiss each one gently on the brow. Then came the old woman, who smiled when she saw the woman, recognition registering on her face as she reached out gladly to take her by the hand. Then a man already fast asleep, she touched his cheek and he knew nothing more. She found two lovers tangled up in one another who shrieked when they saw her standing over them but she touched each of their faces with a gentle reverence and they died in one another’s arms. \nThose who died quickly died cheerfully; surrounded still by laughter and dancing. Most caught sight of her for only moments before their end came, but as the deaths grew in number, more and more party guests finding their final rest among the sparkling finery, a panic shot through those that remained. A piercing scream rent the air when the first of them was discovered. Followed quickly by more shouts and panicked cries as those already dead were discovered and more were felled with a gentle touch of the lithe woman’s hand.\nBlood had begun to leak slowly from the eyes and ears, noses, and mouths of those who lay dead. It trickled in tiny rivers that cut their way across the marble floor, slashing the white with red. It found the leather shoes and silk hems of dancers who screamed and scrambled into corners or up onto chairs. Many of those who still stood rushed to the doors. Whether with the intention to escape or to raise an alarm, their efforts were equally fruitless, the doors remained locked tight. The woman continued to move among them, slowly drifting through the hysterical crowd as more succumbed to their demise. There was but one other figure amongst the frenzied throng who seemed unperturbed by the shocking turn of events in the evening’s celebrations.\nThe tall, slender, man stood looking on with a kind of mirthless and merciless amusement. A cold sneer curled the corner of his lips as he watched more fall. He watched them without the slightest hint of remorse. The woman drifted easily among the crowd ministering to the dying, welcoming them neither judgement nor mercy \nAt last the room was still and silent save for the clamor of thunder and rain which still raged outside. The harsh chime of the clock struck one o’clock, a discordant sound that reverberated through the hall that had been so full of life at its last toll and was now a hushed tomb. All the revelers had stilled, only the young man still stood, surveying the slaughter he had wrought. Blood had pooled at his feet and soaked through his shoes, but he walked through it as though it was nothing more than rain water. \n“Fools” he said and his voice held the same harsh cut as his eyes. “You fools!” The should echoed through the hall. “You think to hide your faces and in the same night announce your presence with this ostentatious frivolity!? What do you know of what it means to hide; what do you know of fear!?” He let out a bark of sharp, dark laughter Perhaps tonight they did know fear he thought as he looked down at the corpse of a man splayed out in an unnatural angle on the floor. He made his way carefully to the door and found it, as he expected, once again unlocked. Pulling open the heavy wooden doors he stepped out onto the threshold and threw his head back in laughter, caring nothing for the wind and the driving rain. \n“And was it worth it?” A flash of lightning illuminated the figure of the woman standing behind him, her task not yet complete. The man whirled round, shock and fear painting his face in one horrified moment. The woman smiled and crossed the threshold, stepping closer to him, though the rain seemed somehow not to touch her.. \n“Who — How — You cannot be alive!” He stammered as he stared at her in shock and disbelief. The woman laughed softly as she closed the distance between them and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. \n“But I am not.” She said softly. “In fact, I’m quite the opposite —” Her smile widened into a terrifying feral grin. “I am the inevitable.” The man shuddered and scrambled backwards; his shoe slipped where blood and rain had mingled on the marble steps and time seemed to slow as he felt himself falling. The image of the woman standing over him and her words echoing in his mind “Was it worth it?” were the last things he knew before there was a resounding crack as his skull met the marble steps and he too was claimed by Death."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Amelia's Tree\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2793\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a festive party gone wrong that’s saved by some holiday magic."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Everyone, sit down!” Mrs. Thomas yelled while waving her arms around like she was ready to lift up and out of the 3rd grade classroom. \nMrs. Thomas didn’t know where things went wrong. It may have been when she stepped in a pile of scattered cat litter on her kitchen floor this morning (barefoot) while desperately trying to locate her car keys, or when she seemed to hit every red light between her house and the elementary school, or when she arrived at the parking lot only to find that someone had double parked in her favorite parking spot. By that point, she should have taken that as a sign from the universe and turned her car around and headed back home. But instead, she stupidly decided to enter the large double doors and briskly walked into her classroom to persevere through the last day of school before winter break. \nShe may have been able to put her miserable morning behind her, if only the Annual Holiday Party had gone according to plan. But, like most things in Mrs. Thomas’s life lately, it did not go according to plan. It all began when she discovered the holiday treat Ezra brought contained peanuts. \nYou have got to be kidding me, she thought to herself while she plotted how to discreetly shove them into the trash. Don’t parents know by now that you can’t bring peanuts into a school? You can’t even bring a peanut near a school. Especially since that one kid had an airborne allergic reaction from a Snickers bar in the classroom three rooms down from him. Can simply smelling a peanut cause an allergic reaction? Mrs. Thomas made a mental note to research that later. \nEzra caught Mrs. Thomas’s mid way through her attempt to dispose of the peanut brittle. “Mrs. Thomas, what are you doing?” he shouted while he pointed an accusatory finger in her direction. Mrs. Thomas’s face flushed and she wondered when she started feeling embarrassed by these tiny humans.\nAsher squeezed glue onto Clementine’s desk and shook red glitter liberally on top of it. Clementine promptly bursted into tears. \nAtlas sliced open his left thumb with safety scissors while making cutout snowflakes. They have a rounded tip for chrissakes, Mrs. Thomas thought. \nWrenlee had a roll of sparkly green ribbon in her hands and ran in circles to sufficiently wrap up Cora like a present. Or a mummy.\nGraham figured out the wifi password and must have hacked Mrs. Thomas’s Spotify account, because he was somehow controlling the volume of the Christmas music playing from her computer. \nChristopher was eating cotton balls. \nMrs. Thomas cast a worried look at the clock above the chalkboard, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. The second hand ticked by so slowly she wondered if it was moving at all. It was 1:07 p.m. on Friday, December 22nd. In other words, it was just about time for every teacher in America to have a nervous breakdown before winter break commenced. Only one hour and fifty-three more minutes Mrs. Thomas desperately repeated in her mind. A chant. A mantra. Perhaps a sort of prayer. \nShe punched off the Christmas music blasting from her desk, and moved quickly over to the other side of the room before switching off the lights with a loud click! \nEveryone froze. Mrs. Thomas couldn’t help it, she smirked. A darkened classroom was always a surefire way to quiet her students. Mrs. Thomas didn’t envy the junior high teachers whose students this trick no longer worked for. \nTwenty-four sets of eyes looked at her with a mix of curiosity and fear. All of the holiday candy and cookies had undoubtedly sky-rocketed her student’s energy levels. She could practically feel them buzzing with excitement for the approaching holiday. \nWith a cleansing breath, Mrs. Thomas readjusted her holiday sweater (red with an embroidered reindeer and sewn-on jingle bells), brushed her dark brown hair out of her face, and addressed the class. \n“Alright kids, here’s the deal. We have–” she shot a quick glance towards the clock “one hour and forty-eight minutes to get this party back on track.”\nBlank faces stared back at her. \nOkay, right. Being the only adult in the room, I will get this party back on track.\nMrs. Thomas clapped her hands together twice. “Everyone, grab your coats and snow boots!” \nShe felt certain this statement would be met with cheers of excitement, but instead, tiny voices groaned and whined at her announcement.\n“Do we have to?”\n“But it’s cold outside!”\n“I’m not done with my project yet!”\n“I don’t want to, Mrs. Thomas!”\nShe would not be deterred. Mrs. Thomas looked around the room for any faces of delight instead of misery and pain at her grand idea. Pouted lips and scrunched eyebrows filled the face of every child. \nBesides for one. \nAmelia sat quietly at her desk and swung her legs back and forth from her chair. She was focused on painting a picture of a Christmas tree covered with multicolor ornaments. \nThere was a large evergreen tree located in the center of the playground behind the school. It had stood there sturdily for decades, witnessing the change of seasons and the change of children’s faces each year. All of the students grew up and left the school eventually. The evergreen grew. But it never left. \nThat day, its branches were weighed down by the wet snow falling from the gray sky. The tree didn’t mind. After all, Christmas was its favorite time of year. \nAmelia picked up a purple crayon and drew a round ornament on her tree, carefully coloring inside the lines. She stuck her tongue out between her small lips while she concentrated on adding a streak of dark blue through its center, creating a pattern like a ribbon.\nA large purple ornament with a blue ribbon appeared on the evergreen’s branch while snow slowly collected on its top. \nAmelia took a break to stretch her hand. She looked to her left and gazed out the large windows, peering down at the cars driving down Maple Avenue. Since she was eye-level with the trees, she watched squirrels and chipmunks and birds scurry along the branches. That Friday afternoon, she was mesmerized by the flurries of snow slowly making their way down to the ground. Being next to the windows meant being next to the bins of crayons and markers and brightly colored construction paper located in the “Art Cubby” along the back wall. Amelia had the first choice of all the best art supplies, which was crucial considering the current circumstance. \nAmelia looked with dismay at the state of the classroom. The Annual Holiday Party was always nothing but mayhem. Everything was in complete disarray. Desks sat askew, chairs were overturned, the Christmas music playing from Mrs. Thomas’s computer was too loud and kept stopping and starting because of the unreliable wifi (or was it because of Graham?), spilled punch slowly leaked off the long table set up at the front of the room which created a sticky red puddle in the middle of the floor, scraps of paper were strewn about from holiday craft projects gone wrong, and everyone was loud. \nAmelia surveyed the snow falling peacefully outside the second story windows, clinging to bare trees and car windshields. The peaceful scene outside was a stark contrast to the chaos erupting from indoors. \n“I’ll go outside with you, Mrs. Thomas,” Amelia called from the back of the room. \nMrs. Thomas said a quick prayer of thanks to Amelia’s parents for raising such a sweet and cooperative child. \nWhat are her parent’s names? Have I met them before? For a peculiar moment, Mrs. Thomas had absolutely no recollection of ever meeting Amelia’s parents. \n“Wonderful!” Mrs. Thomas said with forced delight in her voice, in an attempt to entice the other students to join along with Amelia. \nOne by one, the children made their way over to the coat room, realizing that Mrs. Thomas had not flicked back on the classroom light, a clear indication the party had met its demise. \nI need some way to burn off their energy while still creating a sense of Christmas cheer. Mrs. Thomas was deep in thought as her single-file line of students approached the back doors of the school leading to the expansive playground. \nShe took a quick count of her student’s heads to ensure no one had gotten lost along the way or come up with other plans. Surprisingly (thankfully), everyone was accounted for. \nOnce outside, the children split up into small groups, having no issue coming up with ways to entertain themselves. A group of girls were lying on the ground making snow angels, while others had begun to roll up a large ball of snow for what presumably would be a snowman. Some stuck out their tongues and leaned back their heads to catch the delicate flakes. \nMrs. Thomas smiled to herself, feeling a mix of relief and achievement at having reigned in her unruly students. She genuinely cared for each of them, but most of the time, they were a pain in her ass. Ah, the rollercoaster of emotions that is primary education. \nFrom behind the evergreen tree, a shimmer of red peeked out. It caught Mrs. Thomas’s eye and she furrowed her brows in confusion. She took a step closer and realized it was Amelia. Right, yes, Amelia… Amelia’s last name had escaped Mrs. Thomas’s mind. She had only turned thirty-five earlier this year. Surely she was too old to be struggling with her short-term memory. \nFor a moment, Mrs. Thomas could not recall seeing Amelia walk into her classroom this morning. In fact, she could hardly remember if Amelia had been in class at all this week. \nIs she so well behaved I simply didn’t notice her? No, no that couldn’t be. \nHer thumb and index finger came up to pinch and pull the middle of her upper lip. A bad habit that indicated Mrs. Thomas was lost in thought. \nA burst of laughter broke her attention and she turned away from the tree and the small girl dressed in the red coat. \nThe sound had come from the other side of the tree, where Mrs. Thomas found Archie standing maniacally over Isla, clearly having just shoved her into the snow. Daisy and Brielle ran to Isla’s side, brushing snow off her hair and helping her up. \nMrs. Thomas squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment before jogging over to the scene. Frustration and sadness gripped her chest. I just want today to go right. \nAfter separating the children and chiding Archie, she decided she needed to organize a group activity with the children. Wasn’t that what the holidays were all about? Togetherness, gratitude, happiness. She was determined to teach her students the true meaning of Christmas today. \nAmelia crept carefully around the evergreen, her drawing of the Christmas tree in one hand and her crayons securely located in her coat pocket. In addition to the purple ornament with the navy blue ribbon, this side of the tree now had gold ornaments with ruby stripes, emerald green ornaments covered with small white dots, and large glass ornaments filled with silver glitter like snow. She took a step back and grinned pleasantly. Picking up her pencil, she sketched twenty-four small stick figures with large smiles and music notes above their heads. A pretty brunette woman conducted them like a professional. Amelia drew a tiny pink heart in the center of the woman’s chest.\nMrs. Thomas was suddenly struck with an idea. “Everyone, come here. Come, come! Who here has seen the movie Elf?” she asked brightly.\n“Me, me!” The children chorused. \n“Wonderful! And what does Buddy the Elf say is the best way to spread Christmas cheer?”\nConfused faces looked up at her. \n“By singing loud for all to hear! I think Buddy was right about that. What do you say? Let’s sing some Christmas songs together, then we can each share what our favorite Christmas song is.”\nSmiles spread slowly across the children’s faces. They were just young enough to love this idea but old enough to actually know the words to Christmas songs. Plus, they loved a reason to sing (yell) loudly.\nThey followed Mrs. Thomas towards the evergreen tree, where she had a vision of all of the children standing while singing Christmas carols. She would snap a quick photo of them to share with each of their parents. She’d hang the photo proudly in her classroom.\nTo her delight, she noticed someone had decorated the tree. She stared with amusement at the brightly colored trinkets adorning the snow-covered branches. She wondered how in the world someone had managed this, when the tree had to be at least thirty feet tall. \nMust have been a big ladder.\nMrs. Thomas abruptly recalled the tree had not been decorated when she peeled into the parking lot this morning. Despite being in a rush, she had glanced up at the tree admiring the way the snow looked on it. Maybe there had been ornaments? Was she losing her memory? She quickly shook the disarming thought away.\nThe students chatted away while getting into a group that resembled something like a semi-circle. \n“Who would like to start? Mateo, what is your favorite Christmas song?” Mrs. Thomas asked. \n“Frosty the Snowman!” he shouted happily in her direction. \nSome of his classmates cheered in agreement and a few even clapped their hands. \nFor the first time today, something was going according to plan. \nThey all began to sing, following Mrs. Thomas’s lead. Bright smiles stretched across the children’s faces. Mrs. Thomas felt warmth spread in her chest and was reminded why she loved her job. \nAfter a few more songs, the children were becoming restless. Mrs. Thomas glanced at her wristwatch. 2:33 p.m. She grinned to herself, feeling proud that she managed to fill the afternoon with a fun activity. They would need to head inside in about ten minutes in order to be ready for 3 o’clock pickup. \nMrs. Thomas instructed the children to face towards the Christmas tree to notice the beautiful ornaments. \n“Which one do you like best?” she asked Eloise who was standing next to her staring upwards. Eloise pointed towards a bright white ornament covered in magenta hearts and other children did the same. They leaned playfully into each other, jabbering about their favorite colors and the ornaments they have at home on their own trees. Mrs. Thomas thought back to earlier today in her classroom, when her student’s excitement had been completely sugar-induced. Now, they were buzzing with pure joy and longing for Christmas morning that only children knew. Sweet giggles erupted from their tiny smiles and Mrs. Thomas wrapped her arms around herself, taking in this rare moment. \nA gold crayon streaked across the construction paper, starting at the top of the tree. \n“Look, look!” One of the children pointed up at the very top of the evergreen. \nMrs. Thomas’s gaze drifted upward where a thin band of what looked like metallic yarn began at the evergreen’s point, and seemed to be growing downwards, wrapping in a spiral around the tree. \n“What in the…”\nThe small girl in the red coat continued to drag her crayon through the tree, embellishing it with its final touch. \nSparkling tinsel lit up by tiny warm lights wound round and round until it reached the base of the tree, which now illuminated twenty-five awestruck faces. \nThe children and their teacher glanced around the playground. There was no one else there. They shared looks of confusion and wonderment at what they had just witnessed. One student began to jump up and down, snow crunching beneath her boots. \n“That was so cool!” she proclaimed. \n“I want to see it again!” another joined in. \n“Mrs. Thomas, this is the best holiday party ever!” one boy said while wrapping his arms around her. \nMrs. Thomas was just as dumbfounded as the rest of them. Oh, what the hell? She shrugged, then clapped and cheered as if she were a child herself. \nThey only had three minutes until the parents would arrive for pickup. Mrs. Thomas began to gather her students together, all of whom were still marveling at the evergreen. \nThe children marched dutifully towards the doors and Mrs. Thomas glanced back towards the tree. \nShe had the briefest memory of a young girl. Who…\nThe thought floated away from her as quickly as it had come. She suddenly couldn't remember what had just been on her mind. \nMrs. Thomas strolled easily towards the school doors. \nA flash of red disappeared behind the tree, followed by a swirl of snow."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Bear Brook Barrel Girl\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1479\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a missing person nobody seems to know or remember."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Trigger Warning: Real Crime Victims\nBear Brook Barrel Girl\n It was always autumn whenever she became conscious. Time moves very differently when you are dead, and sometimes it's fast, and sometimes it's just still. For the little girl, time seemed to always pause at the moment when her spirit awoke in the barrel. \n She remembered the dark, cold metal of the barrel and the plastic as it slid against her skin, all slimy. She remembered the feeling of weightlessness as her spirit looked down at her dismembered body parts and the way they intertwined with her sister's. Together forever in a barrel in the woods. She felt her heart sink as she remembered what he had done to them. How could he have done that to them, she wondered. She had loved and feared him, just as her mother and sisters had, but she never thought it would come to this. \n \"Honey, it's ok. Mama is here with you.\" Her mother said as her spirit opened the barrel top for her to crawl out. \n It was the most disjointed feeling to know her body was in pieces, but her heart was still intact and breaking. Of course, as a spirit and a toddler at that, the girl didn't understand everything that had happened. Over time, her mother had explained they had been murdered by her father and left in the woods. She learned to forgive.\n She turned her head towards the trees and watched the beautiful leaves swaying. There was a breeze and the ominous feeling of something coming, some change in the air. \n \"Play with me, Sarah.\" her older sister, Marie, squealed. \n She was about ten years old and left in the first barrel with their mother. Sarah, about two years old, laughed and jumped after Marie. The girl stood sucking her thumb and holding their mother's hand. How many times they had played tag and hide and seek and climbed the trees were lost to count. They could not leave, but at least they had each other. Bear Brook State Park was massive, and one would expect other spirits to roam around, but the girl had never seen anyone else. She had at first thought her father would come back to visit, but he never did. \n She studied their mother, who was laughing at the little girls chasing each other. Marlyse was her name, their mother, and she was beyond beautiful. Her dark locks flowed down her back, and her smile was radiant, even if only a faint imitation of what it had been in life. The girl knew Marlyse was not her birth mother, but she could only remember her holding her. \n Time seemed to shift with them all sitting down by the barrels, and Marie and Marlyse were explaining what school was. The girl found it funny that even dead, the memory of homework was still a horrible thing to her sister. The season had to be summer, the girl knew, for the people that ventured into the woods were in shorts and t-shirts. That year, a boy and his friends found the barrel but only kicked it over, which filled the girls with the hope of being found. Instead, their bodies remained hidden. \n Nothing more happened for a long time, the seasons shifted again, but no one else ever came by. Some dogs would come by sometimes and notice the sisters. The dogs would stay playing fetch and running around with them. The girl was sad when the animals left, and she made sure she named them. \n Everything changed on November 10, 1985.\n The day was cold, yet there was no snow yet. The leaves were still green on the trees. The girls were playing school with Sarah trying to teach the girls their alphabet. Marlyse was singing a song that she called pop music from the 1970s. The wind suddenly shifted, and a man with a large gun came around the corner. Everything stopped for a split second, and then the man slowly approached the barrel. The girl watched, amazed that the man couldn't see them, but it was clear to see by the look in his eyes that he knew something horrible was in that barrel. She reached out a hand to touch him as he walked by, but Marlyse stopped her and grabbed her shoulder.\n \"No. We can't interfere.\" She whispered. \n The man pushed the lid off the barrel with the nudge of his gun and peered inside. The girls huddled around their mother and waited to see what he would do. The hunter placed a hand over his nose, the smell overwhelming the closer one got to the barrel. He gently poked at the barrel, and then one of Marlyse's bones fell out the top. He screamed, \"Oh my God!\" and went running through the woods. \n The police showed up, the barrel carted away, but the girls and their mother's spirits remained in the woods. There was hope from the girl that the second barrel, the one holding Sarah and herself, was found, but that was not to be. \n The girl began to imagine a world where they did not die and where she could grow up. She imagined the kind of jobs she might have or the kind of cars she could have driven one day. Marlyse would cry whenever the girl talked of these fancies, so she mostly kept them to herself. Sarah said she often thought the same things being both had been so young when they died. Marie, on the other hand, refused to talk about what could have been. \n More and more time lapsed, but no other police or hunters came near. It almost seemed like there would be no moving on to Heaven or whatever was beyond this world. \n Then one day in 2000, a police officer finally found the second barrel. The girls were not as shocked this time, but Marlyse still warned them not to intervene. The policeman almost missed them just like the first search had, but he took a turn and kept walking. Once he saw the second barrel, he opened it with slight hesitation. His large, shaking hand reached inside and pulled away some of the plastic. To both the policeman's and the girl's surprise, her face popped out of the bag, staring at him. He jumped back, called for more officers, and the second barrel too was removed. \n The girl cried because she was happy to be found, but she was sure nothing more would happen for many years to come. The girl thought about what her body looked like when he opened the plastic. She wondered if her face still held any resemblance to the toddler that she had been, and she wondered if the fear from that day was still present in her eyes. She wondered if she looked like her father and if so, she hoped that would help the officers find him. \n One day, the girl was playing in the trees, and when she climbed down, she saw her mother and sisters all crying. She ran over and asked what the matter was. The looks on Marie and Sarah's faces were a mix of sadness, joy, and guilt. \n \"They finally know our names, Honey. We get to move on now.\"\nMarlyse said as she held the girl's face in her hands. The girl grinned and started jumping up and down. She asked where they were to go now, but Marlyse pulled away. \n \"I'm so sorry, but they don't know who you are yet. You have to stay here.\" She said. \n The girl fell to the ground in tears and started screaming because her mother said they would be together forever. How was she suppose to endure this endless existence year after year? \n \"It will only take a little more time. You just have to wait until someone remembers you or someone remembers your mother's name. Please understand I did not want to leave you. I never wanted to leave you, but we have to go.\" Marlyse said and gave her one more kiss and hug. Her sisters soon hugged her too, and she continued to cry on the ground. She couldn't even remember her mother, so how was anyone else suppose to remember who she was. \n Alone now, the girl couldn't remember the last time she felt so angry. Her family was gone, no one ever came, and she had to stay there in the woods until someone remembered her. She thought about her father and wondered if he felt remorse for what he had done. She thought about if he had hurt other little girls like he had her family. She closed her eyes and lay in the soft, leaves hoping someone out there missed her. Hoping someone out there knew her name. Until then, she would remain the Bear Brook barrel girl."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Fool Me Once...\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1245\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the words “Everything was ready for the ritual.”"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Everything was ready for the ritual, or so Deborah thought. As the sun rose in the east, she began to clean her room from the previous night’s escapades. I can’t believe that drunk did so much damage in such a short time. She righted an upturned table in the center of the room. I need to be more careful next time. I don’t want to be caught cheating customers while conjuring spirits. If some drunken old fool could see the thread attached to my lamp, then who knows who else could have seen it? She placed the lamp back on the table and inspected the thread. I don’t need any more unexpected expenses. Deborah felt the pains of age in her fingers as she fondled the thread. I’m getting too old for this séance business. If my bodyguards didn’t stop him, he might have broken me along with my table.\nShe picked up the rest of the debris off the floor. Maybe I should just pack it in and live with my oldest son. He’s been begging me for years to quit deceiving everyone. So why do I keep doing it? She shrugged her shoulders. It’s simple. People want to be deceived. So, I do it.\nThe sound of approaching footsteps broke her concentration. She turned and faced a stranger. “Good morning, sir. What may I do for you?”\n“You’re a medium. You should know the answer.”\n“I don’t need to be a medium to know what you want. There’s only one answer to why you came here. The questions are in the details, and the answers to those depend on how much you have to spend.”\nThe stranger laughed. “You’re quick witted. I think you’ll do the trick. I have an unusual request for you. I have a client who wishes the services of a medium. He’s in great despair and wants to be consoled.”\n“There’s nothing unusual about that, sir. This is almost a daily chore for me.”\n“I don’t want you to console him, though. I want you to bring more despair to him. Tell him there’s no hope. No future. I want him broken beyond repair. Word has it you are very convincing, and silver can keep your lips sealed. So, I ask you, can you do this for me?”\nDeborah considered the stranger before putting her hand out, palm up. “It depends.”\nHe placed two silver pieces in her hand.\nIn silence, she left her hand out.\nTwo more pieces joined the first.\nDeborah put the coins in her pocket. “When can I expect you to bring this person to me?”\n“He won’t be coming. You’ll go to him. Be ready by midday.”\n“If you want a good performance, I’ll need information. Who is he, what does he want, and what does he do?” she asked.\n“You just need to know one thing,” he said. “He’s King Saul.”\nWhile they were talking, King Saul paced back and forth. Why me, he thought. Why did God abandon me? I regret what I did at Amalek, so why don’t I hear His voice? No dreams, and even my prophets are silent. I’m like a blind man, alone in the middle of the desert.\nA servant entered King Saul’s room. “Sire, General Abner has returned.”\nSaul jumped to his feet. “Quick! Send him in.” He watched Abner enter. “Did you find a medium?” he blurted out.\n“Yes, Sire,” he said. “She’s in a tent on the outskirts of the encampment. She doesn’t know anything about what’s expected of her or who she’s meeting, just as you requested.”\n“Excellent. Go to her, and I’ll be there shortly. I need to change into some common clothing.” Saul changed as soon as Abner left. He scurried out the door and arrived at the tent moments later.\nIn common clothing, Saul opened the flap of a tent nestled alone on the outskirts of the army’s camp. It was dark except for a single oil lamp glowing on a table. When his eyes grew accustomed, he saw a woman sitting in front of the light and Abner standing on the far side of the enclosure.\n“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “Come closer.” Saul walked to the edge of the table and sat down across from her. “I’m Deborah,” she said. “I’m here at the request of your friend.” The woman didn’t know who he was, so he excused her demand to approach. He watched her gaze at him. “I see that your aura is in great distress. Perhaps I can talk to the spirits around you and see why.”\n“Yes, please do. I need answers to my questions.”\n“Yes, yes. I understand. Give me a moment of silence so I can concentrate.” Deborah closed her eyes, and Saul’s attention flickered to the oil lamp. Did it move? he thought to himself.\nSuddenly, Deborah slammed her hands on the table and gasped. “You’re King Saul! Why have you come before me? You know I’m not a believer in your god. Have you come to do away with me?”\nTo Saul, her realization confirmed her authenticity as a medium. How else could she have known who I am? “My kind lady, I swear by my name and by my God, I wish you no harm. I’m only looking for consultation from those who departed from this earth. I’m asking you for help in this matter.”\nSaul watched her calm down before she asked, “Who do you wish for me to conjure?”\n“Samuel,” he said. “Conjure Samuel for me.”\nDeborah closed her eyes again and whispered to herself while Saul looked at the oil lamp again. I’m sure it moved. It’s no longer at the center of the table. Deborah groaned. “Someone approaches,” she said.\nSaul became excited. “Is it Samuel? What does he look like?”\nDeborah moaned again. “I see an old man. He is dressed in a robe. His face is of one who was abruptly awoken.”\n“It must be Samuel,” he said. “Ask him why God has forsaken me.”\n“Samuel says you already know the answer to that. He asks why you summoned him. Don’t you seek enough counsel with yourself?”\n“Please, kind lady, ask Samuel this. I’m about to face the Philistines in battle. Will I win, and will my family be safe?”\nDeborah’s face became crestfallen. “By sunset tomorrow, the sons of Israel will be in the hands of the Philistines. Your sons will be dead and you with them. There is nothing you can do to change this. I’m sorry.”\nSaul collapsed and fell to the floor, mourning the loss of his sons. Touched by the show of his raw emotions, Deborah had an assistant bring some food, and she coaxed King Saul to eat some. “You need to eat, Sire. You must be strong. If not for yourself, then for those you serve.”\nSaul saw the wisdom in this and ate. Soon after, Deborah excused herself, and Abner followed, leaving King Saul alone.\nAbner caught up with the woman and handed her five pieces of silver. “You did a fine job back there.”\nReluctantly, she took the money. “Don’t come looking for me anymore,” she said. “I’ve had enough of this business to last three lifetimes. Find someone else to do your dirty work.” She left Abner standing there and returned home. When she arrived, she packed her things and went to live with her son, never returning to her old way of life."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Ghost Oak\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1560\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at the boundary between two realms."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The Ghost Oak by Deborah Drake – word count: approx 1514 inc title\n(prompt: Set your story at the boundary between two realms)\n\nThe great Oak tree had been standing steadfast, in a clearing in the Southern Forest, near the village of Little Wychwold, for as long as anybody could remember. Certainly, the sheer size and scale of this giant, with its girth measuring a good nine metres or more, would indicate that the tree was, indeed, as ancient as local folklore would have you believe.\n\n\nIt seemed to defy time. There were no visible signs of disease. No lightning scars, no damaged limbs or branches, as one would expect from an oak that had stood for centuries and even more curiously, it was perfectly symmetrical in form.\n\n\nEach year, it produced an abundance of green leaves and later, in the Autumn, a bumper crop of acorns, when the other oak trees in the forest, had few to drop. This apparent resistance to the normal ageing process, only added to the villagers’ sense of wonder and awe of the tree they had always known as either, ‘The Great Oak’ or as ‘The Ghost Oak’.\n\n\nA curious feature of the trunk was a number of mysterious patterns formed by the bark. Just as one can might see ‘pictures’ in the flames of a fire or in cloud formations, some claimed they could see distorted faces and unusual markings, thought by some to be ancient symbols, with hidden meanings.\n\nFor 364 days and nights of the year, The Great Oak remained benevolent in its demeanour. It provided shelter from inclement weather and welcome shade from the hot sun for passers-by and the villagers of Little Wychwold, who would use it as a meeting place for summer picnics, as well as the backdrop for annual events and traditional gatherings.\n\n\nIt provided a safe haven for wildlife, for birds, insects and small mammals. Mice and voles would burrow amongst the grassy tussocks in the surrounding area, at its base. Giant ‘feet-like’ roots appeared to be only partly submerged in the soil and thus looked as if they could be lifted by some mysterious force, enabling the tree to move around on its own. ‘Fairy Rings’ of fungi frequently appeared in the surrounding grass and the village elders claimed that rare woodland truffles could be discovered close by, (provided one had a dog skilled enough to sniff them out).\n\n\nSo why might you ask was it also known as The Ghost Oak? It is not clear exactly when the legend began, only that it was many moons ago. The village elders were told the same stories when they were children, as were their parents before them, repeated over and over again, going far back in time. It was drummed into each successive generation: “Don’t ever go near The Ghost Oak after dusk on the thirty-first of October. “All Saints’ Eve is the boundary between two realms, that’s when strange things happen to both man and beast. If you venture there, you may never see the 1st of November”, they warned. They were so earnest in their urgings that the majority of the village children took heed. Only the most daring, curious or downright defiant went against such sage advice. \n\n\nThe few that did venture to the forest during daylight hours on that ominous date in the calendar, on a dare or some unavoidable errand that took them close to the vicinity of the Ghost Oak, returned with their own versions of strange events, some boastful, some elaborate and some clearly nonsensical, which only added to the ‘library’ of verbal storytelling, to be regaled and ‘chewed over’ by the fireside or garden gate.\n\n\nSome even claimed to have heard the ‘voice of the tree’, an eerie moaning sound, as well as scraping and scratching noises but some of the more fantastical claims were put down to having imbibed too much moonshine, combined with an overactive imagination.\n\n\nHowever, the events of one particular All Hallows Eve may lend some truth to such ‘imaginings’. For that we have to travel back in time to October 1788…\n\n\nAt that time part of a well-used smugglers’ route skirted the edge of the forest where the Great Oak stood. The trail began some 12 miles or so away, at the coast and\ncontinued on for another ten miles beyond Little Wychwold. Rum, lace, wine and other such desirables were regularly transported by ‘Runners’ on horseback or by the use of ‘pack’ mules. The hours from dusk until dawn were obviously preferred, to better evade the Excise men.\n\n\nOn that fateful day in October 1788, a storm had been brewing from late afternoon and Thomas Emanuel, a particularly brutish member of the coastal smuggling ring, had been sent inland, to pass an urgent message to a Runner, who lived in the next village to Little Wychwold. \n\n\nA cruel and vicious man, Thomas had slain a number of souls over the years without a moment’s hesitation or remorse, including two of his own kin. This only added to his reputation as one of the most bloodthirsty of cut-throats to have ever terrorised the Southern Coast.\n\n\nThat day, as usual, he had driven his horse extremely hard and by the time dusk fell and they had reached the Forest edge, both rider and mount were weary, wet and cold. Although Thomas had used these secret pathways and hidden tracks many a time, on this occasion, a feeling of disquiet that he could not shake off, had settled upon him, shortly after starting his mission.\n\n\nThe driving rain and the thick, heavy fog that had descended, only added to the sense of ‘other worldliness’, as it swirled around, making it harder to make out exactly where he was.\n\n\nFrom somewhere an owl hooted, making Thomas jump. It suddenly swooped low and fast, over rider and horse, breaking through the mists without warning, startling Thomas’s horse into bolting. Thomas was thrown off and tumbled to the ground, to end up amongst fallen branches and wet bracken.\n\n\nStruggling to get up, battered and bruised, he first let out a string of curses at his departing horse and only then did he consider his options. As the storm was showing no sign of abating, the rain was getting heavier and the strange misty-murkiness remained, he decided to venture further into the forest to find some form of shelter. He recalled there was a woodsman’s hut not far from the trail, if he could reach that, he would be safe. So was his thinking…\n\n\nEventually, after stumbling around in the dank swirls of mist and rain for what seemed like hours, the storm clouds parted just enough to allow a little moonlight to penetrate the clearing he found himself in. Thomas thought he could make out the shape of what appeared to be a very large, hollowed out tree a little distance away. As he got closer, to his surprise and delight, he discovered the opening in the trunk was almost cave-like in size. Overcome with relief, Thomas scrambled over roots and vegetation into the apparent safety of the natural shelter.\n\n\nHe slumped down within the cocoon-like interior of the tree, intending to rest before making his way back to the trail. However, with each passing moment, his eyes grew heavier, until he fell into a fitful doze, neither fully awake, nor fully asleep.\n\n\nThomas was unaware that in his hurry to get into the shelter of the tree, he had brushed against a ring of toadstools, causing them to release their microscopic spores along with a noxious, invisible vapour, which rapidly sent Thomas to an altered state of consciousness…\n\n\n‘Betwixt and between’ one world and another, the hours crept ever closer to midnight on All Hallows Eve, 1788 and as the Ghost Oak wreaked its revenge, doling out its form of supernatural justice, Thomas Emanuel was beset by chaotic and terrifying visions.\n\n\nAt one point he believed he heard the snorting and snarling of wild hogs, whose foul breath assaulted his nostrils. In his disturbed state of mind, he felt the flapping of wings on his skin, followed by the peck, peck, peck of needle-like beaks on his head and neck. Coming to the surface briefly, Thomas discovered he could no longer move his body, nor open his eyes and the power of speech had also left him. \n\n\nPeriods of sporadic semi-awareness followed, until finally, as the ‘Witching Hour approached, Thomas stirred for the last time, with a strange sense that the space around him was getting smaller, as indeed it was. Eventually and inevitably, held in a crushing and deadly embrace, he became ‘as one’ with the Ghost Oak, entombed in amber-like form, a resource to be gradually broken down and ‘absorbed’.\n\n\nAnd so it was that Thomas Emanuel became the latest human to be taken, to sustain and feed a mysterious entity, with an image of his face now destined, along with so many others, to ‘stare out’ in anguish from the Ghost Oak for centuries to come.\n\n\nPostscript: 1st November 1788\n“Look! A new face on the Ghost Oak!” and “That wasn’t there before!” exclaimed a gaggle of children from Little Wychwold, who had been sent out to the Forest to gather fallen branches for firewood, following the storm.\n(wordcount: 1514 approx including title)\n---oOo---"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Hel\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1237\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at the boundary between two realms."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Trigger Warning: Mentioning of death.\nParentage is and has always been an important factor in who you are and who you will become. For some, having a \"high-class\" father would give them comfort and riches. However, for myself and my siblings that is not exactly the case. Living in a deep cavern, with dripping water and cold rock and dirt floors is not something one would expect with our parentage. Feeling like a hidden secret as your mother and father come and go as they please, not allowing you out of your own desolate space.\nThat's why when the strange men came and took us away, I felt nothing but happiness and excitement. It barely fazed me when our mother did not come to stop the men from taking us. Maybe this would be our end, but at least I would get to see the outside world. Even if just for a few seconds. The sun was so bright, it felt like a fire burning on my skin as we emerged from the darkness. Just then, the anxiety took hold.\n\"Where are you taking us,\" I asked the man holding on to my binds. \"And where is our mother?\" I looked around, hoping to see her coming up the side of the mountain for us. But nothing.\n\"You will see girl,\" was the only response I received. Behind me my brothers struggled a little. As they were smaller than I, the men had assumed they would be easier to lead, but it was obvious they were not-so-pleasantly surprised to find they were stronger than they looked.\nWith each rise of the sun we traveled, and rested with each moon. Mother still did not come for us. Even the men had noticed as we came closer to the border of our lands. \"Isn't it strange,\" the man asked the other who was playing with my brother. \"It's as if they want us to take them,\" he said before taking a bite of his food. \"Not one has come to rescue them, there has been no fight since before we arrived on the mountain.\"\n\"Maybe they're just not up for the fight,\" the other man said as he patted my brother on the head.\n\"Maybe,\" the other said as he looked at me. I thought of saying something, maybe pretending I knew of something they didn't, but then I thought of my father. Looking at the men it was strange how they looked so similar to him, almost God-like in their appearance and mannerisms.\nHe wouldn't have sent them, would he? I thought to myself. I stayed quiet through our travels, playing with my brothers and reassuring them through the nights. It was almost comical watching the men make new chains for them each time they grew, which was each time they were fed. Maybe that is why mother didn't feed them as much back in the cave. I would no longer be confused for the oldest as they grew.\nI took my time enjoying the scenery as we continued our journey. Listening to birds I had not been able to hear before, the only thing that made it difficult was the sunlight. The burning sensation made the journey more difficult, luckily as my brothers grew they were able to shade me from the light. Sometimes we would run into an area the men seemed to know well. Bodies would litter some areas, some causing us to detour around them as they covered vast amounts of land. The souls of these creatures sometimes roamed, as though they were unaware of what they should do now. It gave me comfort to talk with and help them.\nWhen we reached our destination, however, the anxiety came back with a force that could stop anybody's heart. Looking up to the top of the greenest mountain I had ever seen there was no questioning where we were. The glowing light from the top was nearly blinding, leading to an even stronger burning sensation on my skin, giving me even more reason to miss our cave.\nSurprisingly, it didn't take as long as I had expected to reach the top of the mountain. A group of buildings were scattered around the tops of many mountains, bright marble white walls with the golden roofs shining brightly as the sun sat high above them. Beautiful birds chirped and flew around us, as if they were curious about the new visitors. My brothers and I drew closer together as we came to the biggest of the buildings. The white marble stone towered over everyone, except my brothers. Their bodies fit almost perfectly through the opening as we were led inside. Relief swept over me as we entered and the only light that existed came from torches set in the wall. Light flickering here and there made it easier to look at the different designs around the pillars and walls, set in gold.\n\"Welcome,\" a booming voice rang out. Looking ahead sat a man whose body overtook the chair he sat in. The man was covered in furs, fabrics and golden jewelry. Golden necklaces covered his neck, a bright golden arm band wrapped around one of his forearms, a beard as long and majestic as the hair that flowed out from underneath his shiny silver helmet. One eye twinkled as the light from the torches flickered over his face. A patch sat above one cheek where another eye had once been.\nTwo black birds sat on top of the throne, watching curiously as the men brought us in closer. Standing, the man was obviously taller than the others, his robes and armor reaching the floor with a clank that seemed to echo through the hall. The two black birds, crows as it turned out, flew in opposite directions to perch on either side of our group as if to watch what was about to happen.\n\"So these are the children,\" the man said as he came closer. \"Loki's children.\" I looked over at the man in front of us who nodded his head and moved aside. \"I am Odin,\" the man continued as he walked towards us. Once he was a short distance in front of me he reached out his hand.\n\"They call me Hel,\" I responded as courteously as I could manage. My brothers chimed in behind me.\n\"They call me Fenrir,\" said my oldest brother.\n\"Jormungandr,\" said the other.\nSmiling, the man looked us all over. \"I had a dream,\" he said as he continued to hold on to my hand. \"Hel, you will be a ruler.\" He kept smiling as he took the chains from my wrists, seemingly making note of the differences. Flipping each wrist over he spent more time examining the rotting flesh on my left side than the living flesh on the right.\n\"I prefer the dead over the living,\" I responded, \"they treat me with more respect.\" At this the man nodded.\n\"Then my dear, you shall rule over the dead.\" He pulled me away from my brothers. \"You shall rule the realm of Helheim. Where men, women, and children who do not die bravely in battle shall dwell. Until the end of time.\"\nNo time was wasted before I was taken to the threshold, and that is how I found myself at the boundary between two realms.\n\"Are you ready,\" the man asked.\n\"For now,\" I responded. \"Until Ragnarok.\""
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: No Going Back\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 3785\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character seeking forgiveness for something that happened in the past."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "March 22, 2022\nIt was a beautiful picnic on a beautiful day. Everything was perfect. The sun was shining but not too bright. The warm breeze of the spring flowing over them, the food tasted perfect, they took pictures and watched the sunset. They made out, they went hiking, they engraved their names on a tree. Evan got a tick bite. Claudia struggled to pick it off of his calf. Then they made out some more, stargazed over his truck’s bed, Then accidentally fell asleep.\nWhen they woke up, they noticed a creepy figure stalking them, from the looks of it he wanted to approach them, but they ignored him, although Evan felt the need to go talk to him or understand why he’s stalking them.\nAs the couple spent their morning outside, they drove to a fast-food restaurant, got breakfast sandwiches, and went home. He was still standing there when Evan dropped Claudia off at her house, but they didn’t notice him. The figure was still standing there when later that night Evan came to her house again and he heard quarrelling inside.\n\nSeptember 3, 2356\n“We were so close to getting him.” The captain yelled at his crew. “How many times do I have to tell you he always takes 3 rights and then a left turn when he’s running, that’s what part of him is programmed to do. Gosh, even my robot is smarter than all of you combined” as a robot—about 6 feet tall, painted in blue and white, square face with round, dark eyes—approaches him with a cup of coffee.\nThe captain takes his helmet off and takes a sip of the coffee. “You got the creamer right this time. repeat the same sequence when preparing coffee.” Evan tells the robot. \n“Copy that, captain.” The robot replies in a feminine, a bit dark-pitched voice, as it walks away.\n“What do we do now, sir?” one of his crewmates, a bulky blonde says as he takes his helmet off.\n“For now, just take a breather, we’ll keep scanning for him.” Evan replies.\n“But he could be anywhere, or more importantly, anytime.” Another crewmate takes their helmet off, revealing pink in blue hair, the same color as their helmet.\n“And that’s why I told you to remember his technique so we don’t get stuck in this cycle like that again: Locate him, fight him, he escapes, repeat.” Evan turns around, looking at the screen. “Just go take a break right now, because the next time we see him, it’s all hands on deck. Dismissed!”\nThe crew scatters around the ship, everyone goes to either their room, the kitchen, or argue on who uses the bathroom first.\nEvan takes a small picture out of his pocket. It’s a picture of Claudia. “I’ll find you.” He says as he looks outside of his cockpit, floating in the middle of the world between an infinity of stars scattered across the universe.\n\nSeptember 6, 2356\nThe crew were out in Las Vegas’s biggest casino ever, Sinner’s Gamble. It was a party. Barker, one of the crewmates, had already made $5 Million from the game Devil’s Mania. Created in 2200, both players pick a color, either black or red, then they have to call out for a demon in latin, and then the card on the table is flipped. The color revealed indicates the winner and they take the money on the table, it is said that the demon sees potential in the winner it chose to do his bidding, but people take that as a joke, they just take the money won out of it. \nAt the bar, Xalloma orders a raven’s cocktail, as someone else interrupts them while they’re ordering, “Can I please have a mojito with the special snake’s venom?” he says.\n“Excuse me,” Xalloma exclaims, “You can wait until I’m done.” \nThe guy touches their blue and pink afro-styled hair, “I’ll buy you a drink too, sweetheart.”\n“I’m not into guys, sorry.” \n“I’m not just any guy.” He smirks at them, touching their shoulder.\nXalloma grabs his wrist that’s on their shoulder and twists his arm, so fast, it makes a cracking noise loud enough to make the people around them pause their conversations and look towards X and the guy. “You’re the reason I’m not into guys like you.” As They dig their knee between his legs. \nThe guy quickly melts onto the floor, groaning as he mutters something, probably cursing her out.\nXalloma squats down, “If I see you again you’ll wish you weren’t a guy.” They say as he quickly tries to get up and run away.\nGlady, another crew member, runs toward the eye-grabbing scene, “What the heck, X?” she grabs them as they both go somewhere more secluded. \n“What did I tell you about avoiding any attention?” She interrogates them.\n“You know how I feel about pervs like him, I couldn’t bear another second breathing the same air as him.” Xalloma complains.\n“Ok, we don’t need any more of that irrelevant attention seeking, for the sake of the mission, X” Glady looked “old-fashioned” for someone that lives in the 24th Century. Natural Blonde hair, regular, white crop-tops, her makeup is limited to foundation and eye shadow. Lipstick during big events. She still drinks hot coffee. Only other person who still does that is Evan, which isn’t really from the 24th century.\n***\n“Sir, we have detected irregular seismic movement in 2105” The robot, Xello, informs the captain.\n“Is it him?” Evan asks\n“There’s a 71.92% chance it is.” She replies.\n“Set a course for Serbia 2105, then, and inform the rest of the crew to come back.”\n“Right away, captain.”\n\nAs the rest of the crew comes back. Evan briefs them on the details of the mission. And as the ship prepares for launch, the crew buckles up, passes around the cup of Tikeredomium, the element discovered in the 23rd century that counters the side-effects of Promidomium, the element that is released from the time-layers when time-travelling occurs.\n\nJanuary 29, 2105\nThe timeship flew from the no-time dimension into the air, hovering over Siberia. “Welcome to Siberia 2105, gang.” Blond says.\n“Best way to hide our tracks is to land on the mountain over there and take the hoverbikes into the city.” Evan tells them.\n“Roger that!” The whole crew says in unity as they put on their helmets: Blond, Barker, Xalloma, Gladys, and Eliette.\nAs the ship lands, Xello monitors the ship on the mountain as the rest of the crew rides into the 22nd century. The 24th century hoverbikes may look more modern compared to the ones used in the 22nd but it’s not going to raise any suspicions. Evan always wonders how people from his time would think if they saw a hoverbike: No wheels, the bike hovers over the floor using strong heat engines.\nThe crew visit the source of the seismic activity, down at the southern region of Siberia, which is now a part of China. In the middle of the snow, They come across a huge area of pure destruction. Houses turned into ashes, debris in the air, dark smoke polluting the air, making everyone that comes near cough, bones scattered, and there’s a huge hole in the center of the place.\nAs everyone coughs for a while while approaching the scene, Barker takes off his helmet, takes out a cigarette and lights it up. “That’s not really the best place to do it?” Eliette says. black hair, rosy cheekbones, gothic makeup.\n“Wait, they still have these things?” Blond points at the cigarette, coughing harder.\n“Hang on, is this supposed to be here?” Xalloma asks.\n“If it was, I would have remembered it from history class” Barker comments.\n“No you wouldn’t.” Gladys says.\nEvan scratches his beard, “Could this be nuclear?”\nBarker hits his cigarette as everyone else waits for the answer. “I dunno, could it?”\n“Well tell us.” Evan says, unamused.\nBarker hits his cigarette again, as he gets interrupted by X, pulling it out of his mouth “The Geiger counter, stupid.”\n“Oh, right.” He lets the smoke out of his mouth as he throws the cigarette away. He pulls out the Geiger counter and scas for radiation. as the finds no signs of radiation. “Nope, we’re clear!” He pushes the glasses up his nose.\nPart-relieved, part-worried, Evan approaches the hole dug into the ground, he sees claw prints on the ashes in that hole, claws he would always recognize. “Well, it’s Sphinx alright, we can’t miss him this time.”\n“Wait, so why exactly is this seismic activity considered ‘irregular’?” Eliette asks.\n“So irregular activity is mostly a result of time travel,” Blond starts, “It’s irregular because it changed the timeline in a way, since it wasn’t going to happen if a time traveler didn’t interfere. Don’t try it at home.”\nAs Eliette begins to respond, the floor starts shaking, interrupting her. \n“Guys” Gladys says\nEvan stands still.\n“Guys...” Gladys repeats herself.\n“We need to get out of here.” Barker says\n“No, he’s finally here.” Evan says.\n“I’ve been here” The voice is metallic, you can feel it vibrating through the floor, rushing everywhere. You don’t know where it’s coming from.\n“Show yourself!” Evan shouts at the cyborg.\nA figure comes out of the ground covered in ash, right from under Baker, punching his jaw as it goes up, flying in the air, as it lands on the ground facing Evan.\nOh no. It's him. They’ve been terrified to face him, they all took a step away from him, but not Evan. He was standing still even though the cyborg was closer to him than anyone else. \nSphinx was a half-man, half-robot that lost many of his limbs, internal organs, and the bottom part of his spine, as well as the part in his brain that supports vision, the occipital lobe at the back of his head, due to an accident in the lab he worked at in the 32nd century that worked on elements similar to Tikeredomium and Promidomium that is associated with time travel. Fortunately for Sphinx, his boss was a top-world surgeon that reconstructed him with robot technology, prosthetics, even adding a chip in his brain that acts as an alternative to the occipital lobes that programmed vision into him. Unfortunate for Sphinx, and the rest of the world, the time-travel elements were fused onto him, allowing him to travel anytime and anywhere, along with his enhanced strengths from the surgery, he was unstoppable, he didn’t care about the effects of time travel, he’ll go anywhere and wreak havoc as he pleases. That’s how he earned his nickname, the Sphinx. Just like how the Egyptian Sphinx was a hybrid creature, a half-man and a half-lion, so was the cyborg Sphinx.\n“Way out of your time zone, Sphinx.” Evan speaks quietly\n“I could tell you the same thing.” The Sphinx replies quietly too, with a raspy, metallic voice, and a mask covering his throat and mouth.\n“What do you want from 2105?”\n“I want to rule the world.” The cyborg raises his hands. “And you’ll all belong to me.” \nThis was the first time they had a sincere conversation that didn’t start with a fight. “You think you can rule the world just because you can travel through time?” Evan says.\n“If I go back to the right time, I can make everyone there bow to me, and then they’ll continue in all timelines. And I’ll visit all years to ensure I’m still the leader and I’ll be the only leader whom nations still bow down to for hundreds of years.”\n“You know you just sound stupid right now, don’t you?” Baker says from behind Evan.\nSphinx shoots a laser bullet at Baker before he could even add the question mark to his sentence. “You missed,” Baker says.\n“I know, I won’t next time”. Sphinx respond\nEvan quickly takes a sword covered with electricity out of his pocket, launching an attack before Sphinx could focus on him again. Sphinx blocks the attack with his metallic hand as he absorbs the electricity. “I know who you are, Evan.” He tells him as Evan steps back from surprise.\n“How do you know?” Evan says, shocked.\n“We fought before. But you don’t know it.”\n“What, how?” Gladys exclaims from behind.\n“I fought you after I killed all your petty friends,” he looks at Eliette through her helmet, “and your pretty ones, too. Your future is my past, Evan.”\n“Oh, he knows us alright.” Baker comments at the compliment.\n“I won’t fight you again, Evan. You already caused me great harm last time, this time, I’ll end you before your career starts.”\nSphinx vanishes from their eyes. “He’s gone.” X says as they all feel slightly relieved. But Evan feels far away from that now.\nEvan pushes the button at his ear, “Xello,” he calls the robot, “look for signs of Sphinx now.”\n“Copy that.” Xello responds as Evan gets on the Motorbike. Everyone else follows him.\n\nBack on the ship, Evan sits in the cockpit as Blond joins him. “What’s on your mind, boss?” He says, checking on him.\n“I’m worried. He traveled back in time, he could’ve done anything that affected me now.” Evan says, concerned.\n“Well, you’re still here, boss.” If he killed you the Domino effect would’ve caught up and removed you from here.\n”Well, then he’s about to do something that will stop me from ever being a time traveler.”\n“What was the point in your life that changed you, that made you join us?” Blond tries to make him reflect back on any events that formed his decision.\nEvan reached into his pocket, taking out the picture of his ex-girlfriend. “Her name was Claudia...” Evan sniffles, “she, uh, was the love of my life back in 2020...”\n\nMarch 23, 2022\n“There’s no way you can go out and party whenever you want with your friends but you won’t let me spend the night with my boys.” I was fed up with her. “You come back drunk and high and I have no idea what you did behind my back, and I had to clean up and take care of your crap!”\n“I never said you can’t hangout with your ‘boys,’” She was yelling back, “I just wanted you to cancel your little date with them because I feel sick and I don’t wanna spend the rest of the night alone.”\n“Yeah? Well what about last time, hm? Were you also sick when you told me not to go? Or the time before, where I had to leave them for an ‘emergency’ only to come back to find you with your friends, snorting coke, with a guy stripper, in my house.”\n“I didn’t want anything to do with him anyways, we were just having fun.”\n“Well go have fun with your friends, I’m done with keeping up with you.” I was at my max, I still regret letting myself do it, I’d never laid my hands on her before, but I’ve never felt this angry. I slapped her, the sound of the slap echoing, as she quietly told me to get out of her house. \nI never came back, didn’t text or call. I guess both of us were waiting for the other to make a move, but slowly, I lost hope of getting anything from her. I tried my best to do anything to move on. A couple months later, when I was attacked by a 25th century pirate that traveled through time to rob people, I was saved by Xalloma and Gladys, and welcomed me into their business. I finally felt like I have a purpose, like I can move on from what broke me the most. Eventually I rose up through the ranks and became the squad leader, that was after the old captain was killed by Sphinx, the day we saved you, Blond. \n\nJanuary 30, 2105\n“Have you ever reached out to Claudia again?” Blond asked Evan.\n“I tried, but when I came back, she didn’t live in her house anymore, I couldn’t trace her at all, anywhere.” Evan told him\n“Well we have technology from eras up to the 40th century, we can use them to find her, boss.”\n“Me and Xello have been working on finding her, we never found any records of her DNA anywhere or anytime. I need to fix things with her, Blond, I have to.”\n“Just don’t do anything you’ll regret, Evan, don’t change your past no matter what or you’ll mess everything up.” Blond pats his shoulder. “There’s no going back now”\nXello interrupts their conversation, “Captain Evan?” she asks him over the speaker.\n“Oh speak of the Devil” Blond says.\n“Yes, Xello.” Evan responds\n“It appears I’ve located Sphinx’s DNA in 2069. In Wisconsin. It appears I have also located DNA coded XYZ.”\n“No you did not,” Evan mutters, “Well, what are you waiting for?” He shouts at the robot on the speaker.\n\nDecember 5, 2069\nAs they land in an abandoned forest near the DNA signatures, Evan takes his hoverbike and rushes through the trees, toward the location. No comments, no orders given. Filled with rage, Evan quickly goes for the kill.\n“What’s he doing?” Eliette asks, as if anyone knows.\n“He’s going to do something reckless, that’s what he’s doing.” Blond says. “Let’s go, what are y'all waiting for.” Everyone gets on their bike and goes after the DNA signature, they’re not going to arrive in time to save Evan, though.\n\nEvan gets to the house, as he gets inside, he hears Sphinx talking. “He’s on his fantasy time-traveling voyage, he forgot about you… When he gets here I’ll be sure he watches me kill you… ”\nHis heart racing, his grip on his sword tight and his palms sweaty. Evan walks up the stairs slowly as the metallic shouting gets louder. He follows the source of sound.\n“P-please, let me go, I didn’t do anything to you.” A second voice comes out of the room, the sound of an old woman.\nEvan, then, speeds up his movement, reaching the room. He stands there, in shock.\nIt’s her. She looks completely different than she did 50 years ago. Claudia.\nClaudia…\n“Claudia!” Evan shudders, the sweat dripping from his palms.\nSphinx turns around, “Ah, he’s finally arrived. Took you so long.”\n“Don’t you dare touch her!” Evan screams at him.\nSphinx glides his sharp, metallic fingers across Claudia’s stomach, slicing it as she starts bleeding out. “Too late.” He chuckles maniacally, vanishing out of time again, leaving Evan and Claudia alone.\n“Claudia,” Evan runs towards her, applying pressure on her waist. “No, no, no.” Claudia doesn’t say a word. “Please,” Evan starts, “I never meant for it to be this way. I’ve always been looking for you. I did all of this time-travel crap to find you. I’m sorry I couldn’t reach out to you earlier, but I’ve tried, me and my robot have worked so hard to find you since you left your house. I didn’t know I made him find you, I’m so sorry. Say something. Please forgive me. I love you.” Evan starts crying, admiring her, her wrinkles, her white hair, holding her one last time.\nClaudia reaches her hand to grab his face, running her hand over his beard, it wasn’t there the last time she saw him. “My beautiful boy.” She says as he sobs loudly. “I don’t know how long it has been for you, but even 50 years later I never forgot you. I thought about you every day, I couldn’t bear coming back to you, I thought you hated me.”\n“But I love you, always have, always will.” He hugs her dying body.\n“Remember that I’ll always love you, my beautiful boy, you're destined for great things with that magical gift of yours. You can finally move on now sweetheart. Because I forgive you.” As she wraps her arms around him, without saying another word, for good. While he’s crying nonstop.\n***\nEvan leaves her body on the bed as he leaves the house, the rest of the crew were waiting for him outside. “Blond explained everything.” Eliette says, as she runs to hug him. Everyone follows, “He didn’t let us go inside.”\nEvan looks at Blond, broken “I couldn’t save her,” he says as he cries. “I have to save her. I need to go back.” He takes his hoverbike, rushing back to the ship as he goes back to the day where it all began.\n\nMarch 22, 2022\nWearing a helmet and a mask, Evan stalks his past-self in the picnic. He waits for the right moment to interfere with them and stop the upcoming argument and breakup, without revealing himself or messing up time.\nAs the night passes, he still can’t find the right time. While seeming creepy to them, he was filled with despair on the inside, uncertain.\nWhen past-Evan goes to Claudia’s house, the stalker stands still. He kept waiting and waiting until it was too late. He already started to hear them quarreling as he decides to go interfere. \nBut he remembered all the risks. If I change all of this right now, I’ll never be in despair and then never join the time travellers. He thinks to himself. I can’t change what happened. It’s too risky. Evan gets flashbacks of all the successful missions where they took down the worst time criminals, the memories of meeting each one of his crewmates. The memories of being a literal time traveler. There’s no going back now.\nHe takes the ship back to 2069 to pick up his friends, full of regret, despair, and depression.\n\nDecember 5, 2069\nTo the crew, the ship came back the second it left time. But to Evan, it felt like an eternity of hell. “You were right.” He told Blond.\n“Hey, It’s okay!” Blond assures him.\n“I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t save her.” He sobs in Blond’s arms, as they all come around to hug him.\n“She didn’t need saving,” Gladys tells him, “You just needed this to finally move on.”\nTheir moment was interrupted by Xello in their earpiece announcing: “Sphinx’s DNA signature has been located in 2860.”\n“To him, your career started in the future when you become the strongest traveler ever.” Xalloma tells him, “What he tried to do was to change his past, not yours. He wanted to make you weak now so you never take away what he lost from the battle you’ll fight in your future.”\nBaker lets go of the hug as he tells the squad, “well, what are you guys waiting for, let’s go catch us a Cyborg!”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: No Escape\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1983\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone being forbidden from doing something."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "CW: Some bloodshed and Violence. \nAlan was woken by a wave of icy water washing over his body. Jerking up from his bare bed frame, Alan shivered as a chilly breeze blew away all of his remaining warmth. Wiping the water and grogginess out of his eyes, a young Japanese soldier came into focus. Instinctively, Alan reached down for his trusty M1 Garand, when he remembered that he was in a concentration camp. \nEven though Alan had no weapon, he was determined to beat the living hell out of the Japanese fool for dumping water on him. Alan stood up to his whole height and towered over the enemy soldier. With a roar of rage, the American descended upon the cocky man, the look of fear in his eyes encouraged Alan as he landed one punch after another. Each punch to the man’s face was an act of revenge for Alan’s comrades. \nSuddenly, more Japanese cowards stormed into the tent, jumping up to confront the newcomers, Alan began to throw more punches. The swarm of soldiers looked like bugs as they were squashed by the American POW. Standing at 6’8 and 230 pounds, the POW was twice the size of his opponents. Just as it seemed like he was about to take on the entire Japanese squad, a crack of a gun silenced the crowd. The smell of gunpowder filled the air as the Japanese squad parted to make way for a thin man. Even though he was wiry, his smile brought fear to Alan, the gun in the small man’s hands rose slowly, until it was trained on the American Prisoner Of War. \n“Come with me.” The small Japanese man said with a smirk. \nSeeing no other way, Alan followed. Even though he was scared of the consequences, his eyes showed nothing but defiance. Looking back at the bloodshed he had caused, Alan was sure that his punishment would be death. Instead of forcing him against a wall and putting a round in between his eyes, the Japanese man led Alan into a small hut. Opening a hatch in the floor, Alan was shoved into the hole. From above the Japanese man and his soldiers smirked. \n“Don’t look so tough now.” A soldier spat in broken English. \nOthers just jeered and taunted Alan, showing no emotion, he coldly stared back at every one of them, like a hunter marking down his prey. However, in this case, Alan was powerless, he was stuck in a hole as the prey laughed from above. Before turning around and leaving, what the leader said chilled Alan to the bone. \n“Enjoy your stay at hell on Earth.”\nThe man and his soldiers closed the hatch and Alan heard the footsteps retreat and his dire realization soon settled in. In the pitch black, Alan felt around in his surroundings. In the end, the POW determined that the hole was around 5 by 5 feet, not even long enough for him to lie down. The hatch was around 12 feet up, too high to attempt an escape. \nFeeling defeated, Alan slumped down and sighed, this was a fate worse than death. Hours, days weeks even could have passed and Alan was going insane. With no one to talk to, he began to chat with imaginary figures. Nightmarish creatures haunted him in the dark, visions of his best friends dying in battle brought the once proud man to tears. Food and water were also a growing concern. Alan survived off of licking the water off the damp walls. Just as it seemed that all hope was lost, a click and the hatch opened revealing a Japanese soldier. Alan’s eyes burned as he stared at the light, fresh air filled his lungs and he was filled with hope. Was he getting set free? The Japanese Soldier tossed in a package and Alan rushed to rip it open. \nUnder the paper wrapping, there was a small canteen of water and some sticky rice. The portions were minuscule, before he could complain, the hatch slammed shut. Even though he should be thankful for being fed, all that Alan could think of was how the Japanese were prolonging his torture. They were keeping him on the brink of death, making him suffer; this truly was worse than death. The isolation was taking a heavy toll on him as well, some days, Alan would forget his own name, while some days he would just break down completely. Alan estimated that food and water came every five days, just enough for him to live. His once muscular body was now shrivelled, his excess skin draped across his body. \nThe same tortuous routine continued for many weeks before the hatch opened to reveal the small man from before. Saying something in Japanese, a ladder was thrown down the hatch. With all his remaining strength, Alan climbed the ladder, just as he was at the top, a soldier kicked him back down. Hitting the ground, Alan was winded, but he didn’t care, escape was in front of him. Even if he died falling, it would be better than his current situation. As he climbed again, the soldiers jeered and again, as he reached the top, Alan was shoved back down. Not giving up, Alan climbed up and was pushed back down multiple times. When the soldiers finally were satisfied, Alan clambered up the hole.\n Looking at the sunlight, Alan shed tears of joy and breathing in the fresh air, he felt alive. However, Alan did not have long to rejoice, he was immediately brought onto a podium, surrounded by all the prisoners. \n“Let this be an example of when you don’t follow the rules.” The small Japanese soldier yelled at the crowd. \nThere was no response, the prisoners stared uncomfortably. Some people looked upon Alan with a sympathetic look, which angered him even more, while others showed no emotion. \nThe speech continued and Alan was humiliated even more, finally, when the point was made, Alan was sent back to his living area. His living quarters was even more crowded than he remembered. The small room hosted ten bunk beds and a small table. As he walked into the room, the rowdy voices were replaced by hushed whispers. Alan lowered his head in shame as he sat on his thin mattress. \n“Hey, you did a very brave thing you know. I was here on the day you fought the soldiers. Even more impressed that you survived three months in the hole!” A friendly soldier with a thick British accent said as he approached Alan. \n“Not worth it, in the end, don’t think I can ever sleep in the dark ever again. Don’t even think I can sleep another night in this prison.” Alan answered. \n“My name is Robert Hawkins by the way, seeing as how thin you are, you can have my portion of food tonight.” The British soldier offered. \n“Thank you so much, I’m Alan Smith nice to meet you, Robert,” Alan responded. \nThat evening the food was scrumptious, though it was just plain rice, the portions were double of what he was fed in the hole. After eating Robert’s ration of food as well, Alan felt as if he had all the energy in the world. That night, however, nightmares haunted Alan and he could not fall asleep. Around midnight, Alan heard a creak as the door slowly opened and two soldiers stepped inside. After some chatter, the soldiers approached a man across from Alan and pulled out a syringe. Desperately wanting to act, Alan strained, but upon thinking about the hole, he stopped. Instead, Alan watched in horror as the soldiers injected it into the sleeping man. The man squirmed for a second but immediately settled down. The two soldiers hoisted the unconscious man up and lifted him out of the room. He did not know where the man was dragged to, nor why, but at that moment, he knew he had to escape. \nTime ticked by, Alan was full of excitement and nervousness for today was the day. Playing his escape over and over in his head, Alan knew that his chances of survival were low. However, he’d rather die than spend another night in this nightmare. At the brink of dawn, Alan slowly slid out of his bed. The guards were due for a shift change in a few minutes and would be the most tired. Hidden by the cover of darkness, Alan stepped outside the room as a chilling breeze hit him. Powered by adrenaline, he snuck through the thick bushes and past more guards. His heart thumping, Alan reached the barbed wire fence. Seeing a low point on the fence, Alan ripped off his shirt and covered the sharp barbs. Using his remaining energy, Alan started to clamber up the fence. Sharp points still cut him through his shirt and he was losing energy. The sun was rising and Alan didn’t have time, he was too weak from his months in the hole and was about to give up. Just as he was about to fall, a hand started to push at his feet. Alarmed, Alan looked down and was relieved to see his new friend, Robert’s silhouette. With the extra boost, Alan made it over the fence, looking back Robert was already climbing. Even though Robert was thin, he looked like a bodybuilder compared to Alan and made it up the fence with little trouble. However, jumping down the fence, Robert’s shirt caught one of the barbs and he yelped in surprise as he dangled on the fence. \n That yelp alerted the guards. As the soldiers clambered to get their guns and rush towards the sound, Alan was desperately trying to free Robert. Grabbing his friend’s feet, Alan started to pull as he saw the soldiers close in on them. Just as the soldiers reached the escapees, Robert’s shirt gave way and he fell onto the thick forest floor. Without a second thought, the two started to bolt. Gunshots followed the two and wood splintered beside them. As the canopy of the forest engulfed the two, stray bullets still flew past. Suddenly, Robert tripped and his leg gave an ugly crack as he fell to the floor. As Robert went to help his friend, a bullet struck Robert in the heart and he fell limp. \nUnable to process what happened, Alan turned around and started to run. Even when he could not hear the gunshots nor his pursuers, Alan continued to run. The man ran till the night and settled down by a small river. Alan could not sleep, sounds in the forest startled him and visions of Robert haunted the man. The sun reluctantly rose that morning as Alan continued his venture. Not wanting to get lost, Alan followed the river as he knew it would lead to the ocean. \nThe walk was gruelling, hunger chewed at Alan, but he continued, one step at a time. Hours later, the river enlargened and the trees dispersed. Even as night fell, Alan didn’t stop. Despite his raw feet and throbbing legs, Alan could no longer feel the pain. It must have been midnight as Alan’s feet touch the sand and the roar of the river grew into the splashes of waves. Falling onto the beach, Alan fainted due to fatigue. \nOn the next day, Alan was awoken by the chugging of ships and the roar of planes. Stumbling onto his feet, Alan was prepared to run, instead, he froze in fear as he saw the huge fleet of ships ahead. Like a tidal wave, the fleet came closer. There was no outrunning the Japanese this time, Alan thought in despair. However, something was off, upon closer inspection, Alan couldn’t believe his eyes. Instead of the infamous rising sun flag of the Japanese, Alan saw the Stars and Stripes. The Americans were here."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Trees\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1606\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a missing person nobody seems to know or remember."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "**Warning: Coarse Language**\nOutskirts of Salem Town, Massachusetts. 1694\nA brutal February wind rattled the front door of the lonely farmhouse. Small wisps of cool air wafting in through the thin walls tested the warmth of the dull fire burning. \nThe sisters dined on salt pork stew in an awkward silence.\n“Abigail, the trial-”\n“Enough about the trial, Mary. There is no evidence.”\n“But it did not go well, it’s only a matter of time before-”\n“I said enough about the damned trial.” Abigail glared at her sister across the table in frustration. She sighed heavily, disappointed at her outburst, and softened her tone. “They have no evidence because there is not anything to prove. This accusation is absurd.”\nMary looked away and frowned into her stew. She had barely eaten a thing.\nAbigail reached across the table and held her hand gently. “You are my sister. I will not allow anyone to hurt you. Do you hear me?”\nHer little sister nodded slowly, eyes still downcasted. Abigail returned to her dinner, picking at the potatoes. The door shook loudly against the frame, making Mary flinch with fear.\nAbigail paused and smirked at a sudden thought. “Mary, if anything is going to kill us, it will be this winter cold.” They both laughed dryly.\nAnother awkward silence.\n“So,” Abigail cleared her throat, “did you see-”\nThe door banged open. Three men entered the small kitchen, each one ducking through the low frame. Mary jumped out of her seat and retreated against the far wall, flattening herself against the cold boards. Abigail stepped between the men and her sister.\n“You are not welcome here” she stated, trying to mask the tremble in her voice with authority. “Leave this house at once.”\nThe first man shoved Abigail to the side. She tumbled over Mary’s discarded chair and fell to the floor. The other two approached Mary, their eyes solemn. The third man carried a hunting rifle.\nMary sobbed and pleaded frantically, “no, please, it is not true. None of it. I swear I am innocent.”\nThe two men grabbed her arms and began dragging her out of the house. She screamed and struggled, crying for her sister in despair. “Abby please! Please tell them! I am no witch!”\nAbigail struggled to stand, her long skirts tangled in the legs of the splintered chair. The first man stood guard by her, ensuring that she didn’t interfere. She called for Mary and began cursing at the men, cursing the chair, cursing her skirts.\nShe managed to stand, only to be pushed back down by the man. He wore a scarf to mask his face, but she recognized his unusual green eyes. He was a local farmhand employed at the neighboring property. She cursed him again, and in response he raised a calloused hand threateningly. She turned and called for Mary, but she had disappeared into the dark winter night with her assailants.\nThe gunshot cut through the howling wind and echoed into the house. Abigail froze in shock and let out a choked sob. The other men didn’t return.\nSorrow was diminishing to anger. Anger so strong her hands shook. As the first man went to leave she glared at him with pure hatred and vowed in a soft whisper, “I will not forgive this. God will not forgive this.” He paused and looked back at her, his eyes void of emotion. “You will suffer. Your children will suffer. A fate worse than death will befall your kind, sinners.” She spat the final word at him with defiance. Eyes downcast, he replied quietly, but his response was muffled through the scarf.\nFinally free of the chair legs, Abigail sprang from the floor and ran past him into the blistering cold. She followed the tracks left behind by the other men and her sister; a long steady trail between two sets of large boot prints. The light from the farmhouse only reached so far, but she continued into the night. If she has truly lost her sister, her only family, dying from the frost would be a far better fate than being hanged in the gallows.\nShe stumbled over a hidden stump and fell. Her mouth and nose filled with dense snow, but it tasted different. It tasted like copper.\n~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\nRural Danvers, Massachusetts.\n“C’mon John, break’s over.” Tim tipped his hardhat back to wipe the sweat off of his brow. The summer sun was relentless today.\n“I’m almost done my smoke, gimme five more.”\n“Hurry the hell up. Boss says we gotta start over there.” Tim pointed towards a grove of elms growing through dilapidated wooden ruins. “Trees are already marked.”\n“Great, why don’t I meet you there.” John took a long drag and smirked at his partner.\n“Yeah, nice try bud. Put that out and let’s go.”\nJohn exhaled, took another small puff, and flicked the cigarette butt into a nearby ditch. The duo approached the trees, each hauling axes and thick rope.\n“I didn’t think the city would develop this far out.”\n“They aren’t”, Tim replied. “Some rich guy bought all of this.”\nJohn scoffed, “you’re telling me some asshole with money to burn bought this mess? This shit hasn’t been touched in years. I didn’t even know you could buy it.”\n“Something about ‘historical value’ I think.” Tim adjusted his grip on the wood axe. “This used to be a small town.”\n“Another ghost town?”\n“Except there aren’t any ghosts.”\n“What do you mean?”\n“Local rumor is that everyone just disappeared one night. All gone.”\nJohn laughed. “Sure, whatever.”\nThey approached the sparse growth of trees, searching for any with a red slash painted on the trunks. Tim called his partner over to a marked tree, but John was distracted. He was staring at the first tree, unmarked, squinting in the sunlight. Tim walked back over towards him.\n“You deaf? I found one, let’s go.”\n“Does this look weird to you?”\n“The fuck are you talking about?”\nJohn pointed at the tree. “It looks funny.”\nTime scoffed “ok, man. We got work to do.”\n“No, I’m serious. Look at this shit.” He walked towards the trunk of the elm and started tracing pieces of the bark. “It doesn’t look right.”\n“It’s just knots in the wood.”\n“I know what knots look like. It’s just growing weird.”\n“It’s a fuckin’ tree.”\n“Tell me this looks normal to you.” John pointed at the contorted trunk. The bark had healed in different directions, creating odd shapes in the usually linear pattern.\nTim shook his head. “Man, I just want to get this done.” He started walking back towards the marked elm.\nJohn glanced at the tree once more, unable to lessen his uneasiness. He laid his axe on the forest floor and shrugged the coil of rope off of his shoulder. John snuck a quick look at the marked tree looming over his partner; everything about it was vastly different. The tree was taller, produced healthy growth, roots sunk firmly into the ground. But the bark was different, it grew naturally. He turned back to his elm and mumbled a quiet curse, inspecting it closer.\n“John, what the shit? The heat getting to you or something?”\nHe hesitated before replying, an idea slowly forming. “No, I’m good. I want to try something first.” He picked up his axe.\n“Stop fuckin' around and -”\n“Just humor me, then I’ll shut up about the stupid trees.”\nTim stepped back and huffed. “Be my guest.”\nJohn planted his feet wide, pulled the axe back over his shoulder, then swung at the tree. The sharp blade sunk into the wood. He swore he heard the tree groan in protest. He gripped the handle and yanked the axe out of the trunk. Nothing happened.\nTim scoffed. “You happy now?”\nJohn stared at the trunk dumbfounded. “I thought…”\n“We’re not paid to think. We’re paid to cut down trees. Now-”\nA small trickle of liquid began seeping from the axe wound. John pointed excitedly, “see, see that there?”\n“Yeah, it’s sap or whatever.”\nJohn stepped closer to the tree and bent down. The liquid definitely wasn’t sap. He took off his work glove and lightly touched the thin stream. The tree groaned again.\n“John, buddy, it’s a tree.”\nHe looked at his fingertips. The liquid was warm and thin. Red.\nTim stepped closer and noticed the unnatural sap on John’s fingers. “What is that?”\n“I think it’s…” John looked back at the quickly thickening stream. Almost gushing from the wood.\n“What?”\n“It’s kind of like....blood?”\n“What? No way. That’s impossible.”\n“Look for yourself. It’s definitely not sap.” He looked up at the tree again. The bark pattern started to make sense.\nTim knelt by the trunk and smelled the liquid. “It can’t be blood,” he mumbled.\nThe liquid saturated the ground and formed a puddle around their boots. \nJohn removed a can of spray paint from his tool belt and traced the odd circles with bright red paint. He frantically tapped the top of Tim’s hat. He stared at the painted outlines slack-jawed, eyes wide.\n“What, what, whaddaya want?”\n“Look,” John whispered, “look at the tree!”\nTim rose and stood next to John, still focused on the sap. “Should we call someone about this?” He looked up at the painted bark and fell backwards, startled. “That..that’s a-”.\n“A face. It’s a fuckin’ face, Tim.” John’s voice grew louder with panic. “We gotta go, man!”\n“What the hell happened here?” Tim rose to standing haphazardly, tripping over raised roots and shoelaces. He started backing away from the tree, unconcerned about his discarded axe. “What the hell, John?!”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Forgive Yourself\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2364\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character seeking forgiveness for something that happened in the past."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The light turned green, a dark blue car turned left and went down a one lane road to an arena at the end of the street. The lanes were empty and the sun was just overhead, birds sat on the telephone wires as the road stretched on. Driving around back coming into view was an elderly bald man cleaning his motorcycle. As the car became parallel to where it was once at the light. A boy in the driver's seat of the dark blue car, turned it off and exited. His dark blue hair long and waving in the wind not dissimilar to the long grass that brushed across the fence and then down to the pavement as it gently swayed in the breeze. \"Hey Ashton? Are you ready for your first day\" the elderly man said calmly as he approached the boy and handed him a key. \"It gets a little scary here at night some people say there's a ghost here; a young man got off the ice and died in the change room a few years back, don't be afraid if it sounds like someone getting on and off the ice when no one's here\". The elderly man smiled wisely and then approached the bike turning it on. The boy smiled in return, \"if I need anything I'll message you,\" he said as he waved and the man on the bike drove off, he thought to himself \"will he forgive me if I make a mistake, or as long as I own up to my blunder and learn am I given permission to be forgiven; if I work hard to vindicate my faults... earnestly I'm grateful for being permitted to work here.\"\n\n5 years later\n\nSnow swiftly slips from the dark blue ceiling of clouds. At the bottom of the hill near a theatre bears a house with a woman scorned. A long dark blue bus drives out of the theatre parking lot past the end of the street of the woman's house and up the hill. It reaches a library on the hills crest and the blanket of frost shifts from flurry to freefall. A dark room with pictures on the wall, and a poster at the door \"R.I.P Jack\". The room is empty and yet further up the hill we come to the same arena as years ago. Where the carpet of winter seemingly dissipates into the canvas of ice and scraped snow piles. The same boy, now a young man scrapes snow off the ice, pushing his shovel across the grate, the yellow crescent tapped clear against the ground before being hung by the man, the handle now carressed on the wall's red pronged hook. As he looked around, the ice was clear, the zamboni still steamed against the midnight air. He walked to the front of the building, locking the doors as he stared into the barren asphalt driveway. One of his headphones dropped from the shoulder and dangled freely, the man picked it up placing it on top of his ear, not as factory directed but audible nonetheless. The music echoed wub. . wub. . Wub a lub wub. . . Wub. . As his hand drifted down from re-allocating the ear-bud, his finger flicked the light and the arena darkened like a storm cloud. 3 or 4 lights lit the hallway along the changerooms towards the zamboni garage. The sound of skates carved the ice, scraping and dancing like the movements of a conductor's wand. The sound of a puck dropped, and the orchestra of noise harmonized a pattern of sweeping, a stick handling the puck, the man looked up to see an Indigo spectre floating across the ice, his arms imitated a shooting motion as he neared the goal-crease. The man laughed \"you know you can't make the horn sound\" the spectre phased through the ice door \"clank.. Clank..\" The steel handle rattled \"it's fun still, and who knows when you'll decide to permit yourself to move on from this place.\" The spectre's arm wind-milled and though it's legs were non existent, the image was reminiscent of a third base coach signalling a base-runner to go home. The man shrugged, holding his hands out to the side with palms open flat for a moment, as he continued towards the exit punching in his code on the security alarm and locking the door. He waited for 12 beeps to make sure the security system was armed before unlocking his dark blue car and sitting down in the driver's seat, his hair matched the metallic canvas of the automotive. The indigo spectre floated into the passenger seat. \"Man I sure am glad I'm not stuck in there anymore\" . The man glanced over at the spectre with a confused look across his brow, \"how come you're in the car with me this time??\" A cold wind blew, the summer air was around the corner though snow was dripping from the dark skies above the temperature all day had been warm enough to begin melting the snow piles; and yet, the man could see his breath as clear as if he was in the arena. . . .\nAll of a sudden, another Indigo blob was sitting in the backseat. \"What's up fella's??\" The spectre chuckled, his frame much larger than the younger looking spectre sitting in the passenger seat. The man exited the car, key still in the ignition, his movement so abrupt both headphones fell out of his ear placement and dropped to the floor. \"You're her uncle..\" The boy stuttered.. The spectre in the passenger seat laughed \"oh that's the girl you cheated on, you said you loved her but never were willing to forgive yourself for your past and move on\".. Tears crept against the boys eyes, his glare and blank as a doll's, the large ghost in the back chuckled again, \" it's time you move on kid, don't be so glum chum, fall down 6 times get up 7, all those fortune cookie advice nuggets. Speaking of fortune cookie definitely feeling Chinese food.\" The man snapped out of his trance you can't even eat food\" the spectre chuckled again, the man smirked, he was still the same soul as when he was alive. The large spectre responded \"it's called living vicariously\" the young spectre laughed hysterically \"is it ironic now me always going on the ice?\" The man chuckled, alright give me a couple weeks and I'll try to the leave. The large spectre spoke, this time without a laugh, \"you don't need them to forgive you for leaving, you need to forgive yourself for expecting some sort of fairytale ending\" . The man picked up his headphones, the fall had damaged one and it was broken, he hurled it towards the garbage thinking \"if this goes in I'll leave in the fall.\"\nBa-tang.. The first one hit the back and dropped in. \"All or nothing now!!\" The younger spectre was floating upside down in front of the young man's face. The young man smiled chucking the second ear-bud underhand towards the bin.\n\n5 years later.\n\nAn orange and white box on wheels follows behind a long rectangular blue bus going up from the bottom of the hill to the top of the Hill. The bust leaves a parking lot with images drawn on a nearby bridge, up past the library and towards two 10 story apartment buildings. We arrive at the same room as years ago, but this time it's completely empty. Boxes line the hallway and a garbage bag full of clothes, a bed comforter wrapped around a tv and the walls stripped naked. A man still young in appearance but fully grown in maturity paces across the kitchen, his hands dirtied with spray paint from the night before. His phone lights to let him know his Uhaul has arrived out in the front of his apartment. \"Have you seen Jack??\" The man spoke to the large Indigo spectre on the patio smoking. The spectre shrugged palms flat out, the boy went to lift the first box closest to the door. \"Knock, knock\" the man jolted upright \"Jack?\" He muttered. \"No, it's just you\" the large spectre was sitting in a wooden chair strung with a hammock to make the seat. The large spectre chuckled \"I think Jack is at peace now.\" The man walked towards the door awkwardly opening it with one hand and holding it ajar with his hip. He smiled \"I'm glad one of you his done with me\" . The large spectre laughed hysterically \"that's the spirit! Give yourself permission to forgive, move on and go with the flow\" he smiled wisely and his spectacles glisten. The man walked up and down the stairs moving the items from his room and packing the box on wheels. The large spectre chuckled at the music the man was listening to, commenting with every song change. When the moving was done the man drove west, day turned to night and no more birds sat on telephone wires as he drove down an empty highway seemingly alone, but with the large blue spectre in the passenger seat. The man arrived in his new apartment and unpacked his things. He assembled the wooden frame for his bed organized the floor space for his furniture; when surprisingly, just as he finished, the large blue spectre was gone. He adjusted the lights to his vivarium and locked the door behind him as he left, no more boxes cascaded in the walkway of the room, but the walls still lay absolutely bare. The man walked through the streets gazing at the changes since he was last in the city 8 years prior. He roamed and ventured on, until he came upon a billiards bar. A place where he had once gone on a date with the love of his life. He entered and racked up the balls after placing two loonies into the machine, shaking the table to make sure all the billiards balls were released by the internal holding mechanism. \"Knock, knock, knock, knock knock,\" the larger blue ghost had appeared through the side entrance with another taller spectre, perhaps only a year younger than the man. \"Shaun you're back\" the boy smiled joyously, \"and you brought Nickita, I thought you chose to be a dog before moving on?\" The taller spectre un-crossed his arms placing one hand over his forehead \"bruv being a dog is the life\" he wiped away his hand and placed it on the man's shoulder in front of him \"thanks for keeping your promise, it's okay to forgive yourself for more than just one thing every 5 years you know. Ashton looked down and up and in the blink of an eye, the taller spectre was gone. He smiled to himself and continued playing pool with the larger spectre. They chuckled and joked and the large spectre asked the man to order fries and drink shots. The entire time the man was completely oblivious to anyone else who may have wondered why he was talking to himself, such as they were unable to see and interact with spirits and he was. As the man's pocket weighed easy, he and the large spectre walked home, the man now trudging, and the indigo blue ghost floating over the sidewalk, causing people who he passes through to look around sensing the eerie presence ever so subtly. As the man reached his home, and noticed a Chinese food take out menu on the door handle of his apartment, his neighbors presumably already home for the night had removed theirs, and the tile floor was all that contrasted the wooden doors.\nWhen morning came the man began to hang the paintings, he ordered Chinese food from the menu on the door handle; it arrived with extra fortune cookies. After a long day and a full belly the man sat down on the chair strung with the hammock, he had treated the wood smooth from layers of oil and hours of sanding. He sat and thought to himself looking at his school records, he was one year away from a 10 year long journey to achieve a university degree. \"All those years spent working at the arena to become a better more diligent worker, and constantly making up for my mistakes, maybe I can finally forgive myself, and start fresh here, where it all started in the first place. He looked around but the large blue spectre was gone, \"Knock, knock,\" Ashton looked around but still, no ghost in sight. He walked closer to the door, \"Knock, knock\" he walked closer still, unlocking the deadbolt and turning the handle.\nFinally in his moment of forgiveness, by some magic of the universe, there she was, the woman scorned.\n\"I hope you'll forgive me\" she said, \"I needed to give myself permission to let you have another chance\" , the boy smiled, tears ran down his face, in this moment he understood, \"I'm humbled you gave yourself permission, but you don't need my forgiveness, you've always had it, and now, maybe I have some of it to.\" He paused for a second, \"why are you here?\" The woman smiled, \"I saw before you left, you drew a picture on the wall of the theatre at the bottom of the hill by my house, you promised me you'd do it, I was surprised you remembered all these years later.\" The man had come to understand that forgiveness exists because people make mistakes, and they have to be given permission to make those mistakes, even if sometimes it takes a lot of effort and dedication to make yourself feel worthy of forgiveness. \"I'm sorry my actions in the past needed forgiveness, the man said, I've never known how long it takes to be forgiven, when are you permitted to move on is something I'd debate\" he chuckled to himself thinking of the foolishness of debating with a ghost. \"I promise to love you forever & always, I hope you'll forgive me for that\"\n\nIn honor of my fallen friends\nJack S\nNick M\nAshton C\nShaun G"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Long March of the Silent Sentinels\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2609\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character breaking a rule, but for good reason."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Lucy Lovell Could outrun any of the boys in her sixth grade class. It was June 1910 and this would most likely be her final year at Marsh Flats School since girls didn't need a formal education like the boys did.\n\"You ain't nothing but a tomboy, Lucy Lovell.\" Gunther Borsch Yelled as she crossed the finish line in her bare feet.\n\"I beat you, Gunther. That's a fact.\" She yelled back her retort. Gunther's plump face turned red as some of the onlookers laughed.\nHer father Zachiah was sitting on the buck board loosely holding the reins of Jezebel, their quarter horse waiting for her. \n\"I see ya won again.\" He spit some chewing tobacco on the ground.\n\"I never lose.\" She smiled as she climbed up into the wagon.\n\"How was school?\" He snapped the reins and Jezebel began to move. The wagon creaked forward.\n\"Billy Jenkins threw up in class.\" She declared.\n\"Darling, me and your mom had a word last night and we think this will be your last year in school.\" He swallowed hard.\n\"But why, pa?\" Big round tears began to form at the corners of her big blue eyes.\n\"Girls don't need no schooling.\" He coughed as the wagon wheel caught a big rut in the gravel.\nIt was quiet for the rest of the ride home that took the better part of an hour.\nTrue to his word, his daughter Lucy would never attend another class ever again. The years in upstate New York would float on peacefully like a big old fluffy cloud. In 1914, war broke out in Europe, but that was a whole world away as she started to become a woman. Billy Jenkins asked her to be his girl and accompany him to the Saturday night dances at the Grange hall.\n\"Billy, I don't wanna be your girl.\" She told him under the big elm tree next to the hall.\n\"Why not? Are you sweet on someone else?\" He removed the oversized straw hat from his head revealing his well-oiled red hair.\n\"Nope.\" She shook her head bouncing a pair of ponytails. \n\"Then why not?\"\n\"I just don't want no boyfriend hanging around me.\" She tilted her head. Someone opened the door and the sour notes from a fiddle leaked out. \"C'mon Billy, I reckon we'd better be getting inside.\"\n“You are the most stubborn person I know.” He twisted his face in disgust as they walked in together creating the appearance that they were a couple.\nIn April, 1917, President Wilson declared war on Germany after finding the Zimmerman memorandum. People were still pretty upset with the sinking of the Lusitania by a German U Boat without warning off the coast of Ireland. Every town sent in soldiers to muster young men to help fill the ranks. Billy Jenkins was one of those who volunteered, signing his name on the roll sheet in front of the sergeant. Even as the new recruits marched out of the town, nothing seemed to change until the telegram came to the Jenkins', informing them that their son had bravely died in action. \nEmotionally, Lucy was hit hard by the news of Billy’s death and the next day she volunteered as a Red Cross aide. With nuns buzzing around the facility like bees in a hive, Lucy found herself lost. The soldiers who occupied the beds were missing various pieces and parts of themselves they had left on battlefields they could not even pronounce. Many of them had not even begun to shave. Some had left high school to join the fray and now they were here, bandaged and on morphine for the pain. \n“What’s your name?” One of the men asked her after she changed his bedpan. She saw the bandages were placed over his eyes.\n“Lucy.” She answered, startled by his current condition. “What happened?”\n“Lost my eyes when an artillery shell exploded near me. I was the only survivor.” He explained. \n“What is your name?” She asked, fighting off the tears. \n“Tom. Thomas Gehring.” He smiled, “My mother told me to use my proper name when speaking to a woman.” \n“It is a pleasure to meet you, Thomas Gerhring.” She put her hand over his.\n“Miss, that is not allowed.” One of the nuns snapped as she passed by.\n“Sorry.” She was not really sure who she was apologizing to at that moment. \n“I’ll be going home in a couple of days.” He informed her.\n“I’ll bet they’ll be glad to have you home.” She said.\n“I’m not so sure. Pa says having a blind son is not much help around the farm.” His voice trailed off as his head fell to his chest. “They want me to go to some school for the blind. I don’t want to go.” \nTears began to roll down her cheeks.\n“Sister Lucy.” One of the nuns spoke to her in the privacy of her office. “You must not let their stories affect you.”\n“How can I not?” She sniffed.\n“You must learn. You must ask for God’s help and strength. What we do here is His work.” Her voice was kind. Lucy was calm at last. “Come with me child.”\nFor the rest of her time there that day, Lucy became Sister Marie’s shadow as the elderly nun tended to the men in the facility. A man missing his left leg was helped into the bathroom to relieve himself. It made him happy that he was able to move without the use of his missing leg. Lucy was doing just fine until one of the men hemorrhaged and died as a priest administered last rites. \n“He died.” Lucy sobbed.\n“God called him home.” Sister Marie patted Lucy on her back. \nOn her way home, Lucy saw a group of women gathered in front of the Town Hall with placards and signs proclaiming that women needed to vote just like the men. Police were called in to break up the crowd using nightsticks. \nHitting a woman was wrong, Lucy had been told by the minister during a sermon, but here these policemen were striking these women with their hard night sticks. Some of these women were bleeding from their heads as the police put them in handcuffs, leading them to a wagon.\n“Mrs. Phillips, your husband will deal with you.” One of the uniformed policemen waved his finger at a woman placed in the wagon. \n“You have a wicked soul.” She retorted. He responded by striking her on the head. \n“Lucy, women have no place voting.” Her father said as he used a pitchfork to put some fresh hay in the horses’ stall. \n“The police hit the women.” She was helping him feed the horses.\n“Hmpt, that is not a good thing, but these women were breaking the law.” He leaned on his pitchfork. \n“Breaking the law?” She repeated it as if it was a question.\n“Voting is a privilege for men who work.” \n“Women work as well.” She put more hay in the stalls. \n“These things are not always clear, you see.” He said, hoping she would drop the subject. \n“Papa, I’ve spent a month at the Red Cross and I’ve seen things I wished I hadn’t. I held soldier’s hands of soldiers who were dying. I made sure their letters got mailed even if I had to pay for the postage.” Lucy was physically shaking. Her father paused to take a good look at her.\n“Darling, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what to tell you.” He sighed.\n“There is nothing to say, papa. It’s time to give us the vote. Who knows what we can do...together.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head.\nShe got to town early and stood in front of the Grange Hall remembering when her and Billy went to the Saturday night dances. Life seemed as light as a feather, but now there were heavy weights pulling her under into the muck and mire. \nSister Marie sat in one of the chairs on the porch of the building smoking her pipe. She waved to Lucy and Lucy back.\n“Just taking a break.” Sister Marie said as she puffed her pipe, “A big train came in with lots of boys on it. Seems like it gets worse and worse.” \nAs soon as Lucy opened the door, the metallic odor of blood nearly made her swoon. There were moans and groans that sounded like a very sad anthem. The varnished old wooden floors were slippery with blood. \n“Could you give me a hand, Lucy.” One of the nuns asked as she tried to stem arterial flow from the leg of one of the patients. “Put some pressure right here.” \nLucy did as she was told, but the soldier slipped away once they got the bandage in place.\n“Shame.” The nun said as she put the sheet over the dead soldier. “Sometimes the voyage does ‘em in more than their wounds.” \nLucy had never considered that these soldiers had been transported across the Atlantic where German U Boats patrolled regularly. \nIt was snowing when Lucy walked out of the building. Dawn struggled to crack the icy horizon, but the women were standing in front of the town hall again carrying their signs and placards. \n“Hey you! Red Cross aide.” One of the women carrying a sign that simply read “Vote!” called out to her.\n“What?” Lucy was weary from not getting sleep. \n“Come join us.” She seemed friendly.\nAs if under a spell, Lucy walked over where she was handed a sign, “Vote NOW!!!” It seemed more urgent than the others, but as soon as she held it, she felt the power surge through her like electricity. \nWhen the police came, she kicked the officer before he could strike her with his nightstick. Running to his fallen comrade’s aid, the next officer was met with a stick across his head bringing him to his knees. The second blow put the policeman on his back. \nSuddenly the police were on the defensive, but that didn't last as one of the officers drew his pistol and fired it at one of the protesters. With a groan the protester grabbed her stomach and fell to her knees as blood ran freely through her fingers. immediately the riot was over.\n\"They killed her in cold blood.\" Lucy told her father at dinner.\n\"I do not want you with those women.\" He said, slamming his fist down on the table. \"Ain't nothing but a bunch of Reds. Women ain't got no place voting, right Elma?\"\nShe was silent.\n\"Things are fine the way they are.\" He left the kitchen In an angry huff.\n\"What do you think, ma?\" Lucy leaned her head on her knuckles.\n\"I think It's time for women to have their say.\" She Said in a steady calm voice. There was a twinkle in her eye as she spoke, \"Your papa is a good man, but he's set in his ways. His Republican world is just fine the way it is.\"\nHer chuckle was gentle as though it had been tempered over time. Absentmindedly, she took her daughter's hand.\n\"Mallory Kline was the woman who was shot.\" Lucy shuddered as she spoke.\n\"She was the druggist's wife.\" Alma shook her head.\n\"Yes, and now he's a widower.\" Lucy bowed her head.\nThe history was a long one, but as of the present, women were not allowed to vote. When Wyoming was a territory, the territorial law permitted women to vote which had sent a shock wave through the country. Before that the Seneca Falls Convention of 1848 changed the outlook for women forever as Elizabeth Cady Staton called for the woman’s right to vote. They called themselves the silent sentinels, ever vigilant and dedicated to the long march that had taken them over seven decades thus far. \nThe radical idea just could not move the mountain, but Lucy felt the tremor of change sweeping over the country as the Great War raged on. Once one rock began to fall, the rest would be sure to follow. \nHer experience at the Red Cross had changed her, made her more cynical about the status quo that had existed for over a century. Watching the police break up the protests had made her more determined to continue to stand up for a woman’s right to vote. \n“We will vote.” Mary Wickman stood up at the meeting in the Grange Hall to make a motion to the committee.\nThere was a gasp and then silence.\nThe chairperson banged the gavel and with all the color drained from her face, declared, “Vote? It would break the law. It would cause a disruption.” \n“How else can we possibly make our point? Disruption is what it takes to tip the scales.” She continued. As she said that, Lucy stood up next to her to show her support for her colleague.\n“Let’s vote.” She managed to find her voice. “What can they do to us that they have not done already?”\nMurmuring broke out as the entire assembly began to chatter about the proposed illegal action they were contemplating.\nMrs. Barrett, the chairperson, stood there with her mouth open, unable to say a word as the chattering became even louder. There was a chant that filled the air, starting out as a quiet anthem until everyone was singing it at the top of their voices, “We shall overcome…” \nOn the first Tuesday of November, the entire delegation arrived at the polling place, but the police had already arrived, forming a line to prevent them from entering the voting booths. There was pushing and shoving just like there always was. Lucy was nearly knocked off her feet. When she looked up she saw her father standing there having just signed the voting roster. She could tell he was not pleased by her presence with the others. He just shook his head.\n“Please step back!” A policeman shouted at the women who had gathered in the front of the polling place. “What you are about to do is illegal.”\n“We came here to vote just like the men.” Mrs. Barrett spoke up.\n“You can’t do that.” He answered.\n“Try to stop us.” She yelled over the din. \n“We will-” The policeman was not able to finish as the crowd mobbed the voting booths.\n“Stop them!” The city councilman in charge of the entire operation told the policeman. \n“We are doing our best.” He managed to speak before he was knocked off his feet.\nLucy managed to get inside the voting booth. Once there she saw the machine appeared as some futuristic contraption from a dime science fiction novel. There was a lever. She pulled it down and heard a click. She had no way of knowing who she voted for, but she was sure that she had done it.\nShe felt someone grab her hand.\nShe felt the cold steel around her wrists restricting any movement.\nShe heard the voice of someone telling her she was under arrest.\nShe was told not to resist.\nShe obeyed.\nThere was no use resisting.\nThere was no use fighting what was about to happen to her.\nThe important thing was that she had pulled the lever and voted. \nThree days later after she went back to the Red Cross building, Sister Marie gave her a quizzical look over her wire framed glasses, “So where have we been, Miss Lovell?”\n“In jail.” She answered.\n“My goodness, what evil became you?” She was aghast.\n“I voted.” She answered.\n“Voted, eh?” A smile cracked across her brittle face, “Good for you.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Man in the Lobster Mask\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2609\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who visits their hometown for the holidays and reconnects with a former love interest."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Nick was certain the yellow bungalow was the right place, but he checked his crumpled note again – and then again – and swallowed a lump. It had only been a week since he last saw Darlene, but it felt like a lifetime ago.\nHe straightened his tie, sniffed his bouquet of roses, and patted his box of chocolates. Then he walked up to the drain pipe, scampered onto the roof, and dove down the chimney.\nHe rolled out the fireplace and right into the living room, where with a practiced kick and tuck, he somersaulted to standing, right in front of a bleary-eyed woman in bathrobe and curlers.\n“Darlene!” he said, thrusting the flowers and chocolates into her arms, and knocking her mug of coffee to the carpet. “I can’t stop thinking about you! I think I love you!”\nHe swept her into his arms and pulled her into a kiss, just as magical as the first one they shared a week prior, in this very spot, under the mistletoe and illuminated by the magical twinkling lights of the Christmas tree.\nThey startled each other when she walked in on him working, and their eyes met. She brushed the cookie crumbs off his beard with the most delicate fingers in the world, and fell into his arms as though she had always belonged there. Their kiss lasted a second – or an eternity – and Nick might have stayed there forever if his ride hadn’t been stomping around impatiently on the roof, carving divots with its hooves. Duty called and he left her then, but his heart already knew what his mind hadn’t figured out yet – he’d be back. He’d finally found what he didn’t even realize he was looking for.\nThis kiss was just as magical as the first.\nExcept… it wasn’t. The Christmas tree was a week gone. Quickly cooling coffee was making a wet mess of his pant leg. And Darlene didn’t seem to be into it. The whole thing felt like kissing a reindeer caught in the headlights, and besides, she tasted of tobacco and bourbon.\n“Darlene,” said Nick, pulling back. “Are you all right?”\nDarlene dropped the flowers and chocolates and screamed. She pushed Nick back into the mantle, and then she screamed louder.\nSuddenly a man ran in from an adjoining room. At first worried, he snarled when he spotted Nick. Given his size, muscles, and hairiness, Nick was reminded of a polar bear.\n“Oh, shi–” was all he managed, before the bear man punched Nick’s head through the drywall.\nWhen he came to, things were mostly a blur. He was ushered from cell to desk to cell, barked at by uniforms and monotoned at by a public defender. His mind knew he should have paid more attention – breaking and entering was his least charge – but all his heart could focus on was breaking. That, and the splitting headache.\nA bathroom mirror revealed the whole right side of his face was swollen. And right there, along his forehead, was the imprint of a ring the bear man wore. Unassailable proof that Darlene was married.\nCould the magical miracle Christmas kiss have been mistaken? Was he a fool for dreaming up a soulmate from a single impulsive interaction?\nHe felt like a rag worn down to its last threads.\nThen things got more complicated when his public defender realized Nick wasn’t even a citizen.\n“Jeez, that’s way above my pay grade. You better contact your embassy.”\nA phone call and some string-pulling later, Nick found himself in the spacious mahogany office of ambassador Sprinkles McTinselmuffin.\nSprinkles spun around in his leather chair and slammed his glass so hard his whisky spilled everywhere and the bells on his hat and shoes jingled.\n“What the hell are you doing to me, Nick?”\n“I’m sorry, Sprinkles. I messed up.”\n“We’re in the middle of incredibly sensitive trade negotiations with the Americans! I can’t have you bumbling it all up!”\n“I’m sorry.”\n“The North Pole needs American cobalt! You get that, right? Our agriculture sector’s future depends on it! What happened with you anyway?”\nNick swallowed hard, and looked at the tiger-skin rug adorning the floor. “I fell in love.”\n“Oh, for cookies’ sake.” Sprinkles sighed, then lit a cigar.\n“She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met,” said Nick.\n“Is this that toe kissing broad you told me about?”\n“Mistletoe, yeah.”\n“Yeah, well,” Sprinkles said, bathing his desk in smoke, “given your laundry list of charges, she don’t sound so great to me.”\n“She is! Only… I don’t know what happened. It’s like she didn’t even recognize me.”\n“You were read the riot act is what happened. A purple and green face doesn’t really synergize with your red uniform – you get me?”\nNick nodded.\n“Best you forget her. Guys like you and me, we marry our jobs. You want to have a bit of fun and get your chestnuts roasted? Go down to the docks like any other self-respecting elf. And forget about this love nonsense.”\nNick frowned down at the rug again.\n“Now listen,” said Sprinkles. “I can make this problem go away. The chief of police owes me. But in exchange, you gotta do something for me.”\n“What’s that?”\n“It’s the Plumbers’ Annual Holiday Masquerade next week – I don’t need to remind you this is the biggest charity event of the year – and I’m on the hook for providing a handsome bachelor for the bachelor auction.”\n“No.”\n“And my cousin, Dimples Cheeryfrolick, fell off the wagon again – on the wagon? Whatever.”\n“Forget about it!”\n“So you’ll take his place.”\n“Not going to happen,” said Nick, crossing his arms.\nSprinkles shrugged. “That or twenty-to-life.”\nUltimately, Nick agreed. The masquerade was at the famous Caraway Imperial Hotel, and the palatial conference room transformed into a breathtaking ballroom with a chequered floor, three dozen industrial chandeliers, and a tasteful assortment of sponsor advertisements plastering the walls. The guests were just as extravagant, though they treated it as a regular costume party instead of a mask-on-stick affair.\nNick dressed up as a lobster, the red shell affording comfort against the stomach befluttering auction.\n“Crowd’s looking lively,” said Sprinkles, peeking through the curtains to the stage. He came dressed as a frat boy, but claimed it was a “Roman senator.”\n“I can’t do this,” Nick said, swallowing bile. “Crowds make me nervous.”\n“You’re kidding, right? You? The guy that visits literally everyone on the planet each year?”\n“Yeah, but not all at once.”\nSprinkles shook his head. “I had no idea. Whatever, don’t worry about it. All you have to do is stand there and shake your money maker.”\nNick wrung his hands, and then Sprinkles shouted “It’s go time!” and slapped him on the carapace, and suddenly Nick stumbled onto the stage.\n“Ladies and gents,” shouted the auctioneer, “rev up your wallets, because our next entrée is Naughty Nick!”\nThe crowd roared, streamers filled the air, and the synth of Haddaway’s What is Love beat like a heart beneath it all. And all around Nick was a sea of cheering monsters. And appliances. And food items. And a pencil crayon, and a sexy nurse, and a frog. There was even a ghost and a pumpkin.\nIt’s Hallowe’en – in January, he thought. The absurdity unknotted the tension in his shoulders.\nHe shifted his weight once, and again faster. Thrust his hip out and snapped his claws. Started dancing to the crowd’s whooping. They were into it. He was into it. He grinned. Maybe this was okay, as far as favours went.\n“Look at those swimmerets shake!” the auctioneer called. “I feel my water boiling – how about you?” The crowd whistled. “Excellent! Let’s start the bidding at two dollars!”\nNick almost fell off the stage under the weight of his sudden scowl. The bidding shot to $3.25, and then $4.00, and even $5.50. So it went, creeping ever closer to the heady heights of $10.00. Nick didn’t wake up that day, thinking he was worth only ten dollars, but now he prayed with all his being that he’d be worth at least that much. He jigged and jazzed and twerked with all his might.\nThen a flamingo raised her auction paddle and announced, “One thousand.”\nThe crowd gasped, and the music stopped. The flamingo, under her sequined pink demi-mask, smirked.\n“Two thousand,” said an astronaut, one hand resting severely on her hip.\nNick’s knees almost gave out. The crowd cleared away from the two bidders, nobody wanting to get caught in the crossfire. Dead silence rang, except for a single party-goer dressed as a tumbleweed, dashing for safety with squeaky shoes.\nThe auctioneer licked his lips. “Do I hear–”\n“Three thousand,” said the flamingo.\n“Four thousand!”\n“Five!”\n“Six!”\nThe flamingo snarled. “Seven thousand.”\nExcitement bubbled through the crowd, and the flamingo crossed her arms with utmost smugness. All eyes fell on the astronaut.\nThe astronaut tapped her foot, deep in thought. She studied both her rival and Nick – especially Nick.\n“Ten thousand,” she finally said.\n“Ten thousand and one!” screamed the flamingo.\n“Twenty thousand,” said the astronaut with finality.\nThe auctioneer covered his mouth to keep from swearing into the mic.\n“Whoo boy,” Nick mumbled. His forehead was sweating under his mask. Twenty large. What would he have to do for the winner, to warrant that kind of a donation?\nThe flamingo sputtered with frustration. A large man in a polar bear mask approached her and whispered something. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to hear it. She shoved him back into the crowd.\n“I’m prepared,” said the flamingo, “to double that.” At this point the polar bear man clutched his head in misery. “But first, I want to see who the man beneath the lobster is.”\n“Do it,” hissed the auctioneer. “Take off the mask! It’s forty grand!”\nNick gulped. Forty grand indeed. Well, what was one night of being treated like a commodity? At least he wasn’t in prison. And besides, it was for charity. He was nothing, if not a giving man. With a heavy exhalation, Nick removed his mask.\nEveryone gasped again, but nobody more loudly than the flamingo. She also removed her mask, revealing none other than Darlene.\nNick’s heart skipped a beat. What were the odds? This had to be fate. They did belong together. It was a Christmas miracle! Well, a January miracle anyway.\nBut his growing grin was garrotted by her glower.\n“It’s you!” she hissed, her spittle flying, her trembling finger leveled at him.\nOkay, so maybe ‘miracle’ was a strong word.\n“It is you,” said the astronaut. Her helmet hit the ground with a dull thud. And this time, even Nick joined the crowd in the gasping, for beneath her mask was none other than–\n“Darlene!” Nick said. He looked from one Darlene to the other, not believing his eyes, but both women were identical – except the flamingo was furious, and the astronaut was smiling. “Two Darlenes! But how?”\n“Buffoon!” sneered the flamingo. “Darlene is my half-witted twin sister – which is still a full quarter wit more than you!”\n“And Arlene,” said Darlene, “is my bitter shrew of a twin sister, forever jealous of everything and the moon.”\n“Oh ho!” muttered Sprinkles, poking his head out from behind the stage curtain. “You didn’t say it was twins, Nick ol’ boy.”\n“Shut up,” Nick hissed. “I didn’t know.”\nSprinkles wiggled his brow luridly.\nArlene scoffed and crossed her arms. “Now I see what’s going on. Darlene, you really know how to pick them. Did you know that this is the pervert that threw himself at me and kissed me?”\nAnother gasp from the crowd.\n“Nick!” said Darlene. “Is this true? You kissed my sister?”\n“I, um–”\n“I thought we had something special!”\n“We do! We definitely do! I didn’t mean to kiss her. It was all a mistake.”\n“A mistake? How do you kiss my sister, ‘by mistake?’”\n“Er, well, it’s just you two look so much alike–”\nBoth sisters arched an eyebrow so severely it murdered all sound.\n“The devil did you just say?” asked Arlene. “Me, look like her?”\n“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” said Darlene. “I thought you were truly different. I thought you cared.”\n“I do! I am! What I meant was – it was still dark out, see? And I’m not a morning person, like at all, and I didn’t have any coffee yet, plus my glasses, and – wait. Do you live with your twin sister? Doesn’t that get confusing?”\n“I was visiting for the holidays,” said Darlene. “And when I heard you on Christmas Eve, I thought it was… a miracle. I thought it was fate.” Nick felt his heart flutter, and he and Darlene locked eyes. “Oh,” she said, “I just can’t stay mad. Especially for such an honest mistake. All is forgiven!”\nThe crowd cheered.\n“Blech!” said Arlene, and then she mimed shoving her finger down her throat. “This is so gross. Keep your pervert, sis. Just don’t bring him round my house.” She stalked out of the ballroom with her polar bear man.\n“Sold!” said the auctioneer. “Naughty Nick to the astronaut, for twenty thousand dollars!”\nThe crowd roared, and white confetti filled the air like a postcard snowfall. Nick and Darlene found each other on the dance floor, and he spun her around.\n“This is the start of something beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.\n“Yes! The beginning of the rest of our lives. But…”\n“But?”\n“I have a confession to make.”\nDarlene bit her lip. “Me too! I’ll go first. The reason Arlene hates me so much is because I am the elder, by three-point-seven-six seconds. It makes me the sole inheritor of my family’s fortunes, and her jealousy can’t stand it.”\n“You’re rich?”\n“Better, Nick! I’m the crown princess of the Kingdom of Zersezna. Oh, I do hope that hasn’t turned you off?”\n“No, not at all! I don’t care if you’re a princess or a pauper.” What a strange thing to get hung up on, he thought. Sure, it might take some adjustments on his part, but love was worth it, right?\n“That gladdens my heart! Most men are afraid of my family’s history of war crimes and recreational brutality.”\n“Um–”\n“But that’s blood under the bridge! Now, nothing is stopping us from getting married and living in my palace. And Nick, the best part is, where I live, it’s always a white Christmas!”\n“That is nice,” said Nick. He visited the whole world on that one night each year, and while he loved the job and enjoyed the hot countries, nothing could beat a beautiful winter scene. “I do love snow.”\n“No, Nick, it’s better! It’s a white Christmas. My family’s soldiers keep our country racially pure!”\nNick choked on his own saliva and nearly coughed up a lung. “Jesus Christ!” Was love worth it!? Maybe basing a whole relationship on a single unsolicited kiss, while breaking into a stranger’s house, wasn’t actually all that reasonable.\n“Now what did you want to confess? I have ways of making you talk,” she said, with a girlish giggle. “My uncle is our chief torturer.”\n“Um–”\nJust then he caught a fist in his peripheral vision, and a mean left hook flattened Darlene’s nose and knocked her out cold. And suddenly, there was Mrs. Claus.\n“Oh, thank heaven,” Nick said. Now this was a January miracle. “You won’t believe what just–”\nShe grabbed him by the ear and yanked hard, dragging him all the way back to the North Pole, muttering about her mother having been right."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Apothecary Shoppe\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2758\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character breaking a rule, but for good reason."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Trigger warning: murder and physical abuse\nThe Apothecary Shoppe by Kyla Stan\nThe warmth and security of William’s Dewell’s bed made Claire Ratherford sigh with ease. Naked and unashamed, she lay next to him and felt a sense of fulfillment, but it was more than that; she felt safe in her lover’s arms, something her husband would never provide. William’s rugged hand moved a dark curl off her face, and she smiled. \nWilliam’s confined apartment with just one barely furnished room squatted in the poorest district of London. His simple life provided an escape from Claire’s husband, who had a rich abundance of antiquities and trophies, including herself. A cold winter draft escaped through a crack in the window, making both shiver under the thin blanket. Only a single candle, almost melted to the nub, kept the room illuminated in the darkness. Claire moved closer to William, so her head rested on his chest. His dirty blond hair tickled her skin. She inhaled his scent, a warming mixture of musk and cinder dust. \nOnly months ago, their relation was rigid and stiff: a servant and an aristocrat. Even as a servant, William was care for like the rest of the household staff…until John Ratherford saw him give his wife a white rose. Claire’s throat constricted as she remembered the embarrassment of the simple flirtation, how her husband’s outburst stunned everyone in their household and the next. William was immediately fired, leaving him a destitute worker, who could barely afford a morsel of food. Before each secret meeting, Claire made sure to smuggle perfumed bars of soap for William to sell for extra coin. She never forgot to steal the best leftovers from the kitchen so he could continue to survive. \nWilliam shifted his weight, causing the aging bed frame to creak. “Claire,” he sighed while running a calloused thumb over her shoulder. “This is wrong— I know your married, but—” \nShutting her eyes, Claire braced herself for William’s next words. Their dangerous affair had continued for months. For a poor factory worker to sleep with a married high-class woman was the equivalent of playing with fire. Not only was her reputation at risk, but John Ratherford would kill William for disgracing his “property.” Despite the risks, she didn’t want to leave him.\n “—I really love you.” He smiled, melting her fears away. “You’ve been the kindest woman in my life, kinder than me own mum.”\nShe was stunned by his sudden revelation and felt tears trickle down her cheek. \nLove.\nA word her husband never used. \nWilliam sighed, and Claire noted the torn anguish in his handsome features. \nShe reached up to caress his cheek. “I would do anything for you.” \nHis blue eyes flashed with determination, but there was also a hint of fear. “Then I think it is time to put that plan we talked about into place.” \nClaire pressed her forehead to William’s and kissed him, sealing their bond. \nLove. \nShe would do anything to feel this moment forever, even if it meant giving up her luxurious lifestyle. Claire sat up and allowed the covers to drop. “We must act quickly—tonight—”\n“You remember what I told you, where the old woman lives?” He questioned while lacing her corset.\nClaire picked up the fractured mirror piece and made sure her dark curls fell perfectly into place. “Yes. I’ll meet you around the corner of the pub tonight.” She squeezed his hand, then opened the brittle wooden door, exposing herself to the silence that precedes a fierce blizzard. She had to move as if death rested on her shoulder; nobody must know of her mission. Claire pulled up her crimson hood to disguise her fine noble features as she stepped into the poverty-stricken district of London.\nThe walk to the shoppe would take longer than a horse drawn carriage, but she couldn’t risk anyone identifying her. Her snow boots with fur trim lightly padded down the cobblestone street and twice she almost slipped and fell on their iced surfaces. She cursed under her breath for time was limited. Dinner would be served at precisely 6:00 pm, God forbid anyone was a second late, including herself. John would punish her if she was the last one to arrive late—again.\nClaire passed the dingy inn that was known for leering men, and women of the night who were beyond their prime. A horse tied to a post snorted and shook the cold out of its coarse mane. She urged herself forward, to hurry and not lose her wits. Claire’s eyes focused on her shoes, and she ignored the drunken laughter of men enjoying pints of ale and cheap, hot meals. She prayed silently that her husband was not in there, who was known to engage in debauchery with other men of his stature, looking to have a good time without society turning up its nose.\nClaire pulled her hood tighter around her rosy cheeks and continued down the street of closed shops piled with old ashen snow on their doorsteps. Under the gas-lit lamppost, the apothecary shoppe sign greeted her with the promise of delicious sin. The sign seemed to be made of time’s oldest oak. The painted letters, once white, had faded and become rust colored that reminded her of a crusted scab. Her eyes darted left and right, searching for any prying eyes before pushing the wooden door open. \nAn herbaceous burning scent wafted through the store and put her nerves at ease, yet she couldn’t decipher why. A black raven sat on a pedestal at the counter and eyed her suspiciously before crowing to its master that a new customer arrived. Filled with cobwebs and dust, the shoppe seemed to have never met a maid’s dainty hand. Hundreds of jars with indiscernible contents lined the wall behind the counter. Claire could’ve sworn something wriggled in one of them. \nShe hesitated at the door, unsure if she should continue inside. \n“Come in, child. Edgar won’t bite.” An old woman, appearing as God’s oldest creation, emerged from a hidden storage room. She hobbled to the front counter and smiled wistfully at the young girl. Her teeth were black with rot and the festered smell made Claire’s stomach lurch. The crone’s coarse white hair reminded her of frozen hay in an abandoned field. \n“How can I help you today, my dear?” the woman cooed.\n“I—I’ve heard you make potions for women… in need of your services.” Claire’s face reddened and she looked down at her folded hands. The raven tilted his head and ruffled his feathers, as if enjoying Claire’s discomfort. \nThe old woman raised her hairy eyebrows, and her warm demeanor vanished. Her blue eyes flashed as cold as the ice outside. “What do you mean, child? What potions?” \nWilliam had heard rumors of an old witch in a darker part of London who was known to grant wishes, love spells, and curses within a simple bottle. Claire was also told that the old crone would deny her sorcery in case the law recognized her talent as witchcraft, but she knew the password to unleash the woman’s hellish ways.\nShe met the crone’s gaze. “I need Woman’s Weapon.” \nThe witch began to smile at first, then cackle until her raven joined her. “You’ve come just to the right place, my sweet child!” The witch searched her shelves for various ingredients to create her potion. Her ragged black robes swooped about her ankles like a snake’s tail in a thick layer of grass. In the storage room, her cauldron began to smoke and boil, reminding Claire of hot tar. The witch carried an armful of bottles and trembled with excitement, about to unleash her morbid work.\n“Petal of nightshade,\nDried skin of a dragon,\nSnake venom and frog poison…\nJust one last ingredient!”\nShe trotted over to Edgar, who had plucked one of his own feathers and presented it to his master. “Thank you, dearie.” She patted the bird on his head and went back to the cauldron. When she threw the feather into the mixture, a giant flame leaped from the cauldron before settling down to a simmer. She grabbed a wooden ladle and dipped it into the mixture, extracted a small amount, and poured it into a vial. \n“My dear,” The witch whispered and gave Claire the vial. Her long-yellowed fingernails scratched at Claire hand like vulture claws. Claire placed three gold coins into the old witch’s wrinkled hands and hurried out of the shoppe with a murmured, “thank you.” She closed the door behind her and was met with a savage blizzard that blew her dark hair in scattered directions. She tucked her curls under her crimson hood and pulled her cloak tighter around her lithe frame.\nClaire passed the tavern full of laughing drunks and the inn with the old horse.\nThe endless trudge through London made Claire’s limbs stiffen, and she clenched her teeth while rubbing her hands together. But the cold didn’t bother her as much as the witch’s cackle. Even when she hurried up the steps of her husband’s estate, the old crone still haunted her mind.\n.~.\n“I said get out! OUT! Do you hear me?” \nThe sound of a dish smashing on the floor made Claire jump as she untied her cloak. She had to be strong. It was the only way she would be free.The richly furnished estate was located in one of the wealthier parts of London, cleansed of riff-raff…and very far from William. The thought made her heart ache, but Claire tightened her jaw in determination. The overabundance of antiquities and passed-down relics from John’s ancestral line made the estate feel crowded and confined. One had to be careful when walking down a hall as to not disturb some priceless artifact.\nHer eyes darted with repulsion at the multitude of stuffed trophies from John’s hunts. A lion, one of nature’s fiercest predators, was slain by the extension of John’s power, his gun. The sight sickened her, and she hurried into the dining hall. \nThe sound of multiple people shuffling out of the servant’s quarters made her gulp. For the first time, she was completely alone with John in the house. The thought made her want to scream in panic. He rushed toward the front hall and grabbed her by the wrist. \n“There you are, little wench.”\n“Ow! Please, John! I—\"\n“ Where have you been?” His brown eyes, almost black with a demon soul, bore into hers. His skin, scarred from smallpox, made her shutter with revulsion.\n“John please— I only went for a walk—” \nHe encircled his arm around her waist from behind and grabbed her neck. “You look ravishing. Let’s enjoy a nice dinner,” he growled through clenched teeth. He led her down the hall to the dining room. She noticed he wore his finest dinner attire that he saved for special occasions.\n With a smile, he set the eggshell-white tablecloth onto the richly polished mahogany table, set the silverware, and fine porcelain dishes. Claire was surprised when John helped her put the prepared supper on the table. She was hesitant to sit in the offered chair.\n “Come, my lady. You look exhausted.”\n“Quite, dear.” She sat down and was about to begin eating when John stopped her. \n“Would you like some wine, love?”\n“No thank you, dear. I—” She stopped. \nA cold look crossed over John’s face and he stared at her. The look immediately vanished into a warm smile. “Nonsense!” He forced a little too loudly. “Let me pour you a glass.” John rose from his place at the table and walked over to the wine wrack. Claire noticed he eyed his most expensive bottle, aged to perfection and served only to those who could afford it. “You know, Claire, I’ve had a marvelous day. Business is booming. Monsieur Blanc offered me a proposition…” \nOut of John’s vision, Claire began shaking violently as she reached for the vial in her blouse sleeve. She stopped. Could she kill a person so easily?\n“Claire! What did I say about ignoring me? Do you want me to be angry?” John bellowed before turning back to the wine wrack.\n“No, my love! I’m listening” Claire replied sweetly. With trembling hands, Claire emptied the vial’s contents into John’s plate of beef stew and mixed vigorously, making sure to place the spoon right where it had rested on the bowl’s rim. John returned with two glasses of wine and grinned. Once the delicate rims touched the table and his left hand was free, John slapped her across the face. She stifled a cry. Claire had learned not to react or face harder hits. \n“Now, Claire,” he scolded. “You were supposed to pay attention when I was talking. Do you want to go into the closet again?”\n“No, John. I’m sorry.” Her face stung while her eyes watered, but she would not give him the satisfaction of crying. She ate silently, listening and nodding at the appropriate times.\n“You know, Claire. I was thinking about hiring that Dewell fellow again. I was wrong to let him go so easily. I hear he’s practically starving on the street,” John paused, eyes focused on her quivering bottom lip. “You two spend an awful amount of time together, don’t you? Having an affair behind my back, are you?”\nThe blood drained from her face. “I— I don’t know who you are talking about.”\n“Come now, dear. I know all about it. I’ve seen you walk back to his… shack… while I’m at the tavern. But let’s not fret about that. Let us just enjoy dinner.” His thin lips stretched into a big smile, and his mustache twitched like a sickly predator about to pounce. \n John began to slurp with gusto. “The stew is delicious! The cooks did a fabulous job. I will have to reward them with—” John grabbed his throat and coughed.\n“John?” Claire put down her spoon. His grip on his throat became more urgent, and he struggled to inhale. He stood up and his chair fell backward with a deafening crack on the floor. His eyes bulged out of his sockets and his face turned the color of a plum rotting in the sun. Once he collapsed, blood pooled out of his eyes, nose, and ears.\nClaire stood over the body of her dying husband and folded her hands, satisfaction and freedom taking the place of meekness. “Now, John. You know you’re not supposed to hit me… or you’ll die.” \nJohn’s eyes widened, nearly exploding with surprise or death’s grip, Claire was unsure. Crimson flow poured out of her loving husband’s mouth, choking, suffocating, dying mouth. He convulsed once more, and then in a single shutter, let the last breath escape his poison-tainted lips.\nClaire began to tremble and cry, tears forming not from her now-dead husband, but from the act of killing. From sobs formed laugher, hysterical at first, but then more melodic. “Oh, John! My darling husband,” she spat. “How long were you going to play your games? Until I died from one of your blows? Well, I guess I’m the winner, then.” Claire’s mind filled with exciting new thoughts of freedom, and a gracious smile spread across her features. She would be the owner of the estate, but more importantly, her life would not be in his choking clutches any longer. It would be in the loving embrace of William’s.\n“Cheers!” Claire raised her wine glass and took a long drink. She sat down and was about to eat her dinner when her breath caught in her throat. It felt as if the life were being squeezed out of her. She reached for her throat and grasped defensively, gasping for a single breath that would allow her to hold onto her life, but the loss of air soon turned into a searing pain that started in her lungs and worked its way up her windpipe. She tried to let out a strangled cry, begging for a single, sweet breath. She collapsed, blood pooling in her eyes and mouth, the same way her husband had. \nAnd then it hit her.\nThat bastard. That damn bastard wanted me dead.\nAs Claire took her last breath, she could hear the old witch laughing.\n“An eye for an eye,\nA heart for a heart,\nInfidelity and wrath,\nFrom the very start.\nWhile one longs to love,\nAnother aches to kill,\nAll against thy own will.\nFor both false loves long to get even,\nFor every life taken, one must be given.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Circuit Bender\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1973\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a device goes haywire."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Truman Moore hit the rewind button on his father’s double cassette deck. The tape reels spun quickly, like two tiny washing machines whirling in tandem spin cycles. After a few moments, the tape’s end triggered the deluxe deck’s auto stop function and the cogs clicked. Truman hit eject, popped the warm, unlabeled tape in its plastic j-card box, and placed it in a larger cardboard carton among other newly duped cassettes. He took the box, labeled Jefferson High School AV Club, downstairs to the basement and placed it with the other parcels. \nWhile Truman was downstairs, Mr. Daniel Moore, Truman’s father, snuck over to the stereo. Mr. Moore rarely used the stereo, unless he was duping his favorite vinyl albums to cassette. The Moore family hi-fi system was located in their living room, on the other end of the house, away from the den. Mrs. Moore watched TV and drank boxed wine incessantly—the den was her space. Mr. Moore and his son made the executive decision to move the stereo from the den to as far away from the den as possible so that they could listen to records at a reasonable volume without disturbing the queen. \nMr. Moore placed his copy of Kenny G’s Duotones on the turntable, popped a new Memorex blank cassette into the duplication deck, and put the system on standby. He dropped the needle on the record and “Songbird” began to fill the house by way of his monstrous Wharfdale custom speakers. The dupe deck captured G’s performance so that Daniel could enjoy Kenny G in the car on the way to work.\nTruman burst into the living room from the basement.\n“Dad! What are you doing!?”\n“What?”\n“Don’t use the tape deck!”\n“Why, I’m making a copy of—“\n“It’s not calibrated for vinyl to cassette. It’ll overload the capacitors and then—“\nThe cassette deck sent up a cloud of thick brown smoke. Smooth jazz continued to float through the house.\n“Truman! What the hell did you do!”\n“I was duping some tapes for school. I modded the machine to dupe faster. I installed a circuit bender. I didn’t know you were going to use the tape deck for Kenny G.”\nMr. Moore marched over to the stereo, waving his hands to waft away the smoke. He lifted the needle from the record and turned the master switch to off. \n“Truman, look, I’m sorry I raised my voice just now, but you’ve ruined a very expensive piece of hi-fi equipment.”\nTruman looked down at his checkered Vans slip-ons. “Look, Dad, I can fix it. Just let me change out the capacitors and—“\n“No. I’ll call repairman. You should be studying. It’s a school night for Christ’s sake.”\n“Please, dad! It’s a simple fix—“\n“No! Go study. I’ll take care of it.”\nTruman’s brow broke the slightest sweat. He walked toward the stereo, as if to grab something from behind it.\n“Truman! Upstairs! Now!” his father said.\n“But I study in the basement.”\n“Whatever! Downstairs! Now!”\nForty-five minutes later, a dark brown Chevy utility van rolled up to the mailbox in front of the Moore residence. YAKOV BELOV AV REPAIR was stenciled in fresh white spray paint on the side of the van. A mustached man in a work jumpsuit walked through the evening light along the driveway. He had an odd gait, as if he had sustained a serious injury early in life and he walked the best he could with what he had. Mr. Moore opened the front door before Mr. Belov could ring the door bell. \nTruman heard the extra footsteps on the ceiling and made his way up from the basement. \n“Mr. Belov, this is my son, Truman.”\n“Ah, nice to meet you, young sir.” Belov pointed to the tape deck. “Your father tells me that you bent the circuit or something?”\n“I was-“\n“Truman, back to your studies, please,” Mr. Moore said. \n“American children. So . . . how you say . . . industrious?” Belov said.\n“I-“\n“Truman! Downstairs!” his father said. \nTruman retreated to the basement, his brow furrowed.\n“Do you think you can fix it?” Moore said.\n“Ah, yes. No problem. Belov fix for . . . fifty dollars.”\nMoore rubbed his evening stubble with is index finger and thumb. “It’s a little more than I wanted to pay, but you're here on a Thursday evening. Yes, that will be fine. Proceed.”\n“I’ll just need to get some parts from my furgon.”\n“Furgon?”\n“Oh, sorry, my van.” \nMr. Moore returned to the den. He sat in front of the TV and read the newspaper while the Cosby Show ran in the background. Mrs. Moore stitched a cross stitch, said very little, and sipped on a third glass of boxed red wine. \nTen minutes later, Belov returned from his van with three capacitors, a circuit board, and a few wires. When he entered the living room to work on the cassette deck, Truman stood behind the stereo, waiting for him. \n“Ah, comrade. What brings you up here?”\n“Mr. Belov, I can’t let you change out the circuit board on the tape deck.”\n“And why is that, pray tell?” \nTruman paused when a waft of Belov’s body odor hit him square in the nose. \n“Well, I . . . I can’t tell you.”\n“Come now, you can tell Belov anything. I’m here to help. You tell. Belov fix.”\nTruman scrambled into the front pocket of his acid washed jeans. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill.\n“Look, I’ll pay you twice as much as my dad is paying you. And, we can make it look like you fixed it. You’ll walk with $150 for one house call. That’s more— “\n“What, more than Belov makes in a week? Come now, you shouldn’t be so . . . how you say, presumption?”\n“Presumptuous.”\n“Yes. Well, I’ll tell you what, if you tell me why you don’t want me to fix your tape deck, I’ll take your deal.”\nTruman paused. He blew the bangs out of his face with an upward puff. \n“OK, but, Mr. Belov, you have to promise not to tell my parents.”\n“Ah, who do you take me as? A Siberian who cannot keep his word? I tell you young Truman, I, Belov, do solemnly swear on my mother’s grave, who is buried in Novosibirsk, God rest her soul, that I will not tell your parents what your are doing with this here tape deck.”\nTruman paused. His hands shook and he tried to hide them. From across the house, Mr. Moore laughed at a Bill Cosby joke. \n“I’m duping tapes,” Truman said. \n“You’re duping tapes? So what, anybody can dupe tapes at home with these decks. That’s what they’re for. If it’s for your personal use, who cares, right?”\n“I’m duping at 100x. I buy new release cassettes at Record Bar, I dupe 50 copies, and I send the package to Germany. I get $100 in cash sent back to me a week later.”\n“I knew you were . . . how you say . . . enterprising.”\n“The thing is, to convert the deck to ultra fast duping, I used a circuit bender and a modded capacitor. If it’s not properly changed out—“\n“The device goes haywire. Belov understands.”\n“We got a deal?”\n“Of course, comrade. But, your bent circuit . . . It is fried. Unless you have another modded cir—”\nTruman pulled a second bent circuit and a modded capacitor from a small gym bag. \n“Let me at least help reinstall. I have tools.”\nBelov removed the screws from the tape deck, much faster than Truman could with is handheld Phillips head. Truman removed the burnt capacitor and the fried circuit board. Belov modified the new circuit board with a variable speed switch that could be activated out of view, from behind the device. \n“Good as new, eh?” Belov said.\n“Better than new. Shoulda thought of that.”\nBelov left the living room to tell Mr. Moore he had fixed the tape deck. Truman hid by the front door, away from his father’s eye.\n“What was wrong with it?” Moore asked.\n“Bad capacitor and bad circuit. Belov changed them out.”\n“What do I owe you?”\n“Fifty dollars. Let me run out to my van and write up the ticket.”\nMr. Moore returned to the den and Truman snuck from the shadows. \n“Thank you, Mr. Belov,” Truman said as Belov approached the front door.\n“You’re welcome, kid.” Belov winked at Truman. From the front window, Truman watched Belov climb into the side door of his van, turn on a light, and shut the sliding door. Something struck Truman as being out of place with Belov’s last comment to him. It was as if, for just a second, Belov lost his Russian accent. \n“Who’s van is that?” Mrs. Moore said as she peeked out the window, some thirty minutes after Belov had left to write up the ticket.\n“Honey, that’s the cassette deck repair man,” Mr. Moore said.\n“Who? How long’s he gonna take?” Mrs. Moore walked to the kitchen and poured herself a sixth glass of boxed wine. As she returned to the den to watch Cheers, Truman emerged from the basement. “Dad, I’m sorry I broke the tape deck. I won’t do it again.”\n“It’s OK, son.”\nTruman looked out the window. “Is Belov still here?”\n“Looks like it.” Mr. Moore looked closer at his son. “Are you OK? You’re sweating.” \n“I’m fine, dad. I’m just . . . Mr. Belov gives me the creeps.”\n“He’s from the Ukraine, or somewhere in the U.S.S.R. He’s just a little diff— “ \nThe doorbell rang and interrupted Mr. Moore’s consolation. Mr. Moore opened the door. \nTwo men in black suits, white collared shirts, and black ties stood in the door. They wore sunglasses at night. \n“Mr. Truman Moore?”\n“Yes?” Truman said from behind his father’s shoulder.\n“I’m Agent White. We are from the FBI. You are under arrest for violation of 17 U.S.C. section 506(a). Specifically, the unauthorized reproduction and distribution, during any 180-day period, of at least 10 copies or phonorecords, or 1 or more copyrighted works, with a retail value of more than $2,500. Said infraction carries a maximum penalty of five years in prison.” \n“What?!” Mr. Moore said. “No, you must be mistaken. Truman is an honor student. He hasn’t broken any laws.”\nAgent Brown pulled a small dictaphone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pressed play. Truman’s recorded voice rang through the foyer: I buy new release cassettes at Record Bar, I dupe 50 copies, and I send the package to Germany. I get $100 in cash sent back to me a week later.\n“You were saying?” White said.\n“There must be some kind of mistake,” Mr. Moore said.\nThe agent rewound the tape and played it again.\n“Dad, he’s lying! I didn’t say that! That’s not me!”\nThe agent on the right removed his sunglasses. “Comrade,” he said.\n“Belov?” Truman said.\n“My name is agent Joseph Brown.” Agent Brown had Belov’s eyes, but no mustache and his hair was slicked back with pomade. \n“But you promised,” Truman said.\nMr. Moore’s jaw dropped to the ground. Tears welled in his eyes.\n“He promised, dad! He promised he wouldn’t tell!”\n“Agent Brown?” Mr. Moore said, his hands trembling.\n“Mr. Belov never said a thing to your parents, Truman. But he told us everything.”\nAgent Brown and Agent White carried Truman into custody. Mr. Moore considered liquidating some junk bonds to pay for Truman’s legal fees. After a few minutes, he couldn’t think of what else to do so he sat in front of the TV and watched the rest of Cheers. There, as Norm and Cliff bullshitted their way out of some conundrum, a passed out Mrs. Moore didn’t even notice that Truman was gone."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Watering Hole on the Fringe of Forever\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1663\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a town disconnected from the rest of the world."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "A haggard cowpoke spurred his weary mount to the edge of the small settlement that had been steadily rising from the desert scrub for the last hour. A single, uneven, dirt road ran through town between a smattering of dilapidated wooden buildings. The place seemed as isolated and cut-off as a leper colony; there was no railway, no telegraph, and certainly no electricity. Kerosene street lamps were already burning in the evening dusk to stave off the rapidly approaching darkness.\n\nDust caked the man’s black beard and face; the trail grit collected on the shoulders of his tan slicker as well as the brim of his brown cattleman hat. The uniform color of his figure made him appear to be an Egyptian mummy that had recently risen from the sand to roam the earth once again. Seeing that the general store was closed for the night, he dismounted his animal and tied it to the hitching post in front of a saloon with a signpost reading: The Lost Shepherd Inn.\n\nHe patted down his jacket and stomped his boots as he swung open the batwing doors. His left leg was numb from the waist down, and it was all he could do to remain steady as he approached the empty bar. He tossed his dirty hat on the stool next to him and rubbed his aching head. He glanced around the common room; there was a player piano, two faro tables, and several circular dining tables, but not a soul was present.\n\nThe man became impatient. “Bartender!” he hollered, and when nobody answered he added, “Innkeep! You gotta customer!”\n\nA diminutive, middle-aged woman wearing an apron popped up from behind the bar and extended her height by standing on a step stool. “Good evening, sir. I wasn’t expecting any customers tonight, but how can I be of service? If you’d like any stew or fresh biscuits, you’ll have to give me a moment to get them started in the kitchen.”\n\nThe cowboy rubbed his belly; for being on the trail for so long he wasn’t at all hungry. In fact, he was quite sated, like he’d just recently eaten a large, home-cooked meal. “No food…just drink…whiskey.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a few coins, and flipped them onto the bar top.\n\nThe bartender neatly stacked them and slid them back to the man. “Sorry, sir, but your coins are no good here. Just give me your name and I’ll start a tab…you can settle up after you’ve staked your claim at the claim’s office tomorrow.”\n\n“A tab? Staked my claim? What are you talking about, woman? Just give me a double shot of sour mash and a tall glass of water.” The bearded cowpoke demanded as he confoundedly pocketed his money.\n\nThe barkeep filled a highball with water, but then, as she placed it on the bar, she said, “Sir, we don’t serve hard liquor at this establishment; we only serve water, wine, and sweet mead.”\n\nThe cowboy was incensed, “What? What kind of rinky-dink watering hole doesn’t serve beer or whiskey? Fine, I’ll have the mead.”\n\nThe barkeep waited patiently for a moment and then asked, “Your name, sir?”\n\n“My name? Oh yeah, my name…” the stranger trailed off and scratched his scraggly beard; he couldn’t remember his own name! “Funny thing, that…I can’t seem to recall my name…that must be why my head hurts so much…I musta gotten clocked pretty good.”\n\nThe innkeeper chuckled, “Okay, I’ll just say your name is Bill.”\n\nHer customer furrowed his brow, “Bill…yes…that’s my name…my name is William…it’s starting to come back to me…but how did ya guess?”\n\nThe bartender shrugged and handed William a glass of honey mead, “I don’t know; you just look like a Bill. Anyway, Doctor Peters will get it all settled out in the morning; Doc runs the claims office. It’s on the other side of the road, down the street, next to the jail.”\n\nWilliam emptied his glass in one tip. “Mead isn’t meant to be sipped and savored…and if ya ain’t got any whiskey, I’ll need several refills.”\n\nThe bartender reluctantly refilled his glass twice more before William wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket to continue the conversation. “Doc Peters, ya say? Next to the jail, ya say? I’m starting to remember fragments of my past, but I don’t recall ever having any claim to stake.” He took another big draught and continued, “I remember that I was born in the throes of the Civil War. As a child, I was obsessed with the Wild West, but by the time I was of age, modern society had moved on, and the era of the gunslingers was all but over. Instead of living my dream, I wound up in a nightmare.”\n\nHe’d polished off his third drink and pointed to the empty glass. The innkeeper took her time getting another refill and asked, “A nightmare Bill? How so?”\n\n“Ya said the claims office was next to the jail…I don’t want any chance of getting mixed up with the law.”\n\n“The law? Oh I don’t think you should worry, Bill…the Marshal won’t be back to town until mid-to-late morning. That’s plenty enough time to get your claim settled…that is, if you don’t get drunk and sleep too late,” the innkeeper knowingly warned. “But…you mentioned a nightmare?”\n\nWilliam was getting drunk, but he was relieved to know that the Marshal was out patrolling the territory, so he drank down another half-pint and continued his tale. “Yes, well, I ended up taking odd jobs to earn a living and shacked up with a woman named Tillie…Matilda…you know…to share the rent. Anyway, we lived together long enough, slept together long enough, and fought together long enough, for her to become my common-law wife. Tillie liked her mead, and she was a real feisty old bird, so that night I killed her with a hatchet, it wasn’t so easy to hide the murder…” William trailed off, and a twisted wince appeared upon his dusty visage implying that he remembered everything.\n\nThe cowpoke drew a stout hunting knife and wildly cut a long slash in his jeans to examine his leg. He wasn’t careful, but when the blade slashed his leg and drew blood he didn’t even feel it. His crippled limb was seared and blackened like a Sunday hog roast. Jumping off the chair onto his good leg, he limped behind the bar and over to a long mirror on the wall. His reflection was grotesque; he was missing clumps of hair in several places and the skin on his forehead bore the same scorched scar tissue as his burnt leg!\n\n“NOooo!” The man’s outcry was as much an exclamation of fear, as a shout of recognition, and a howl of hopelessness.\n\nThe panicked cowboy turned to grab ahold of the woman in an attempt to ground himself, but when he did he saw her in the same shape that he’d left her two years earlier! Blood covered her apron and seeped from the multiple axe wounds on her head and chest. A flap of skin had been torn loose from her scalp and was draped over her shattered eye socket. The other eye glared into William’s soul unforgivingly, as the player piano clamored out a song titled, “Down in the Willow Garden,” a ballad about a man facing the gallows for poisoning, stabbing, and throwing his lover’s body in a river.\n\n“Tillie?” he sputtered. The cowboy swooned and lost his balance, landing chin first on the bar top. The watering hole vanished and William was semiconscious and back in the darkness of his true horrific reality. He couldn’t see his surroundings; he could only sit idly and listen to his end.\n\n“My God, Ed…he’s still breathing!”\n\n“Have the current turned on again…quickly…no delay!”\n\n“The generator needs to recharge!”\n\n“Double the voltage!”\n\nTwo thousand volts ran through the man confined to a chair for the first, somewhat botched, execution by electrocution. The smell of burnt flesh permeated the room as the doctors unstrapped him. After the awful spectacle, William was pronounced dead and immediately found himself back upon the same horse outside the same town on the fringe of forever. This time, blood ran down his forehead and into his eyes distorting his vision as he approached the Lost Shepherd Inn.\n\nHe spurred his mount and galloped into town shouting, “Doc! Doc Peters! I gotta stake my claim!”\n\nUnfortunately, when he reached the claims office, there was a posse of five gaunt riders already waiting for him. Their faces were emaciated, with portions completely rotted away to their sun-bleached skulls. One was holding the reigns on his equally decomposed horse with a decayed skeletal arm, while another’s ribs were exposed with half his chest disintegrated. Point blank, that one had met his end at the barrel of a shotgun. Yet another, with a crooked neck, clearly had faced a death by hanging, as a frayed rope still dangled from his collar. Their leader wore a tin star on his black vest, and his black gambler hat had a leather band adorned with silver coins. His face was a cleanly polished skull with eyes like ruby flames.\n\nThe Marshal pointed a bony finger at his new deputy. “William Francis Kemmler…I have settled your claim with Doc Peters. You’re going to get your Wild West wish serving for eternity on the Devil’s Hacienda!” The demon snickered quietly as he looked over his new recruit’s electrocution wounds, and then he added, “An axe would’ve done a better job.”\n\nShouts rose, and the skeleton riders kicked their mounts into action; the dead man grudgingly joined them as they rode through town and out into the shallow dunes beyond. The condemned man looked back one last time at the watering hole on the fringe of forever, but it was gone…like a deceitful mirage. Reluctantly he turned forward to face his inexorable and final reality."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: 28 Letters\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1240\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who feels like they're cut off from something."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "A gem can not be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials.\nSejong swept his books off the shelf. Rain pelted the world outside. The king opened one of his many works, the spine of it splitting under his force, and read off a page. Nongsa jikseol, methods of cultivation in agriculture. A guidebook to farming in Korea’s geography. Words that could keep his people from famine.\nHe threw it into the rain. \nIt splashed against the mud-coated field, water distorting the ink. A second book followed, sliding against the ground, into a puddle. A third. A fourth. They piled in the courtyard, works he had commissioned to better Korea’s people. To educate the illiterate.\nWorthless.\nWhat good is knowledge that can not be read?\nMusic echoed inside the palace. String instruments, a wavering bamboo flute, the quick beat of a drum. A compliment to the heavy rain. On his way to his chambers, Sejong passed a woman humming along. She sat on the wooden floor with a script out in front of her, writing out poetry, stopping to bow.\nThe king raised a hand in dismissal. The woman’s poems would do nothing for their culture, written in Chinese characters. A waste of paper—none other than the privileged could read it. The words would have no meaning for the common people.\nHe stepped into his chambers. Lamps glowed with dim flames, and rain tapped against the roof. His wife stood, her smile fading at the sight of seeing the king so tired. She hurried over and guided him to sit. Her dress, red and gold, flowed behind her.\n“What worries you, my husband?”\nSejong exhaled. He considered himself a scholar, yet his kingdom could not read or write. \n“There are voices I will never hear,” he said. “Farmers who don’t have the wealth or status to learn to read. Children who cannot grow into scholars, and workers who can’t write their concerns. My people lack the gift of education, and I lack the means to educate them.”\nThe queen took his hand. A soft, calming touch.\n“And what shall you do?” she asked.\nHe ran his fingers through his beard. Sejong took time to think, then turned his head to the queen.\n“My people need a new system of writing, and I will craft one for them myself. A script a wise man can acquaint himself with before the morning is over, and a fool can learn in the space of ten days.”\nAt dawn, Sejong sat alone in a common room. Sunlight shone through the open windows, ethereal motes of dust dancing in the light. Scrolls, ink, and books surrounded him. Panels of artwork—birds and flowers—enveloped the room. Sejong spent the morning reading of phonetics, of alphabets with fifty letters, and others with seventy. \nToo many relied on complex lettering.\nHe would keep his simple for the busiest of men.\nAround midday, he painted hundreds of symbols. He started with one stroke of the brush, ㄱ, ㄴ,ㅣ. Two strokes for ㄷ, ㅋ, ㅅ. Three for ㅎ,ㄹ,ㅈ. Never going above four. He hung papers upon the walls, blocking the sunlight. He crossed out any he deemed too complicated.\nServants left food outside the door as he worked.\nBy dusk, he walked through the courtyard, stars glistening above. Sejong spoke words to himself. He singled out their noises and pointed out the vowels. Oak, oath, oasis. Yam, yarn, yang. Water, wasp, wary. He pressed fingers into his mouth, feeling his teeth and tongue move at the pronunciations. His lips separated for a shh noise, but closed for ph. Some required more air, others less.\nThe days passed, and a concerned adviser sought him out.\n“The dynasty will not agree with your choice,” the adviser said. “Knowing Chinese is what puts them above the common man. Your choice to create this script will cause an uproar, your majesty. It could divide our kingdom.”\n“Let it be so,” Sejong said, looking up from his script, “as I will no longer be cut off from my people. Understand it is not knowledge that ruins the world; it falls to those pointing fingers for selfish gain.”\nDozens of sheets lined the walls. Ink stained his hands. Crumpled-up papers littered the room, drafts he deemed failures, too complex. His wife told the council members he had fallen ill, and he needed time to recover as he crafted his script.\nSejong spoke until his throat grew sore, attaching noises like ‘ch’ and ‘tah’ to some symbols while discarding others entirely. He kept his work common and crude, strong and tough, easy and efficient.\nHe had to write letters that would last a thousand years. \nThe vowels remained as lines and dots. A silent ‘ㅇ’ shape came before each to signify an open mouth. Consonants followed suit. ‘ㄴ’, an ‘n’ sound, signified the tongue touching the back of one’s teeth. ‘ㄱ’, a ‘kuh’ noise, showed a raised tongue blocking air from one’s throat.\nLingual, dental, molar and glottal sounds made up for his script of twenty-eight letters. Seventeen consonants and eleven vowels, blocked together for organization, compared to the thousands needed for Chinese.\nHe wrote short sentences from top to bottom. Candles melted down beside him. Incense burned, releasing the scent of sandalwood throughout his chambers, and Sejong sat cross-legged on the floor. Weeks of work came down to reading aloud.\n남자는 인내했다 - The man persevered. \nThe language flowed off his tongue like water.\nHe presented his script to the council at first light. Two charts, one for consonants and the other for vowels, each letter with its phonetic equal written next to it. Easy to follow stroke orders. He sat upon his throne, royals whispering before him.\n“Chinese characters,” he said, his voice echoing in the throne room, “are incapable of capturing our unique meanings. Many of our common people have no way to express their thoughts and feelings. Out of my sympathy for their difficulties, I have created a set of twenty-eight letters.\n“They are very easy to learn, and it is my hope that they improve the quality of life of all people.” \nNot a soul agreed. \nThey shouted their concerns.\nThe Chinese would perceive it as a threat. It would be the end of Confucianism. Korea’s social hierarchy would fall. The scripts would have to be burnt, down to ashes, to prevent an uprising. The dynasty erased the twenty-eight letters and deemed them a worthless use of time.\nYet, for the good of his people, Sejong persevered.\nHe taught the language to any who wanted to learn. In turn, they carried it throughout the land. Women found their voices, teaching children the simplicity of the symbols. Men stood straight, proud to have a language of their own. Monks wrote prayers in the sand. Merchants kept records of their stock, and artists could sign their names.\nThe letters birthed poets, playwrights, and philosophers. Astronomers learned to write the names of constellations. Winemakers created labels. Apothecaries devised written names for their medicines.\nSejong ordered for his books to be rewritten.\nThe dynasty failed to suppress the flow of knowledge—Korea’s illiteracy ceased to exist as the letters blossomed within the country. The script billowed in use after Sejong’s death, four years later, as the great king ushered his people into a golden age of culture and literature.\nA land where every soul could read and write.\nWhere all could learn the teachings of the wise."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Emperor's Jade\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2127\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a town disconnected from the rest of the world."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Social background was no barrier and many emperors chose concubines from the general public. The women of Shijiazhuang, Hebei Province were no exception to this rule. Even as a town disconnected from the rest of the land, the world even, it holds nothing but the best candidates for the emperors' concubine.\nPeople of the mainland may find it weird though how Shijiazhuang only homes women and no men. It was believed that previous kingdoms have fought over the said land for the luscious yet mysterious fruit tree that only grows on its soil. But Yingjie, the great emperor put a stop to the raging wars over the land. He exiled all men and left women and children. Once a boy grows to a certain age, they are then forced to leave Shijiazhuang. Either the emperor appoints them a position in the army or they work in the farms ‘til the end of their days. It has been decades since this became a known fact in the whole of China. \nAnd as customary, today marks the day of Emperor Tung’s annual visit. But it’s not just any visit. It’s a visit where he would be finding a new concubine to bed. As required, all ladies 15 years of age and up are to be presented at the main hall and dine with the Emperor. The presentation lasts for nearly a week. One batch of ladies per day gets to spend the whole day with the Emperor.\nMingyu & Daiyu are the twin daughters of old Linh and are already 15 years old. The Emperor’s visit became even more of a hype as the twins are both the prettiest girls of Shijiazhuang, Hebei Province. But even as twins, it was no secret that old Linh paid more attention towards Mingyu. After all, how can you ignore Mingyu’s bright character? Always emanating an aura perfect for a bride. And what was Siyu but a weak man who came to Mingyu’s every beck and call? \nSiyu is assigned as the Shijiazhuang head soldier, gatekeeper, and watchman. He was appointed by his cousin and current emperor, Tung. He initially thought it was going to be an easy task, with the town consisting of only women. But he was proven wrong in every attempt of Daiyu in escaping Shijiazhuang.\n“I need to find my father!” Daiyu would always argue with Mingyu who tries to reason with her twin who has the habit of sneaking out of the town gates.\n“No, you do not, Daiyu. What you need is to help mother tend our gardens. But moreso, what you need is to keep yourself clean and pure for the emperor.” Mingyu, unlike her sister, understood her role in society. She followed her dainty mother’s every word. Fed her heart and soul with it.\n“I will not let mother brainwash me into thinking that I am nothing but an emperors’ plaything.”\n“Are you two girls fighting again?” It was already a routine for old Linh every morning to put a stop to her daughters fighting after tending to the gardens. Adding to that routine would be having to persuade the girls, mainly Daiyu, to take a seat by the window as she ceremoniously combs their long, raven hair. \n“Mother, are you not curious where father was sent?” Daiyu asked one morning while her mother combed her hair.\n“No, I do not. And I do not have nor need to know.” She shut her daughter down firmly with one last comb in her hair as she signals for Mingyu to come sit in front of the window next.\n“We do not need to know more, Daiyu. Your father is no longer our concern. Our only concern is that the emperor would be visiting in just a matter of days. So do not even try running off again.” Her mother warned Daiyu as she made her way out.\nDaiyu was walking aimlessly and unconsciously her steps brought her to Shijiazhuang’s main gates where Siyu was, as usual, standing guard.\n“Mingyu, is that you?” Siyu stood with squinted eyes as he tried to figure out which of Old Linh’s twins was approaching him.\nDaiyu nearly turned around to go back home instead but thought of pretending to be her twin. Fluttering her eyelashes and adjusting her steps to a more Mingyu-esque, or rather more lady-like, “Why yes, Siyu. I have come to visit.” She moved closer, her feet nearly at the border. Just a few more strides and she can make a run for it. Siyu would surely not run after her as there would be no one left at the gates. She could run a good distance while Siyu calls out for other soldiers. \n“You forget, Mingyu. Or should I say, Daiyu.” Siyu further squinted his eyes at the girl eyeing the land beyond the gates.\n“Come on, Siyu. What’s one girl gone from this town? No one ever brings us news from the outside. We don’t know what is happening. Is there war? Is there famine? Since when was there a new emperor?” Daiyu kept firing her questions at him one after the other as she tried to find a way to pass Siyu.\n“Daiyu,” Mingyu was walking towards them, hair already in a high rise bun. “Mother calls. It is time for us to go to the center.”\nOld Linh’s twins were already of age. And because the emperor Tung would be visiting in just a matter of days, every candidate was to present themselves in the center for their physical examinations. Each candidate would be for skin infections, body hair, and even body odor. Being a concubine was a meticulous process. After physical examinations, each candidate that passed would be trained and tested for management skills. As a concubine to the emperor, the candidates are expected to have a basic know-how of how the maids attend to their every task. Then they are initiated into forms of acceptable behavior and how to speak, gesture, and walk. They also learned arts such as painting, reading, writing, chess, and dancing.\nLastly, the standout candidates spent several days serving as the emperor’s mother’s maids and taking care of her daily needs. They underwent further inspections while sleeping by the mother’s side to root out any bad nocturnal habits such as snoring, emitting odours, or talking or walking in their sleep.\nIt is understandable why Daiyu chooses to escape Shijiazhuang. Unlike her mother and her sister, Daiyu did not find her duty as compelling as it is compared to other girls in the town. She preferred to be in the main towns and hear normal gossip. Live in the towns and walk around the market frivolously as she finds herself a book or two to read in her spare time. She prefers to talk to the rogue men, to the soldiers who have seen death rather than stay and wilt as an old lady who, after getting pregnant, would never see the father of her children. She prefers to be able to nurse a son that will not be exiled in town just for the mere fact that he was born a son and not a daughter.\n“Tell me, sister. If you were given the opportunity to be the emperor’s new concubine, would you still be as meek as you are right now?” Daiyu asked as she was pulled none to gently by Mingyu towards the center.\n“Of course. It is what the center teaches us every day, Daiyu. It is unethical to go against it.” Mingyu firmly grips her sister’s wrist as she feels her trying to twist her way out of Mingyu’s grasp.\n“Unethical? That is preposterous, Mingyu. Out of any other town, we are the only ones disconnected from the rest of the kingdom. Possibly even the world.” Daiyu twisted her arm away from her sister’s tight grasp as she stomped her way towards the center, Mingyu following moments after with a heavy sigh.\nMingyu understands her sister and covertly, even agrees with her. But unlike Daiyu, she is scared of what could happen to her family if she too tries to escape every waking hour. Mingyu has seen what Siyu can and will do. Daiyu is not the only one who wishes to escape. There was another woman - Huilang - who was a few years ahead of them, who also tried to escape. \n___\nOne night, Mingyu was out in the streets, walking idly when she heard a muffled scream by the small valley that leads further out into the main towns of the kingdom. Hiding in the bush, Mingyu sat and waited for the commotion to quiet down. A shadow walked past her hiding spot and then there was complete silence, save for the gushing of the stream. She waited a little longer and only decided to stand once her thighs started to ache from supporting her weight.\n“Mingyu, what are you doing out at this late hour?” It was Siyu. He was standing, waiting for her, a bloody handkerchief haphazardly hidden in the seams of his sleeves.\n“I- I was just- I was strolling. I- couldn’t, uh sleep.” Mingyu was stuttering but not due to the cold but because of Siyu’s unusual cold stare. \nSiyu nodded, a slight frown forming, and cleared his throat, “Alright then. May I escort you back, Mingyu?”\n“Of course Siyu. Thank you.” Mingyu held on to Siyu’s arm as she was led away from the valley. \nAs Mingyu arrives back home, she locks the doors securely after Siyu leaves with a light kiss on her hand. Breathing heavily, she looks over at her twin sister in her usual fitful sleep. Ever since that night, she promised to keep Daiyu away from Siyu and away from the thought of escaping. The ghastly sight of Huilang’s corpse taken away by the stream will haunt her every sleep.\n___\nEmperor Tung’s litter finally arrives in Shijiazhuang, Hebei Province. As usual, he is led to the center where the new candidates are already waiting in the dining hall. The day would start with a special meal before each lady had their allotted time of walking around the town with the emperor. Meanwhile, the ladies in waiting can either have tea or the expected chit chat and gossip with one another. \nBut neither scenario was the case for Old Linh’s twins. The two were too preoccupied in their own thoughts to notice that they were the last two remaining. \n“Sister,” Mingyu gently calls to Daiyu. “Whatever happens, do not try to escape. Be it the palace or Shijiazhuang. Promise me, please sister.” She was already desperate because there was a big chance that emperor Tung would choose her instead of her wayward sister. Although she is all about the proper ethics, Mingyu was scared to leave. She did not trust Siyu one bit, not after that dreadful night in the valley.\n“And if I do not heed your advice, sister?” Daiyu was stubborn as ever and Mingyu was frustrated. Ever since that night, Siyu was often having meals over at their house. She could not find the chance to tell her mother and sister what she had seen of how Huilang was killed by Siyu just for escaping. Her worry is not just the worry of Daiyu getting lost in bigger towns. But it was the fear of death. Moreso, it was the fear of wanting to escape but having nowhere to go.\n“Lady Mingyu.” One of the emperor’s maids in waiting called out. It was finally Mingyu’s turn. Her fear was heightened by the fact that Siyu would be left with Daiyu in the dining hall. She is scared that her sister might think of escaping unexpectedly. But she knew that her duty as a candidate was also important. If she does become Emperor Tung’s new concubine, then be it. The other candidates were already experiencing their dismay at how the Emperor rarely looked their way the whole time they were having a meal because he was too mesmerized by the fluttering of lashes of the twins. It was either Mingyu or Daiyu. But everyone easily deduced that it would be Mingyu, because Daiyu was obviously turning her attention away from the emperor every chance she got. \n“I think I have already found my newest jade.” Emperor Tung stated as he escorted Mingyu back to the dining hall where the other girls were talking in hushed voices. Indeed, their hunch was right. The emperor has chosen.\n“I am honored, Emperor Tung.” Mingyu bowed while the other ladies in the room clapped. She slightly turns her head to where her sister was clapping joyfully and tearfully hopes that once she leaves, Daiyu remains safe and away from Siyu’s ever dark gaze."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Radio Poltergeist\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2638\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a device goes haywire."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Why are you here?”\n\nThe disembodied voice jolted Sergeant Plundell from his sleep. He sat up in his bunk, looking around. The voice sounded like it had come from a radio.\n\nBut how? The radio had been turned off for the night, so the Germans didn’t find it. Was someone listening to it? It’s past lights-out. No one should be up. Adjusting his jacket, Plundell got out of bed, searching the dark and silent barracks for the radio. It was kept under Private Kesby’s footlocker. Plundell hated touching the belongings of his men without their permission, but that radio had to be turned off before it attracted the attention of guards outside.\n\n“Speak, Sergeant,” the voice said.\n\nA chill shot down Plundell’s spine. “Who are you?”\n\n“I am no one in particular.”\n\n“No one, but you speak.” As quietly as he could, Plundell pushed the footlocker aside.\n\n“Yes. Now, why are you here?”\n\nPlundell cursed to himself when he didn’t find the radio under the floorboards. Frantically, he looked around, and saw a faint light on the radio’s aimlessly spinning dial. The radio itself was sitting on a barrel near one of the other bunks.\n\n“Do not think you can hide in here, Sergeant. There’s only so much you can do before Commandant Westheimer hears about this and punishes you and your crew severely.”\n\n“If you know who I am, then why are you asking why I am here?” Plundell glared at the radio.\n\nNothing but static came from the radio. The dial continued to spin. Then the voice continued. “. . . For my amusement. I know you and you alone were captured in Italy. I know the rest of your men died. I know you carry the burden for that.”\n\nPlundell closed his eyes, sighing. “And why is that any of your bloody business? What are you? A ghost? A demon?”\n\n The radio began to float. “Perhaps.”\n\nPlundell glared at it. “I won’t give in to you, then. You want something. Whatever it is, you won’t get it.”\n\n“You will become afraid soon enough, the longer I inhabit this radio.” The radio began floating around the barracks, almost dancing as it went.\n\nPlundell struggled to stay focused, even as the device came toward him. Hissing and static and a very cold, evil energy emitted from it. Don’t think about anything else. That’s how it’ll get to you. Don’t be afraid. Don’t act afraid.\n\nThe radio left, and floated toward the sleeping Private Kesby. Kesby shuddered, and turned away from the radio, still fast asleep. Suddenly, he began shivering more violently, and covered his face.\n\n“I can give you nightmares. Nightmares that will haunt you for the rest of your life,” the radio said.\n\n“Fuck you. Leave him alone!” Plundell shouted. He lunged for the radio, yanking it from the air and holding it to the floor. It was trying to get away from him.\n\nThe barracks came alive with creaking as the rest of the prisoners-of-war woke up. “Sergeant? What’s going on? Why are you tackling the radio?” someone asked.\n\n“Something’s possessed it!” Plundell hollered. “I don’t know how to stop it! Don’t let it get to you!”\n\nSomething cold and slimy emerged from one of the edges of the radio. A deformed, skeletal hand. Appalled, Plundell let go, and watched the radio crawl away. The hand disappeared, and the radio began to float again.\n\n“Shoo!” Private Wraight grabbed a broom from the wall, swatting the radio. It clattered to the floor. The dial spun rapidly, and static burst from it.\n\nStill, the voice continued. “It will take more than that. That was quite pitiful.”\n\nWraight struck it with the broom again. Taking advantage of this, Plundell dashed over to Kesby, shaking him until he woke up.\n\n“Come on, it’s just a dream. It’s just a dream,” Plundell whispered. He breathed a sigh of relief when Kesby sat up, grabbing him in a hug. “What happened? Are you alright?”\n\nKesby didn’t respond right away. Instead, he was sobbing. Filled with rage, Plundell grabbed a piece of wood from a pile by the tiny stove in the back of the barracks. He raised it above his head, bringing it down on the radio with a scream.\n\n“Was ist da drin los?” A guard began pounding on the door. “What is going on in there? You are supposed to be asleep!”\n\nSomewhat garbled, the voice added, “I will not let them sleep until I am satisfied.”\n\nPlundell bashed the wood against the radio again. It was a very durable device, only sustaining a couple of cracks so far. The dial screen, too, was cracked. The voice inside kept taunting Plundell and the other soldiers, until it escalated into maniacal laughter.\n\n“The fact that I will drive you mad is enough! Yes, keep hitting me! Keep hitting me!” \n\nTears were streaming down Plundell’s face, and his hands were bloody with splinters. This whole thing felt like a bad dream. It couldn’t be real. It didn’t make sense. He had never been sure whether ghosts were real or not. How could one be this cruel? They’re dead.\n\nHe couldn’t deny that he could feel the voice in his head, laughing and taunting him. It brought up his defeat in Italy, his panic upon first being brought to the camp, his fear of the scarred and limping captain in charge of them, his homesickness, his fear that his girlfriend back in Britain would leave him, his withdrawal and depression before finally accepting that he was going to be here for the foreseeable future.\n\nThe door to the barracks was shoved open. The camp’s commandant, Captain Westheimer, stormed inside. He was a gaunt, older man with pale scars on both cheeks. They looked like they had come from an animal, and a few of the prisoners had speculated on what animal specifically had given them. In Westheimer’s left hand was a cane, which he raised and waved as he bellowed, “What the hell is going on in here?!”\n\nPlundell and the others retreated, leaving the radio throwing itself all over the camp floor. Static and that voice continued from its speaker. “. . . Sleep . . . Never. I will never . . . Why are you here, Sergeant? You won’t get over it . . . Men died because of you.”\n\n“Son-of-a-bitch.” Westheimer pointed the tip of his cane at the radio. A great flash illuminated the barracks. A bolt of lightning from the cane struck the radio, splintering it into a hundred pieces. A hissing, writhing human-like figure unfurled from where the radio once lay. It was nothing more than a skeletal shadow, crawling toward Westheimer and spitting obscenities at him. It recoiled when he aimed his cane at it, but still made a feeble attempt to attack him, swiping at him with a gnarled, clawed hand. Westheimer stabbed the shadow with his cane. A loud bang was heard, and the shadow fizzled into thin air, leaving a black mark on the floor. Flakes of ash floated around the barracks, and silence finally dominated.\n\nPlundell didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until his head started feeling light. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, “Captain—”\n\n“Go back to bed. All of you,” Westheimer interrupted. Without another word, he turned, leaving the barracks. He barked something in German to the guards outside, who closed the doors and returned to their posts.\n\nPlundell looked at the mark on the floor, then at his hands, which were still bloody from the wood splinters. This hadn’t been a bad dream, but what was it?\n------------\nPlundell and the rest of the POWs didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, though they tried. Kesby was the first to attempt. He awoke shortly after, whimpering something about hearing that voice in his dreams, and that he couldn’t tell if it was real or just a dream.\n\nAfter morning roll call, Plundell worked up the courage to go to Westheimer’s quarters. The guard standing outside didn’t say anything when Plundell approached. Instead, he opened the door, and said in his best English, “You want answers for last night, ja?”\n\n“Yes,” Plundell replied. “So . . . Th-That wasn’t a dream?”\n\n“No. Not a dream. Something possessed your little radio.”\n\nHaving been in shock for the last several hours, Plundell hadn’t considered the fact that he and the rest of the prisoners could be punished for having the radio in the first place, but Westheimer hadn’t said anything about it. “Is the captain available?”\n\n“He is having his breakfast and coffee, Sergeant. But, please, have a seat in his office.”\n\nNodding and bidding thanks, Plundell entered the building. Westheimer’s quarters were only in slightly better condition than the barracks. There were some decorations and touches of home, but it wasn’t overly extravagant. In the captain’s office, pictures and maps adorned the wall. One was of a smiling young woman, with two small children, both girls, in her lap. The picture next to that showed the two girls all grown up. They were standing with two men who Plundell assumed to be their husbands. One was in the dress uniform of the Kriegsmarine, the other in the uniform of the Luftwaffe.\n\nThere were photographs of a younger Westheimer. Most featured him and his wife and their daughters. Plundell never took Westheimer to be a family man, but it appeared he was.\n\n“What do you want?”\n\nPlundell jumped and turned, seeing Westheimer standing in the doorway to his office. He was holding a cup of coffee, and had a pipe clenched in his teeth. “Captain, sir, I . . . I would like to discuss . . . l-last night—”\n\n“You want to discuss the ghost.”\n\n“Y-Yes, sir.”\n\n“Then sit down.”\n\nStunned, Plundell nervously sat in the chair across from Westheimer’s desk. “So, it . . . it was a ghost?”\n\n“It was a ghost. A very dangerous ghost. More specifically, a poltergeist.”\n\nPlundell’s jaw dropped. “I . . . was never certain ghosts were real.”\n\n“They are. Then again, I imagine you did not think magic was real, did you?”\n\n“No, sir. I had always believed it was a circus trick, or creative beggars looking to con people out of their money.”\n\nWestheimer grinned at him. “Well, there are a lot of ‘magicians’ out there, so you are not entirely wrong.” He picked up his cane. “If I was not a damn warlock, you and the rest of Barracks One would not have survived the night.”\n\nPlundell gave a nervous laugh. “Wait, wait, you . . . you’re a warlock? No, no, that can’t be . . . that’s . . . No, there’s no bloody way.”\n\n“I never had any intention of revealing my identity as one to you or the rest of the prisoners, but last night called for it.”\n\n“This is . . . more than just pulling rabbits out of hats?”\n\n“A lot more.”\n\nHow could this be? Plundell looked down at his lap, struggling to process what he had just learned. Magic was real. Ghosts were real. He witnessed one possess a radio of all things. His German captor was a wizard. What was next? What baffled him even more was that Westheimer didn’t seem to care that he was revealing this to what was technically his enemy.\n\n“Any other questions? This seems to be . . . quite the shock to you.”\n\n“It is, sir, it is.” Plundell suddenly felt like someone had whacked the back of his head with a hammer. “This feels like it shouldn’t be real. Especially after last night. I . . .” His throat closed. He didn’t want to think about last night. “It gave . . . Private Kesby nightmares, a-and we already have enough nightmares about being on the front. We don’t need more.”\n\n“You have enough demons to face without literal ones.”\n\n“Yes. Exactly. Still . . . why did this ghost choose to . . . to torment us?”\n\nWestheimer shrugged. “For reasons only it knew. All I can tell you is that it chose the radio because it could communicate with you easier. I have seen possessed record players, too.”\n\nPlundell couldn’t help but grin at that thought, but the tide of new revelations was still crashing through his mind. He glanced at his lap again before making eye contact with Westheimer. “And you know how to defeat ghosts?”\n\n“I had been taught since I was young. Granted, most witches and warlocks do not deal with ghosts or werewolves or vampires or any other magical beings. I chose to after a ghost similar to this one led a friend of mine to take his own life shortly after the end of the First World War.”\n\n“I’m sorry.”\n\nWestheimer didn’t respond right away. He took a breath, and continued, “No, I should apologize for the shock to you. I was born into magic. You were not, so you do not understand it.” He gave Plundell a confused look. “What does impress me is that you are not scared.”\n\n“You did save our lives last night. If I may speak honestly—”\n\n“Go ahead.”\n\n“You are already a scary man to the rest of the camp. I wasn’t expecting our enemy to do such a thing.”\n\n“I have no place in this war other than here, because I cannot walk. That, and the Nazi goons do not know what I am. I would like to keep it that way.”\n\n“But you showed your magic in front of the guards. Aren’t you worried they’ll say something?”\n\nWestheimer shook his head. “No. I have had this set of guards since the war began. I trust all of them. They all trust me because I am good to them. Most of them are not fit for frontline service for one reason or another, but they are still able-bodied enough to be forced to do something.”\n\n“That still seems very risky.”\n\n“It is a risk I am willing to take, and it has paid off for the last three years.”\n\n“Why tell me?”\n\n“I already mentioned before that I had no plans of telling you, but when I left the barracks last night, I had a feeling you or someone else would come looking for answers. I spent this morning preparing myself to tell the truth. Plus, what would you gain by telling the Gestapo? Nothing. The last they would take seriously is an accusation from an enemy soldier.”\n\nPlundell was still struggling to get his head above the torrent of information crashing over him. “None of this . . . makes sense. Are you the only warlock, or are there others?”\n\n“There are many others, and we are not all alike. I highly suggest you do not go searching for any, because not every witch or warlock is keen on making friends with those who do not possess any form of magic.”\n\n“I see.” Plundell wasn’t sure what to do next. Did he tell the rest of his men? Had they already dismissed last night as a bad dream? Did they just not want to talk about it? Feeling drained, Plundell decided to change the topic. “Are you going to punish us for having the radio in the first place?”\n\nTo Plundell’s surprise, Westheimer shook his head. “No. I think what you went through last night was punishment enough. Frankly, I do not care what contraband you have in here, but I would like you to remember that there are camps and commandants far less willing to look the other way. I am an exception. However, be mindful of your smuggling. Cursed and haunted items can be easily hidden, and once you discover what they are, it may be too late to undo the damage.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Christmas Queen\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2800\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with a character finding out the love of their life is actually royalty."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "(CW: Violence, Language, crude humor, blood, comic mischief)\nA frozen blanket of ice glazed the roads on Fern Street as the Wallace family headed home from a busy day of shopping. The houses were adorned with multi-colored lights, and blow-up decorations were as far as the eye could see. Every door had a festive wreath to showcase the spirit of the season, and carolers sang songs of merry for all to hear.\nYes, my friends, it was Christmas Eve once again. A time when boys and girls dream of toys and candy, and parents wish for peace on Earth. Even grandparents put their worries away and enjoy watching their loved ones celebrate the traditions they have passed down through the years. There was no doubt about it—the holidays have always brought joy to the entire world.\nAs John Wallace pulled into the driveway, he noticed his neighbor, Ben Foster, hanging his Christmas lights. He parked his blue reindeer-decorated Subaru, looked at his wife, Martha, and said, “It’s a little late to be hanging lights, isn’t it?”\nMartha took a sip of her hot chocolate and rasped, “Oh, give him a break. Ben’s getting older, and ever since his wife, Alice, passed away a few years ago, he hasn’t been the same.”\nJohn lifted his brow and shrugged. “Yeah, but all things considered, don’t you think it’s a little counterproductive?” He looked at Ben and continued, “I mean, after Christmas, all this stuff has to come down, so what’s the point?”\n“He likes to be included,” Martha said. “Alice used to decorate that house every year, so I suppose he wants to honor her memory.”\n“Hmph,” John huffed. He looked in the back seat to see his twelve-year-old daughter, Sarah, glued to her phone. “Hey, kiddo, we’re home. You wanna go over and help Ben put up his lights.”\nSarah removed her earbuds and snapped, “What?!”\n“Do you wanna—”\n“I heard what you said, Dad!” Sarah’s words cut deeply. “Why should I do that?”\nMartha put her hot beverage in the cup holder and spoke firmly. “Sarah, we don’t need that attitude right now. It’s Christmas, so why don’t you lend some good cheer and help our neighbor? We have to put these groceries away anyway. You can watch your TikTok videos later.”\nSarah ruffled her face, pinched her lips together, and fired, “Fine!”\nJohn widened his eyes as Sarah exploded from the car. “Be good,” he said. “It’s the holidays.”\nThe cool air was comforting because Sarah’s insides were boiling. She unzipped her pink jacket and removed her black toboggan snow hat. She reached up, parted her brown hair behind her ears, and marched across the snow. Her unicorn boots sparkled in the moonlight, which matched her black leggings.\nMartha and John gathered their bounty and smiled as their little girl approached Ben. They were glad to see Sarah heed their words because they had some presents to hide, and the distraction was a welcomed surprise.\n“I’m glad to see her do something besides messing with her phone,” John said. “She’s been so distant lately.”\n“Yeah,” replied Martha. “Teens will be teens.” She gave Sarah a quick wave and entered the house.\n“Hi, Mr. Foster,” Sarah greeted with a quick flutter.\nBen was straggling the ladder near his front porch and snapped in another staple to a strand of lights. He nearly fell off when he heard Sarah’s voice. When he regained his footing, he looked down and uttered, “Oh, you startled me, little one!”\nSarah looked up and said, “Do you need help? My parents sent me over.”\nHe cleared his throat, pointed to a box on his porch, and muttered, “Well, darlin’, you could hand me those other lights in that box. It sure would help these old legs of mine.”\n“Alright,” moaned Sarah. She grabbed the lights and noticed a red machine about the size of a lawnmower resting by the sidewalk. She glared at the contraption for a few moments before Ben’s voice brought her back to reality.\n“Don’t mind that, sweetie,” he said. “That’s just the snowblower.” He lowered his hand and grinned. “How about those lights?”\nSarah ran over to the ladder and reached as high as she could until Ben grasped the lights. She watched as he stapled one strand at a time with his shaky hands. This is going to take all night!\nThe access line with the plug dangled beside Sarah like a slithering snake, and she pulled out her phone and began recording.\n“What are you doing?” Ben asked.\nSarah sighed. “I’m recording this moment so I can upload it to my TikTok channel later.” She lowered her voice and mumbled, “My friends will be so excited to see how boring my life is.”\n“What’s Tiki-Tok?”\nSarah wrinkled her eyebrows. Really? “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a social media thing?”\n“Ha! Don’t worry,” said Ben. “I know all about social media. I watch the news all the time!”\nHe continued stapling the lights and began humming Jingle Bells. The access wire kept creeping along and got tangled around Sarah’s boots. She stumbled a bit but didn’t fall. Once again, her attention turned to the snowblower. She grabbed the cord and placed the end of it in the machine’s blades.\nThis will show him not to trip me again! This thing should strip all those lights, and then I can go home.\nShe saw a lever on the control panel that said, “On,” and pulled it. With a soft hum, the blades engaged, and the loose wire was pulled into the machine. Sarah stepped back and positioned her phone to capture all the chaos.\nBen whipped his head like a startled rodent and yelled, “Turn that off—”\nHis words were cut short as the looped wire around his neck became taut and flung him off the ladder. His body hung in the air while the snowblower pulled against the stapled lights. He tried to break free, but his old hands didn’t have the strength. He gasped for air, but none would fill his lungs. Within seconds, all the life in Ben’s writhing body ceased, and his eyes grew cold.\n“Oh… shit!” Sarah gasped, turning off the snowblower. “That was… awesome!”\nLater that night, Sarah awoke to flashing red and blue lights shining on her ceiling, and they were not Christmas lights. The police were on the scene, and Sarah watched through her bedroom window as the paramedics took Ben away in a black body bag. \n“Sarah!”\nA thousand snakes slithered down Sarah’s spine when she heard her mother’s cry. She ran down the stairs as fast as her little legs would carry her and found her mom and dad sitting at the kitchen table.\n“Honey,” John said with a long, drawn-out tone. “You were with Ben this evening. Did you notice anything strange?”\nSarah clasped her hands behind her back and mumbled, “N-No.”\n“Are you sure, sweetheart?” Martha asked with tear-filled eyes.\n“Well…” Sarah started and then paused to scrunch her lips. “I may have done something naughty.” She walked closer to the table and leaned against the marbled countertop.\nJohn stood up, placed his hand on Sarah’s shoulder, and asked, “What did you do?”\nSarah fumbled for the right words but couldn’t find them, so she turned her back.\n“It’s alright,” John said, looking at Martha. “If you had something to do with what happened tonight, we have to tell the police.”\n“He’s right, dear,” Martha said.\nSarah wrinkled her forehead, clenched her jaw, grabbed a sharp blade from the knife block that was right in front of her, turned, and slashed her father’s throat. A thick stream of blood painted Sarah’s pink unicorn pajamas, and her mother screamed.\nJohn grabbed his severed neck, fell to the floor, and choked on his own blood.\n“No!” Martha screamed. “What did you do?”\nMartha ran to John and held him in her arms as he breathed his last breath. When she looked at Sarah through bloodshot eyes, the last thing she saw was the glimmering blade as it penetrated her skull. The blade bit strong and true, and as it pierced Martha’s brain, visions of her life flashed by like lightning strikes, and then darkness took her.\nSarah gripped the knife and yanked it out of her mother’s head. A weary smile crept upon her face as she turned to her phone that she had placed on the countertop earlier. “TikTok is gonna love this.”\nSuddenly, Sarah heard footsteps coming from the living room. She grew silent and heard the faint sound of bells jingling in the distance. Out of curiosity, Sarah tiptoed out of the kitchen and peeked around the wall to see a white-bearded man wearing a red suit with black boots putting presents underneath the tree.\n“Santa…?” gasped Sarah.\nThe jolly man turned and bellowed, “Ho, ho, ho!” Sarah ran towards him with the knife held high, and his tone quickly changed. “Ho, ho, ho, Oh, no!” He grabbed her arm and took the knife away. “Put that away! It’s Christmas.”\n“No, you big fat bully!” Sarah yelled. “Let me go!”\nSanta looked at Sarah’s blood-soaked pajamas and said, “Something tells me you’ve been a naughty girl this year. I knew I should have checked that list twice. I guess I’m getting a little lazy. I should have listened to Mrs. Claus. She’s always right. What did you do, little girl?”\n“I’m not telling you,” Sarah snapped.\nHe held Sarah’s arm and walked into the kitchen, where he discovered the cold bodies of her parents. “Oh no!! You have been a bad girl! What should I do with you? Hmm… Well, this is Christmas, and I think you should come with me until I fly to the police station. You must answer for this crime.”\n“No!” Sarah yelled. “You can’t make me do anything!”\n“Ho, ho, ho, I’m Santa Claus, and I will do what’s best for you.” He grabbed Sarah’s arm a little tighter, placed a finger on his nose, and they disappeared up the chimney in a puff of magic smoke. They appeared in Santa’s slay on the roof, and with a quick dash, they were off flying with his nine reindeer—Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, and Rudolph.\nSarah pulled out her phone and pressed the record button. No one is going to believe this!\nThey flew around for a few minutes before landing on the next roof, and Santa quickly delivered his gifts. When he emerged from the chimney, Sarah folded her arms and scoffed, “I thought you were taking me to jail?!”\n“Ho, ho, ho!” huffed Santa. “I plan on doing just that after I make a few more deliveries.” He laughed, and Sarah couldn’t believe that his belly did indeed shake like a bowl full of jelly. “It is Christmas, after all, and time is of the essence.” He grabbed the reins and said, “Now, hold tight… Here we go. HO!”\nLike a twinkle from a Christmas light, they were off again, soaring through the clouds. Sarah expected to feel the freezing temperatures, but was toasty warm in the sleigh. Santa’s red gift bag was neatly tucked in the back seat, and Sarah decided to have a peak.\nShe gave Santa a double take to make sure he wasn’t watching her and untied the thick golden rope around his bag. She raised her eyebrows when a blinding light began to show itself through the opening. The warmth and power caressed her soul. It was a strange feeling. What is this?\n“Ho, ho, ho! It’s the Christmas spirit of love,” Santa said with a warm smile. “It’s something that you have closed your heart to.”\nHe turned and watched Sarah close the sack. Her droopy eyes and frown showed the beginnings of sorrow.\n“I think people sometimes forget that I know all and see all… It’s so annoying, ho, ho!” Santa reached up and patted his white fluffy beard and continued, “What you need to understand is that while this world is filled with hate, there is also hope. Hope to overcome hardship and faith to do good. I believe you have that warmth in your heart, and all you need to do is admit your wrongdoings and let the healing begin. Everyone can change.”\nNo words came from Sarah. She sat stone-faced and seemed lost in deep thought.\nSanta nodded and steered his beloved reindeer to the next house. “Not to worry, Sarah. Forgiveness will always be there for you when you want to accept it.”\nAs Santa landed on the snow-covered roof, he stood next to the chimney with his red sack of presents and gave Sarah another cheerful look. “I won’t be long. Our next stop will be the police station, and then your healing can begin, ho, ho! Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”\nHe touched his nose, transformed into a dazzling, colorful mist, and swooped down the chimney. He filled the stockings hanging by the fireplace with candy and do-dads and placed a handful of presents under the sparkling tree. A plateful of peanut butter cookies caught his eye before leaving.\n“Oh, my favorite!” he beamed. “How can I say no? Ho, ho!”\nSanta ate every last crumb and drank the full glass of milk that was left for him. Most people believed that he preferred chocolate chip cookies, but the savory taste of peanut butter was his weakness.\nTime was getting on, and Santa snorted his way back up the chimney. When he emerged from the smoky funnel, he fell to his knees, and his rosy face turned red. The snow-covered roof was painted blood-red, and the reindeer were gathered in a circle, snooting and grunting.\nAs the reindeer parted, Santa saw Sarah sitting on Rudolph’s mutilated carcass, eating his red nose. A slight trickle of bright red ichor flowed down her chin.\n“It does taste like a cherry!”\nSanta rose with a clatter and yanked Sarah off of Rudolph. “What have you done?!” His face shook like a bowl full of molded pudding. “I thought you could change. I believed you had some good in your heart—”\n“Ack!”\nHis words were cut short when Sarah quickly slashed his throat with the knife she found in the front seat of the sleigh. Santa should have left it at Sarah’s house when he took it from her, but mistakes are habitual.\nSanta’s white fluffy beard soaked up the blood like a thick towel and turned crimson. His jolly-filled eyes twinkled and rolled back into his head, where visions of Christmas pasts grew dark. His jingle-bell knees quivered and gave out, and he collapsed in front of Sarah like a deflated blow-up decoration.\nSarah’s eyes danced in the bloodshed twilight, and she laughed with a bubbly voice, “Ha, ha, ha, ho! Merry Christmas, you fat bastard. You thought you knew what I needed?! Well, screw you!”\nShe grabbed her recording phone that was positioned on the sleigh, held it up, and said, “To all my TikTok followers and the non-believers… The spirit of Christmas can be killed. That’s how you do it, my friends!”\nSarah stopped recording and noticed the goosebumps forming on her slender arms. Jack Frost was wickedly biting into her bones as the warmth of the Christmas magic faded. Her pink blood-covered unicorn pajamas were no match for the freezing temperatures, so she ran over to Santa’s rotting corpse, removed his heavy red coat, and put it on.\nThe coat was too big for her small frame, but in an instant, Sarah’s insides stopped quivering, and a circle of warm magic dust swirled around her. All at once, the jacket adjusted itself to fit her body perfectly, and Sarah felt a power that only dreams could bring. She heard children’s voices and saw their dreams as they slept. Sarah automatically knew who was good and who was bad. There was an overwhelming sense of joy, and she swatted it down with a gust of hatred. \n“Well… who would have thought?”\nSarah watched as the reindeer instantly took their place by the sleigh, and Prancer gave her a look that would kill most people.\n“What?” she asked, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ve always been the love of my own life, and it’s only fitting that I become the Queen of Christmas!” \nSarah knew exactly what to do. Christmas must go on. There was no question about that, but what form would it take? \nShe pulled out her phone again, hit the live stream button on TikTok, and laughed as the number of viewers crossed the billions.\nWith the device held high to capture the perfect angle, Sarah smiled a devilish grin and rejoiced, “It’s time to spread some Christmas FEAR!”\n“Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha!”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Undercover\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2622\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves sabotage."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Run!” Josef yelled to his best friend. \nLegs pumping and chests heaving, Josef glanced sideways to his friend and smiled. The exhilaration of pranking others was just too great for the duo to stop. The smile hurt both boys’ faces as they escaped from the angry men whom they just pranked. They were yelling curses and chasing after the troublemakers. \nEver since the Nazis invaded Paris, things have been gloomy. Josef had always been bright and cheerful, but now the only times he smiled was when he was running away from the fuming recipients of his pranks. He and his best friend Simon would create intricate pranks before testing them on unsuspecting people. Some people would laugh after getting pranked, while others would get angry and start chasing. This time was different, the footsteps stopped, but the boys kept running. It was all going as expected. \n“Bang, Bang”\nThe sound ripped through the air and the concrete next to Josef was blown to pieces. The cold smell of gunpowder filled the air. They were getting shot at! Josef immediately picked up his pace, but his partner in crime stood frozen in fear. \n“Come on! We have to run!”\nThe fear was evident in his friend’s eyes and as Josef looked down, an ominous bloodstain enlarged on the front of Simon’s shirt. Bile piled in his throat. This was a prank, how did it escalate so much so fast? His knees buckling, Josef’s best and only friend fell, lifeless. Looking up, Josef saw the group of men approaching to kill him. The guns glistened menacingly in the moonlight and Josef bolted. Looking back once, what he saw would be engrained in him forever. Armbands, with blood-red and dead black insignias. The symbol of fear. The symbol of the Nazis. \nThey had stripped so much away from him. When the Nazis rolled into town, they wiped the smiles off of everyone. Joy was replaced by fear and uncertainty. Buildings were destroyed and monuments were wrecked. Parisians starved while Nazi Jackboots ate and drank well. Now, however, they had gone too far, they had taken his best friend away from him. Though he should be terrified or at least grateful that he wasn’t the one to be shot, those thoughts did not even cross his mind. Revenge and vengeance were all that was in Josef’s head. \nHe wasn’t strong, he wasn’t big, he wasn’t intimidating, but he was determined. Once Josef had set his mind to it, there was no turning back, he was going to get back at the Nazis, the question was how. How could a scrawny teenager like him ever hurt such a powerful army? That was it! Josef thought to himself, as even he underestimated himself, the Nazis would not expect Josef to cause any harm either! His vision clouded by vengeance and powered by hatred, Josef sneaked to the woods to seek The Resistance. \nIt was going to be treacherous, tales of monsters and creatures in the woods were told often. It was said that once you draw near to the woods, darkness will consume you and suck your soul away. However, Josef believed none of that nonsense. Saying a quick farewell to his family, Josef walked away from his house for what may be the last time. \nThe forest was dark, the foliage was so dense even the bright moonlight could not penetrate. Out of the corner of his eye, a flicker of movement could be seen. \n“Who’s there?” Josef timidly asked. \nHowever, no answer, it seemed as if his voice had been engulfed by the endless darkness. Suddenly, rough hands pinned Josef’s arms behind his back, while the cold barrel of a gun poked at his back. \n“State your reason for trespassing in our forests.” A demanding voice shattered the silence. \n“I-I'm trying to work as a spy for you.” \n“Even under the covers of the darkness I can tell that you’re just a scared teen, cowards and weaklings are no use in this part of the land.” The voice behind seemed to rupture Josef’s eardrums. \n“They killed my best friend, I may not be strong, but I am determined, please let me prove myself!” Josef pleaded. \n“The answer is no, you may as well be a Nazi spy and we are not taking that chance for someone like you.” The disgust was evident in his voice. \n“But-”\n“No more buts, you have wasted enough of our time, now scram before we finish the Nazis job for them.”\nFury built up in Josef’s chest and he wanted to fight. However, he had no choice, a gun was pointed at his back and who knew how many more shooters lurked in trees. Turning around in shame, Josef ran. Blazing hot tears trickled down his cheeks and blurred his vision. They must be right I am just a scared teen. This thought attacked Josef as he stumbled through the forest back to his home. Running away again, just as expected. The voice teased him the entire way back. \nWaking up, Josef wished the events of the night were just all a nightmare. However, looking down at his bruised legs and feeling tearstains on his face, his hopes diminished. It was a new day though, the sun was bright, which re-energized Josef. His interaction with the rebels was just a minor setback. If no one would help him, Josef would just have to take matters into his own hands. From all the adventure stories he had read, spies fed on information, what better place to get information than the bar! Drunk soldiers and officers spit out the most knowledge, influenced by alcohol, no one will suspect a young waiter. Pacing the room, a plan was hatched. Josef would get a job as a waiter in the Nazi’s favourite bar and feed on useful information. \nGetting the job was the easy part, due to the unattractive, low-paying job of serving rude, ruthless men, Josef was set to serve the very next day. Given a stained, blue uniform that was a size too large, Josef was set to serve drinks to the Nazis, the terrible Nazis. Other than the occasional spilled drink and cups thrown, nothing exciting occurred on his first day on the job. \nSoon, however, everything changed when a man emanating immense power entered the room. The rowdy bar hushed and whispers replaced the shouting and fighting. \n“He’s the General.” One drunk Nazi loudly blurted to his friend. \n“Most powerful man here.” Another whispered with a look of awe. \nSeeing his chance, Josef immediately greeted the newcomer with a bright smile and friendly demeanour. To his surprise, the General gave a genuine smile back in return before ordering drinks for the whole bar. The General had a slick uniform and friendly face, he was also very well respected and liked by everyone serving under him. \nComing back with his drinks, Josef walked in the middle of the powerful man telling the tale of his fight against the French. Seeing that he was interrupting a story, Josef awkwardly stood there. He did not stay uncomfortable for long as the General soon turned his attention to Josef. \n“Hey boy, thanks for the drinks.”\n“Oh, yeah, you’re welcome sir.” Josef nervously responded. \n“Enough with the formalities, just call me Alexander or Alex for short. Just because I withhold power doesn’t make me any more terrifying than these folks.” The General said as he was gesturing to the drunk Nazis around him. \n“Yes sir, I mean Alex sorry,” Josef mumbled.\n“What is a young man like you working these nasty bars? Is it for extra cash? Alex inquired. \n“No, just thought it would be enriching.”\n“Hmm, you got the eyes of a clever young man, you don’t seem to be lying, but are not telling the truth either. Just leave the drinks here and meet me at my place tomorrow, I want to know more about you.” The man ordered kindly as he passed a note with an address to Josef. \n“Thank you, Alexander, I will meet you there,” Josef said as he left the drinks and retreated behind the counters. \nOff to a good start, Josef thought. He had not only met the General, but was going to meet him tomorrow as well. The address on the slip of paper led Josef to a small apartment with boarded-up windows. At first, Josef was confused as to why Alexander was living in such shambles. However, he was soon interrupted by a man in black who signalled for Josef to come inside. Once inside, Josef picked up on the faint smell of mould and shivered due to the cool draft. \n“Greetings, young man.” \nJosef was startled, but when he looked towards the direction of the voice, he made out the faint outline of Alexander. \n“Hello, Alex.” Josef politely replied. \n“Couldn’t quite catch your name yesterday, would you be so kind to enlighten me,” Alex asked. \n“Josef, my name is Josef Garnier.”\n“I don’t have much patience so I will skip all the useless parts. I just wanted to ask you what you think about the great Nazis.” Alex abruptly asked. \nWanting to get on his good side, Josef acted very in favour of the Nazis, which seemed to please the General. The two discussed about Nazis and sacrifices and bonded over the hours of talking. At last, Josef gained Alexander’s trust. \n“Josef, I have a very vital mission for you. I have now come to know that you live and are willing to die for the Fatherland. You have gained my trust and I am about to give you something that will turn the tides of the war.” The General spoke. \nFetching something out of a briefcase, Alex produced a blueprint of some sort. \n“This here are the plans for a mega weapon which make sure that the Fatherland lives on. Your mission is to smuggle this to Berlin headquarters. Your plane tickets are paid for and if you succeed, you will be rewarded greatly.” The General continued. \n“Why me? I am just a kid you met yesterday.” Josef countered. \n“That is exactly why I can trust you. There is no way for anyone to suspect a teenager and no way for anyone to predict that I chose a bartender whom I had met yesterday to smuggle these documents. Your eyes tell me that you are smart and I strongly believe that you will make the perfect agent for the Fatherland.”\nWith no choice but to accept, Josef took the documents and bid farewell to the General. \nJosef was conflicted, does he go according to plan and betray a person who trusted him so much or does he help Alexander? If he were to betray Alex, he would be in much more peril and break their friendship. However, if he helped the General, he could be rewarded and would be in less danger. The Nazis had caused all this trouble in the first place and with the thought of them killing his best friend, Josef’s decision was made. \nLate that night, Josef was back in the forest with the documents tucked in his sac. This time he was not scared, he had a mission and he would do it right. Just like last time, he saw a flicker of movement and a gun was pointed at his back. \n“I have important documents and information.” Josef cried out. \n“You’re that child from a few nights ago, your information better be worth my time.” The familiar cold voice responded. \nTelling the group the whole story and showing the leader the documents, he seemed convinced. We need to smuggle these documents to Switzerland then. It took some arguing and planning when finally, Josef was set to get on a bus the very next day to the border. \nThe bus ride was long, but Josef couldn’t sleep, adrenaline pumped in his veins and he was wary of everything. The trees and scenery flew past in a blur while Josef urged the bus to move faster. Even though he was famished and dehydrated, he was too nervous to drink and eat. Arriving at the last bus stop, Josef left the bus with shaky legs and shivered due to the cold. The alabaster-tipped mountains towered over Josef as he prepared to climb them. Progress was slow, and the ill-equipped Josef soon was frozen all over, running purely on fear and anger. Josef gripped the briefcase with the documents so tightly, his pale knuckles were whiter than the snow. Huffing and puffing, Josef took one step at a time until he finally neared the pickup spot. According to the Resistance, a helicopter would pick him up from and fly over the border. However, as he arrived at the place and spotted the helicopter, something felt wrong. Brushing the thought aside and blaming it on his paranoia, Josef walked towards the cockpit. The driver greeted him awkwardly in a strange accent that sounded suspiciously German. Instead of asking Josef for the code word, the driver let him on the copter. Sensing that something was wrong once again, Josef looked around, from the corner of his eye, he saw a red armband flash past in the distance. Realizing that it was a trap, Josef began to run. \nHowever, he was too slow, the driver lunged forward and snatched Josef’s arm. Josef struggled, but the grip was too strong, seeing that a ring of Nazis were closing in, he desperately bit the driver’s hand. The grip loosened for a moment and that was all Josef needed. Lurching forward, he escaped the hands of the driver and began to run. Knowing the general direction of Switzerland, Josef began to sprint towards the border. \nFrom behind, Josef could hear the hoard of angry Nazi soldiers. Even though Josef was fast, he was exhausted from the long climb and the Nazis began to gain. Josef could hear the voices of his former friend, Alexander screaming. \n“Josef, don’t sabotage the entire country’s chance of winning the war! We can work something out, think about the glory and fame, just come back!” \nThe offer was tempting, but Josef had made a vow, and he was going to honour it. The chase seemed to go on for ages, Josef’s lungs were burning and his legs were on the verge of buckling. The wind howled in his face and snow hit him like a million shards of glass. Gunshots rang behind him, whizzing past his ear. It seemed hopeless, the Nazis were too fast, he was so close, yet he would not make it. Suddenly, a stray gunshot hit a huge snow patch. The ground started to shake and looking back, Josef saw a wave of snow rolling towards him and the Nazis. The wave of death picked up speed and when the Nazis finally realized that they were not the ones chasing anymore, it was too late. The snow tumbled and buried the Nazis alive. \n“Saboteur!” Alexander screamed as he was smothered by the snow. \nWith no time to rest, the avalanche was closing in on him as well, Josef was just about to suffer the same fate as the Nazis when he was grabbed by rough hands. Josef was thrown into a concrete bunker, he almost had a heart attack when he saw the red armband on the man who had saved him. However, before he attempted to escape, Josef realized that the armband showed the Switzerland flag, not the Nazis. \nHe was saved. \n“Thank you,” Josef mumbled as the adrenaline left his veins and his vision started to fade. \nI’m saved, I’m alive. That was all Josef could think as he fell to the ground unconscious, still gripping the briefcase."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: It's Over - Over and Over Again\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1274\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character is stuck reliving their worst Christmas ever, over and over again."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "He sat back in his Lazy Boy chair listening to the crackle of the fire. He closed his eyes thinking, “Damn, life is good.” In a few hours the kids would be arriving for Christmas dinner, the first time the gang was all together in what felt like forever. \nClick, click, click in walked Marilyn all dressed and ready for the festivities. She looked … well, she looked spectacular. \n“Honey, is that a new dress? I don’t remember seeing that one before?” He asked, looking at her appreciatively. \nShe stared at him. Unsmiling. \nA terrible feeling washed over him. Something was definitely wrong.\n“Honey?” He tentatively prompted her for an answer.\n“I want a divorce,” she stated without blinking an eye, without her voice wavering in the slightest. A straightforward arrow shooting across the cozy den stabbing him in the chest with perfect precision.\nHe was dumbfounded. A divorce? Surely life has its ups and downs but that’s life by definition. You don’t end a marriage at the drop of a hat, on Christmas Day no less, with the family arriving in a few hours. Was this a joke? A terrible cruel example of twisted humor?\n“You can’t be serious.” He finally heard words leave his mouth.\n“See, that’s exactly the problem,” she said her cheeks turning red, her face finally showing emotion.\n“What does that mean?”\n“You said I can’t be serious. You don’t take me seriously. You couldn’t care less about me. I’m just here in the background of your life.”\n“That’s not true!” He jumped up out of his Lazy Boy chair ready for battle.\n“Really? Name one thing I do for myself.”\n“You go to work.”\n“Oh, that’s for me? You think that’s enjoyable somehow? What do I do at work? Name one coworker. Just one.”\nHe was blank. She was a receptionist in a realtor’s office, leaving each morning at 8:25 and returning at 5:35. Sometimes she returned home with leftovers from dinner that her boss treated her to. Her boss, shit, what was her name again? He knew it. Obviously he knew it. He just couldn’t remember. She was making him nervous; he couldn’t think while she was glaring at him like that.\n“You’re being ridiculous,” he shouted at her. “The kids are going to be here in a few hours. Can’t we have a nice day?”\n“Oh, now I’m ridiculous. Thanks for the compliment.” She left the room returning moments later in her coat holding her travel bag. “I’m leaving. Turn off the oven at 3:00. Enjoy.”\nShe was gone. \nGone. Gone on Christmas Day? She left him? Left him on Christmas Day.\nTurn off the oven at 3:00? He blindly walked into the kitchen. The table was set festively for the family minus one. The lack of her place setting was proof that she had no intention of being at the family dinner. She didn’t even put something down as a replacement. Not a plant, a bowl, a candy dish, just a void at the other end of the table across from his seat. He would be staring into nothing with his family on either side.\nHe thought back to the travel bag she was holding, obviously a trip planned, not a spontaneous decision. That dress she wore for her announcement. Where was she going dressed like that? His heart began to beat faster, the blood pumping loudly in his ears, sweat forming on his forehead. What the fuck did she think she was doing? The anger was rising quickly. \n***\nHe sat back in his Lazy Boy chair listening to the crackle of the fire. He closed his eyes thinking, “Damn, life is good.” In a few hours the kids would be arriving for Christmas dinner, the first time the gang was all together in ages. The grandkids were getting so big, soon they would be starting school and making new friends. It was important that the family stays close for as long as possible.\nMarilyn walked in, interrupting his thoughts. She was all dressed and ready for the festivities. She looked … well, she looked spectacular. \n“Honey, is that a new dress? I don’t remember seeing that one before?” He asked, looking at her appreciatively. \nShe stared at him. Unsmiling. \n“I want a divorce,” she blurted out. \n***\nHe sat back in his Lazy Boy chair listening to the crackle of the fire. He closed his eyes thinking, “Damn, life is good.” In a few hours the kids would be arriving for Christmas dinner, the first time the gang was all together in what felt like forever. He was particularly excited this year with the news of his first grandchild due to arrive in the spring. He smiled, imagining the little bundle being placed into his arms for the very first time. Would it be a boy to carry on the family name or a girl to spoil while hopelessly wrapped around her little finger? A child is a blessing, and his life has been so blessed already. He was indeed a lucky man. \nIn walked Marilyn wearing her sweats carrying her gym bag. That was odd, he thought, feeling unsettled. Why go to the gym now?\n“Honey, off the gym now? Aren’t you supposed to go after you stuff yourself silly?” \nShe stared at him. Unsmiling. \nA terrible feeling washed over him. Something was definitely wrong.\n“Honey?”\n“I want a divorce,” she stated without blinking an eye, without her voice wavering in the slightest. Just a straightforward arrow shooting across the cozy den until it stabbed him in the heart.\n***\nHe sat back, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes, sighing. It had been a long day. The kids left taking their bags of gifts, cookies, and merry wishes with them. He was back in the den finally alone with his thoughts. And the situation at hand. The Divorce. With a capital D.\nNow what?\nHe had never gone through anything like this. His parents were the perfect role models for marriage, he had always imagined the happily ever after following “I do.” What does a middle-aged man do after his wife abruptly announces her plans for divorce? Were there signs he had missed over the years? Was it his fault? When did the dissatisfaction appear or was it always there silently growing like a cancer?\nLost in thought he was startled when Jill’s voice crept into his contemplation. It took him a while to realize she had been trying to get his attention. Putting his glasses back on he looked at his wife standing in the doorway. \n“You ok, hun? You don’t seem yourself today.” She came over and sat down on the arm of his Lazy Boy.\nHe patted her leg and answered, “Just stuck in my edits. I’ve been working on the same chapter over and over again trying to get it right.”\n“Ah. A bit of writer’s block? Anything I can help you with?”\n“Not this time.” For Jill knew nothing of divorce; she was as happily married as he was. Or was she? Didn’t his character believe that his wife was happily married also?\nA feeling of dread came over him as he pictured Jill walking in with her travel bag announcing she was leaving him. He looked at her carefully. She looked content but one never really knows what is going on inside another person’s heart.\n“The chapter can wait.” He stood up and reached for his wife’s hand. “Let’s have a glass of wine, maybe catch something good on TV?” \nHe smiled at his wife. He wasn’t taking any chances of life imitating art."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Higley Copper\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1218\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the line, “You wanna do something fun?”"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"You wanna do something fun?\" Andrew asked his brother Christopher. \"Yeah like, what?\" Christopher answered back while rifling through a magazine. Christopher and Andrew were brothers 17 and 16 years old. They had no school today due to parent-teacher conferences. Christopher suggested to Andrew that they get their metal detectors and check out some of the old cellar holes that they had plotted out on the old maps they had found online. The brothers agreed on a spot and packed their metal detectors and shovels in the car, and each grabbed a backpack and packed their hand shovels, a couple bottles of water, and their handheld pinpointer metal detectors, along with fresh sets of batteries. They set off in the car and drove to their spot. It was an early fall day in the middle of October, leaves were starting to turn colors in New England, the crisp fall breeze made it cool enough to start off with a sweatshirt, and off they went into the woods. They followed the man-made path into the woods, and after hiking along the path for a half-mile or so, they broke off the path towards the cellar hole. The woods were quiet besides the crunching of leaves under their boots. The trees were tall with the sun barely peeking through, just a sliver of light that highlighted the dirt and dust kicked up by the brothers' boots. \"I think I see some rock walls up there,\" Andrew said as he continued through the woods another 50 feet or so. \"Yup, here it is!\" He yelled excitedly to Christopher. Christopher quickly caught up to his brother and they stood there looking at the long U-Shaped wall made of stones, as they imagined the colonial workers carrying them stone by stone to build that wall. What work that must have taken they thought. They stood there for a few moments to try and imagine what the landscape looked like back then, where the driveway might have been, and possibly a clothes line that might have been hung up, that was a great place to find old colonial coins. After another minute, the boys got to work with their machines. Christopher turned on his Garret ACE 350 and Andrew turned on his Garret AT MAX. They split up, and Christopher walked toward the north end of the rock wall and started swinging, and it wasn't more than a few seconds he got that nice double ring tone that could indicate silver. He had been metal detecting long enough to not get his hopes up to high before started digging because that very same double tone rings up for old aluminum cans as well, and he had been fooled on more than one occasion. He pulled out his little pocket shovel, diug a plug about 3 inches round and 3 inches deep, and waved his metal detector over it and to his displeasure he could already see the corner of a mangled up old beer can. \"Son of a bitch! First signal rings up a solid 85 and\" before he could finish Andrew chimed in \"let me guess, Coors light can?\" \"I think it was Budweiser,\" answered Christopher. The two brothers laughed, and went back to swinging away. Andrew was picking up a lot of iron targets which he though was a good sign that he was in the right spot to what he thought could have been the driveway. After digging up an old axe, a couple of horse shoes, and a shoe horn, he decided to move over to the other side of the wall where Christopher had just dug up what looked like a 1700's dandy button. It was a brass circle and was the size of about a half dollar, with the metal shank still on the back of it. \"Great find bro,\" Andrew congratulated his brother, \"All I've got so far is an axe and horse-shoe.\" \"I'm going to check under those trees over there, looks like a good spot to hang a clothes-line,\" Andrew said and he started to swing his detector. Beep, Beep, Beep...sounds like could be a coin or a button Andrew thought. He swung his AT MAX over the spot and pinpointed the area to dig, and it was giving a small target 6\" inches or so down. Andrew grabbed his shovel, stuck the blade into the dirt and jumped on it to start digging his target. He had a hole about 6 inches around and down, and he stuck his Garret Carrot pinpointer in the hole and got the familiar beeping noise that he was close to his target. He dug his hand shovel into the side of the hole and removed a few more inches of dirt, and once again stuck his Garret carrot in the hole, and no more beeping. The target was out of the hole so he poked his pinpointer around the pile of the dirt until the simultaneous beep and vibration let him know he had found his target. After brushing away some dirt he held in his hand a small penny sized coin that he couldn't quite make out what it was. \"Hey Christopher!\" Andrew yelled, can you bring the water bottle over for me? I found something but can't quite make it out.\" Christopher, excited for his brothers possible find ran the little spray bottle of water over to him and they sprayed the coin in Andrew's hand, and as the dirt turned to watery mud and cleaned off the coin Andrew spotted what looked to be a roman numeral III. His heart started to race in excitement as he turned it over and washed off the other side to reveal a date that read 1737. \"HOLY SHIT!!\" yelled Andrew, \"I think this a Higley Copper!!\" \"Bullshit!\" Christopher yelled back in confusion and excitement. The first so-called \"Higley coppers\" from miner Samuel Higley bear the date 1737. Although there is no firm evidence that links Higley to coin minting, since colonial times he has been associated with these Connecticut tokens. Certainly he had the copper necessary, as well as the skill to make them. The 1737 coppers have on one side \"THE VALUE OF THREE PENCE\" and roman numeral III. Ever since the boys started to metal detect and research Connecticut history, they had read a story about a man named Samuel Higley who lived in Simsbury, Connecticut and owned a copper mine. That had become one of their bucket list items, and it seems they may be able to cross that off the list. \"Lets pack up and go get this graded\" Andrew suggested. The boy's packed up all their gear, and started the trek back through the woods to the car. They sped home, changed out of their dirty clothes and boots, cleaned up their Higley coin and went to Stacks Rare Coin Gallery. Once in the coin gallery, Stacks himself confirmed that the boys were indeed in possession of a rare Higley copper that is worth an estimated $1,900.00, their best find to date by far! The boys went home and put the Higley copper in their safe with a few other valuables they had found metal detecting and made plans to go back to the cellar hole over the weekend to hopefully find more."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Big Box Beauty\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1357\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who visits their hometown for the holidays and reconnects with a former love interest."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Paul used to love the holidays. For fifteen years he fooled himself into believing his marriage was solid and he had everything he wanted. Now he browsed eBay as though it were Tinder, scrolling through the pages and pages of action figures from his childhood hoping to find a present for himself that might lift his mood and bring him some holiday cheer.\nCertainly nobody else was going to get him a present, so he might as well treat himself to something that could bring him back to happier times.\nHis mom, a dainty woman with only half a filter, flopped onto the couch by his side. \"Oh Paul,\" she sighed. \"I'm so glad you could come and stay with us for the holidays, but you've had a cloud over your head since you got here.\"\nPaul looked up from the 1988 edition Ninja Turtle action figure listing and almost rolled his eyes at his mother. \"Thanks for having me,\" he said.\n\"Honey I'm sorry that awful ex wife of yours ruined so many things for you, but it's been almost five years since the divorce. Can't you just try to pretend that things are getting better?\"\n\"Things are getting better mom,\" he insisted. \"But the flood of feelings and memories this time of year... it's really tough. I'm sorry I can't be full of holiday cheer for you.\"\nShe looked into his eyes, a thick layer of tears trembling around her pupils, and she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.\nThe wet, dull ache in his own stinging eyes went away as he let his eyelids fall, teardrops tumbling down his cheeks. He tried to contain the shaking, boiling feeling in his core but it was too late. He sobbed with his entire body, every muscle clenched, every face hole leaking.\n\"I hate the holidays,\" he cried, leaning into his mother's hug. \"It's a cold and lonely and miserable time of year.\"\nShe held him tighter and pulled his shoulders square with hers so she could rub his back.\nA loud crash upstairs sent a tremor through the walls of the house and Paul's mom looked up at the ceiling. The telltale muffled shouting of an argument wafted through the rafters and she let out a long sigh.\nPaul gritted his teeth.\n\"Sounds like your sister and her husband are at it again,\" she groaned.\nPaul sat up and sniffled. \"I'm... going to go out for a bit,\" he said. \"I can't listen to that.\"\n\"I'll text you when it's over,\" she said wearily.\nHe tried to stay calm, but hearing his siblings failing to appreciate their marriages always aggravated him. Every holiday season at least one sibling would invariably berate, ignore, or devalue their spouse and it felt like a knife in Paul's own chest. He stormed out the front door without his jacket and slammed himself into his car.\nEven after the engine had been running for a while, the heat was slow to start. Shivering but refusing to go back into the house, he decided to drive to Walmart. Maybe he could pick up a cheap jacket there just to keep his mind away from his feelings.\nPaul took a parking spot far from the entrance and ran into the super massive building. He could still remember when the store had been built back when he was younger. The previous Walmart location was tiny compared to this, but it had to be big. This was the only department store in more than a hundred mile radius, serving dozens of small communities.\nHe knew from growing up there that you could always expect two things at Walmart. It would always be busy, and you could always expect to run into someone you knew.\nHis gut churned at the second possibility. He'd moved away more than a decade ago and most people in the small town had no idea that he'd gotten a divorce.\nThankfully though, as he browsed the menswear section he didn't see anyone he knew. In fact, he roamed the store for over an hour without running into anyone. He found a jacket he liked, looked through the toys and games letting his mind wander through his childhood years, and he looked at every single movie they had.\nHis mom texted at some point saying it was safe to come home, but he just kept browsing until he could take deep breaths again. Finally, he took the jacket to the front and he froze.\nThe visual cortex of Paul's brain immediately seized control of every available resource. His awareness narrowed to just the beating of his own heart and a store employee on the other side of the checkout counters. The rest of the store disappeared. The other customers faded away. His breathing stopped. He wasn't carrying a jacket anymore. His divorce never happened. Days and months and years didn't mean anything at all. For a moment, there was no world outside of Paul and that one employee.\nMegan.\nHe remembered the jacket then quickly discarded it, draping it over a rack of ugly Christmas sweaters. He made a beeline through the checkout lanes and plotted his course to intercept this old classmate from high school. But the closer he got the harder his heart beat against his chest and the tighter his chest became. What am I doing? he thought. What will I say? Is this a good idea? She was just up ahead, walking at a meandering pace along the front wall of the store, and all he had to do was take a few more steps, open his mouth, and... And then what?\nPaul didn't have time to come up with a plan. She spotted him and his heart stopped. Her face slowly lit up and a familiar smile spread across her face up into her eyes. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut and she turned to face him.\n\"Paul?\" she asked, shocked. \"I thought you moved away years ago!\" He scrambled to gather his thoughts but before he could she closed the gap between them and embraced him.\nHe chuckled nervously and returned the hug briefly, the imprint of her warmth clinging to his body as they separated.\n\"Wow!\" she exclaimed. \"It's been so long! What have you been up to?\"\nA weak half smile kicked one of his eyebrows up briefly. \"Not too much,\" he said. \"Just... life stuff I guess.\"\nShe laughed. \"Me too,\" she said, looking around. \"Hey! I'm just getting off work. Are you hungry? Wanna grab some lunch and catch up?\"\nThe thumping of his heart all but drowned out the other sounds around him. His eyes pressed out against their sockets and he opened his lips to speak, but nothing happened.\n\"Oh,\" she said. \"Sorry. I just...\"\n\"No!\" he blurted. \"I mean, I'd love to get lunch with you. I just... It's just that...\"\n\"I mean it's not like a date or anything,\" she said sheepishly.\n\"It's not that!\" he coughed. \"I'm just... Well when we were...\"\n\"Oh,\" she said. \"Yeah, we weren't really that close in school.\"\nPaul could feel a cold sweat rising from beneath every square inch of his skin. Hot moisture was seeping out of every pit, crack, and fold in his body. He could feel his tongue about to betray him, the tingle of truth prickling at his mind. \"Well,\" he began, his jaw struggling against the words he could feel bubbling up from inside. \"I had a massive crush on you.\"\nHer eyebrows lifted and she stared at him for a long, uncomfortable few seconds. Some part of Paul's mind was searching for the undo button, desperately wishing to erase what had just happened. Finally, her lips pulled into a soft, radiant smile and she graciously pretended that he was a lot cooler than he actually was.\n\"You wanna walk with me while I drop the vest off in my car and we can decide where we're going for lunch?\"\nPaul just smiled and nodded, shocked at how warm it felt outside as they left the big box store together."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The sack of the capital\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2902\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves sabotage."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was just after daybreak, and the city administrators were beating the gongs to signal the opening of the markets. The large open square was already filling with throngs of people as they swarmed in from the alleys of the neighboring wards. Dust teemed in the sweltering air, kicked up from the crowds as they milled about, crushing the sunbaked turf beneath their feet.\nStreet-vendors, trading goods and trinkets of all kinds, were crying their wares from their booths. Retailers and customers hammered away at each other over prices and amounts. Copper and silver coins clanged as purchasers thumbed threaded strings of cash in the course of their accounts. Diners laughed and chatted with friends at the various food stalls while nibbling on sticks of meat, or munching on little rice cakes and buns stuffed in paper wrappers.\nIt was altogether a typical spring morning in the city of Chang’an. Everyone seemed perfectly happy in their dealings, and no one suspected anything of what was to come that day.\nAs the cymbals rang out for the three-hundredth time, through the gates entered a pair of peculiar travelers at the end of a long journey. Their coats were dull grey and black, and lacked the vibrant colors of the luxurious dyed robes and tunics that were fashionable among the city folk. They both wore round straw hats, painted black to protect from the scorching sun, with thin shoulder-length silk veils that ran all around their wide brims.\nFor a time, the two strangers’ presence seemed rather awkward, neither buying nor selling anything; merely standing together in the middle of the plaza and watching the hordes of people going back and forth. A merchant selling vegetables took notice and, thinking they might be up to no good, called out to them to ask if they had come to see the capital’s sights.\nThe men took off their coverings to reveal faces burnt brown from the sun. Going by the resemblance, the merchant thought they must have been brothers, separated by perhaps ten years. The younger one had his hair slicked over the top of his head into a low fringe, and tied into a knot at the back. A narrow line of auburn hair ran from his ears down the mandible and twisted into a thin braid under his chin. The elder wore a colorful knitted hat that hugged his scalp, stitched with curling representations of men, animals, and nature in celebration of tribal society. The front of his face was cleanly shaven, but sported a bushy set of chocolate brown whiskers that poured from his cheeks and jaw, then bound into three bundles like the stalks of a flower bouquet.\nThey approached to greet the merchant, and spoke well, but appeared foreign. They agreed the city was splendid and would love to be shown its pleasures. But they were not tourists, they said, and introduced themselves as traveling magicians. As proof, they pointed to a pack mule following behind them, which carried on its back several heavy trunks lined with blue velvet. Neither one had any money, but they came to entertain the people and hopefully earn a little while passing by.\nHearing this talk of magic and merrymaking, the people nearby turned their attention to them, curious about what they could do. Without knowing what was happening, more passersby noticed this and promptly moved closer to see. Soon, an audience of dozens had gathered and formed a circle around them. In the course of the next hour, they put on many amazing spectacles: balancing acts, juggling wands and knives, spinning plates on sticks, sword swallowing, fire breathing, and performing illusions with sleight of hand to the uproar of the delighted crowd who showered them with gifts and coin.\nIt wasn’t long before word spread that two miracle workers had come to the city. Some were even circulating rumors that they were actual sorcerers—sent from Heaven, no less—performing great deeds for the people. The local administrators at the time had been assembled in the yamen nearby, and when the events happening outside came to their attention, they grew concerned over the potential consequences of such hearsay.\nNow the bureaucrats marched out of the town hall—all the mandarins and bonzes together in the chain of their rank—their tall swan’s neck hats flailing with every step. An attendant for the officials approached the men to greet them and asked to know who they were and why they came.\n“We are no fairies or enchanters,” said the elder brother, chuckling when he heard of the rumors about them. “We are merely traveling illusionists, journeying through the great expanse to marvel at the wonders of the east.”\nThe servant did an about face and repeated what he said in bureaucratic language. The officials heard him, and leaned their heads inward, whispering together in hushed voices. He turned again and said, “The magistrate finds what you’ve done so far very amusing, and bids you tell him what else you can do.”\nThe elder thanked him and said, “We can do many feats and tricks of the mind and eye. And if he’d like to pay us,” he proposed, putting a hand forward toward the magistrate, “we could put on a great show for him as well.”\n“That is good and all,” said the servant, speaking for his master, “but the honorable chief says he already knows all the simple gimmicks, and requests to see the most splendid trick you have. If it impresses him, he offers to invite you to his mansion for a private exhibit with the nobles of his district.”\n“Inform your superior that we have much more in store than the usual antics,” said the younger one, who stepped forward. “We are unlike any other magicians you know, and can do things that none can comprehend.”\nSome in the crowd broke out with chatter and snickers at the young lad. Their voices murmured about what he could mean.\n“That’s right!” he declared. “We are capable of doing things that would confound the most powerful of kings, and stagger his most competent commanders. We can uplift the foundations of a city’s walls,” he continued, “and make them disappear in an instant. We can take the people of an entire town and transport them into the great far beyond. We can even turn the whole world over, and bring down the great fires of Heaven on Earth itself!”\nThe audience erupted with gasps and shouts of alarm. The officials turned their heads about, glancing at each other with edgy concern. Moving in front, the elder begged them to forgive his sibling’s immodesty. “But,” he said, “we can perform illusions beyond your imaginations. And,” he continued, “you would find our exploits so thrilling that the entire city will be in awe at what takes place.”\n“Hah! Listen to their bragging words,” a person from the audience heckled. “More full of themselves than a pig at a pork trough.” The crowd all burst into laughter.\n“They think they have the power of a god!” another said. “Let them make a show of it so we can laugh at their failure.” Again, the people erupted into giggles and jeers, pleased at the prospect of having a new laughingstock.\nA third voice spoke up, calling them liars and troublemakers here to incite the public. “Let’s give them a tour of the wall’s foundations… six feet under! If that’s what they came for.” Many listeners hooted at this, spurning them with taunts and insults.\nThe elder denied these allegations without equivocation, saying they intended no deception, and wished only to request the magistrate’s permission to prove they were sincere. The officials brought their heads together and deliberated until the magistrate came forth and spoke to them directly. “I will allow you one chance to prove yourselves,” he said. “But if you are lying, then I will put you both in a yoke and whip you in the square.”\nThe brothers’ low spirits became uplifted. The elder raised himself and said wholeheartedly, “If it would please your excellency, may we assemble a stage?”\n“Very well,” said the magistrate, “Just hurry it up, and don’t keep us waiting. I want to see to it you get what’s coming to you.”\n“Certainly, my lord!” he said with a smile. “I promise you will not be disappointed.”\nThe magicians signalled to each other and directed the crowd to follow them to the West Gate nearby, in front of which there was a raised platform and a large open space—the perfect setting for a theater. They then started pulling down the chests from their mule and rummaged through them, pulling out various articles.\nAs the younger one began scurrying about making preparations, the elder threw off his coat to reveal an eccentric purple robe with a flowing cape underneath. He strode forward and held up his arms in front of the crowd, stretching the cape out like a pair of thin, leathery wings. Presenting his hands to the audience, he pulled his sleeves down to show there was nothing hidden in his wrists. He turned to his side and held out his hands, gently cupping them together.\nHe blew a puff of air inside, wiggled his fingers, and opened his palms to reveal a peaceful dove sitting in his hands. He presented the soft white bird and waved it in front, showing it to the crowd. Then, in a violent movement, he clapped his hands together, as if crushing the poor thing, and hurled it into the air. In an instant, the animal disappeared, only to be replaced by a cloud of bats which rose flying into the sky.\nThe spectators all applauded. He bowed and flipped a cowl up over his head that concealed his face and eyes. He approached one chest on the ground, a knee height box about one and a half meters long and half a meter deep. The younger magician opened it and tilted it over, showing that it was empty. He then climbed inside as the elder closed the lid. He whirled his cape and skated behind it, sliding his hands across the top. With gyrating motions, he stirred his hands about in the air and slapped the cover with a hollow whack of his palm.\nMoving to the side, he opened it to show that it was empty again, and his partner had disappeared. He then snapped around and pointed above and behind him. And wouldn’t you know it, but there above the gates was the little brother standing casually on the wall. All the viewers cheered and applauded as he bowed and waved. He then ducked out of sight behind the merlons, only to reappear again in his brother’s place when he threw back his cowl. The lid of the box flew open, and the elder stood up from inside as if he had been there the whole time. This display amazed the crowd, who cheered and clapped even more loudly than before.\nThe assembly became abuzz with chatter, ranting about how much that surprised them, and wondered aloud about what they would do next. Stepping aside, the siblings bowed to the audience, and then started stretching and loosening out their limbs, snapping their knuckles, and readying themselves for more. The elder undid the brooch on his coat to remove the cape and handed it to his brother. He held it out in front of himself to conceal his body below his head, but with his hands and feet still visible from the front.\nThe older brother then swiped a hand across the air as if chopping at the other’s neck. Moving behind him, he grabbed his brother’s head with both hands and started moving it from side to side as if it had detached from his body. To add to the illusion, he shifted the head around the corners of the cape, drawing it up and down the sides, and even along the bottom. The astonished crowd exploded with raving accolades. So shocked by the sight were they that some ladies among the watchers swooned and collapsed.\nHe yanked the head back to the center and twisted it back in place. The cape then dropped to reveal everything was back to normal. Again, they bowed to the crowd’s feverish applause and set up for their finishing act. They moved more boxes onto the stage, one in the center, and two at the side. They opened them again, one at a time, to reveal their hollow interiors. The younger brother stood to the side while the elder walked around, waving his hands over them as if imbuing them with magical enchantments.\nHe stopped before the one in the center and gesticulated with both hands, thrusting his fingers at it. The box became agitated, spontaneously tipped itself up on its end, and stood there for a moment as if at any second a risen skeleton would fling the lid open and walk out onto the stage. The magician gestured with his hands again, and it lowered itself back down. He moved to the side, commanded the second box to move, and in the same manner, it obeyed. Likewise, he motioned to the third box, and again it lifted itself up and down. The crowd applauded the man, whispering in secret voices about him. Some had been convinced he was possessed with the ability to call forth the spirits of the dead. Most said it was just a trick. But all were watching attentively, eager for more.\nThe younger one then moved back onto the stage, reached into his sleeve, and with the flick of his wrist, plucked out a pretty flower bouquet. He then pointed to a fair maiden standing at the front of the congregation and presented it to her. Taking her by the hand, he guided her onto the platform to join them in the show. He politely thanked the girl, whose face was glowing pink as a peach, and together they waved to the crowd. Slowly, the people in the back pushed themselves in, drawing nearer to the stage, trying to get closer to the beautiful young girl.\nHe moved her into position behind the center box and told her to wave again. He opened the lid, kissed her hand, and beckoned her to climb in. Like a good showgirl, she complied and calmly went inside. With a twirl of his hand, the box was closed, and he and his brother moved to the chests at the sides. They bowed together one last time, opened their respective lids, and lowered themselves in.\nFor a minute, the onlookers stood there in silent reverence, waiting with bated breath for something to happen next. Whispers and rising chatter echoed. Suddenly, the boxes shuddered and then stopped. Their walls shook and collapsed outward on hinges at the bottom, revealing a strange mound of black spheres inside each one. The crowd fell silent and stared curiously at the objects, not sure of what to make of them. The balls looked to be made of iron, solid and heavy, and heaped in a pyramid. Each of the balls also had strange tan colored ropes coming out of their tops, joined in a bundle that slithered out on the ground. Even stranger was the hissing sound emanating from them, like a batch of vicious snakes.\nThere then appeared three white sparkling illuminations spitting out noisy flames crawling up the jumbled ropes, creeping up toward the tops of the stacks. They seemed to eat away at the cords, leaving behind a line of burnt residue as they went. The spectators couldn’t help but gawk at this strange sight, frozen in stumped shock. They had never seen such a thing before, not even the mandarins. They completely dismissed the magicians and the girl who had vanished without a trace, and muttered noisily about what it could be.\nThen the magistrate, the only one with the authority to possess such secrets, remembered word of an experimental weapon kept in high confidence by the emperor’s officers. With regard to the danger it posed, he perceived the gravity of what was about to happen. He swung round to his colleagues and uttered a word.\n“Run!”\nIn an instant, all hell broke loose. The entire crowd panicked and burst into an uproar of screams and shouts. In vain, they tried to flee, not understanding what was taking place. Within seconds, the sparks reached the final lengths of cord, slithering through the insides of the black orbs. They flung out their metal shells with a thunderous flash and erupted into a massive orange fireball. A bulbous cloud of dark smoke sprouted and condensed, rising high into the air.\nAll around the stage, the blast carved a wide empty swath where the chests had formerly lain. A shallow smoking depression was all that remained. Mangled lumps of flesh and streaks of blood lay scattered across the ground in all directions, and all the cries and shouts were silenced, with only a few anguished groans peeping out among the bodies.\nThe few wooden buildings nearby were lit aflame, and the Western Gates, once a mighty monument of stone and timber, had been reduced to a pile of shattered splinters. What was left was a broad opening in the walls, wide enough for the two rows of soldiers waiting outside to march right through."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Christmas Santa Forgot\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1002\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a cynical character gets amnesia on Christmas Eve."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The Christmas Santa Forgot\nSometimes it was stressful being Santa Claus’ wife.\nShe loved what he did but she wanted a life.\nSo, on Thursday afternoons she went out with the girls,\nHad an eggnog or two and shook loose her curls.\nShe would tell Santa stories and the girls all would laugh.\nShe waved her gloved hand and said, “You don’t know the half!\nYou may not believe it but once we were young.\nThis giving presents thing had just begun.\nSanta was an athlete when he was younger,\nHe missed competing because he still had that hunger.\nBut as much as my Santa yearned to compete,\nBesides me the love of his life was to eat!\nA diet wasn’t a thing I demanded,\nSo, I silently watched while his waistline expanded.\n“Not every Christmas has been jolly and bright.”\nShe slowly whispered, “One year he got in a fight!”\nThe girls leaned forward, to hear what she would say,\nTheir eyebrows simultaneously rose up in dismay.\n“Santa doesn’t remember! He chose to forget!\nBut I remember well, our worst Christmas yet.\nHe claims amnesia every Christmas Eve.\nThat he could forget it I just don’t believe.\nAs much as he thinks from his memory he can blot it,\nI know a short furry man who has never forgot it.\n‘Twas the month before Christmas when out onto the mat\nWalked a large and round wrestler no one dared call fat.\nHe’d expanded to huge, much plumper than jolly.\nAll the elves tried to tell him to comeback was a folly.\nBut a wrestler’s will to compete never dies,\nThe only obstacle? Cutting to two seventy-five!\nAll the north pole was buzzing, is Santa a nut?\nHow will he ever make weight with such a big jolly butt?\nNo one could question how he’d widened these days.\nMost figured this diet a passing phase.\nBut he got back on the mat, his sessions were draining,\nIt had been many years since he’d done serious training.\nHe turned up the heat as hot as it gets,\nHe wore his red snowsuit over plastic sweats.\nHe had never been a champion weight cutter,\nBut he watched his rolls melt away like hot butter.\nI tried to help him in every way, \nI put him on a diet of three meals a day.\nSoon Santa was wrestling four elves at a time.\nHe pulled his own sleigh then up a chimney he’d climb.\nHe would take an evergreen and tie it in knots.\nHe would shoulder two reindeer and start doing squats.\nSanta was pleased more than anyone knows,\nSimply delighted he could touch his own toes!\nSanta had his sights set to return to the mat.\n“I still have it in me and besides that,\nA man needs to do what a man does best!\nA persons at their best when they're put to the test.\nI hope to wrestle an Olympian at least,\nOr pair me up with that abominable beast.”\nThroughout Christmas land his challenge it went,\nA proclamation written, signed, sealed and sent.\n“Whoever meets Santa’s challenge on the wrestling mat,\nAnd can beat him, will win Santa’s own furry hat!\"\nBut soon Santa lamented “What could have gone wrong?\nNo one has responded. What's taking so long?”\nWhen finally, a reply came at long last,\nSanta was shocked by a name from his past.\n“Santa I’ll meet you inside that small ring.\nI’d like that more than most anything.\nI’ll fight to the end. I won’t yield an inch.”\nRespectfully signed, your old friend Mr. Grinch\nThe time of the weigh in was finally there,\nSanta Claus made the weight not a fraction to spare.\nGrinch stepped on the scale and said with a grin,\n“I really don’t care what weight class I’m in.”\nIt was hard to believe that this statement was true.\nThe Grinch weighed in at one twenty-two!\nThe crowd was excited at this gigantic mismatch.\nSome felt sorry for the foe that he’d quickly dispatch.\nFor Santa looked formidable when he entered the ring.\nWe all knew it’d be Grinch who would hear angels sing.\nSuddenly out in the hall there arose such a clatter.\nSecurity sprang up to see what was the matter.\nWhen burst through the door and into the gym,\nA whirlwind of green…could that really be him?\nWhen what to our wondering eyes did appear?\nBut the Grinch wearing nothing but bright green headgear.\nHis fur was fluffed up like the down on a thistle.\nThe men toed their lines… the ref blew the whistle.\nBoth men were light on their feet, so Santa tied up in a clinch.\nA duck under scored two on a takedown by Grinch!\nIt wasn’t that Grinch was that good at riding,\nBut Claus couldn’t figure where the green man was hiding!\nHe’d be working a bar arm and then with a wink,\nHe reappeared somewhere that you’d never think.\nFinally, Santa Claus got to his feet,\nHe squeezed a front headlock, and the green man was beat!\nBut somehow someway he slipped from his grip.\nRight at the buzzer he gave Santa the slip.\nChoice went to Santa and Santa deferred,\nThe Grinch pointed down without saying a word.\nThe crowd went wild. How could you choose that?\nSanta will crush you in one second flat!\nThe Grinch had schemed for years how Santa could be bested.\nHis knew his move would work on yak’s it had been tested.\nWhen he grabbed two handfuls of hair and twisted,\nFor a moment...Santa resisted.\nBut Grinch proved his move would work,\nWhen he pinned Santa with a double beard turk!\nLater a reporter asked him for a quote.\nThis is what he heard, and this is what he wrote.\n“Follow this rule when put to the test,\nDo what you do and do what you do best!\nIn wrestling and life, you should go for the fall.\nHave a wonderful day…Merry Christmas to all!\n THE END"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Iron Road\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1205\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves sabotage."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "You think it’s easy, don’t you? Being a narrator and all. All I have to do is say what I see and put it down in a way that sounds nice and keeps the reader captivated. But you are so wrong. I have lived through it all. I have seen things that I can’t talk about and usually am not allowed to share my feeling on because no one cares about me, the omniscient narrator somewhere in the clouds. Well, I can’t take it anymore! I’ve seen too much to remain a distant presence. This isn’t about me, but I watched it all which is more than you would be able to do. So sorry if my commentary bugs you but I’m sick and tired of your ignorance…\nThis took place in 1943 in the Warsaw Ghetto, Poland (for those of you who don’t know). After most of the Jews had been deported there were over 60,000 of them left; they knew what awaited them, so they chose to do something that didn’t make history as much as I think it should have.\n They chose to fight back.\n***\n Zofia sat with her back against the wall, her bare feet submerged in an unknown liquid. Well, I know what it was, she was in a sewer, she should have been able to guess but perhaps it was better that she didn’t know.\n She wore a worn-out brown coat full of holes, caked in dirt and dried blood and gloves that were unravelling at the seams, exposing her fingers. She let out a shaky breath that formed a cold little cloud as she finished fastening her long brown hair into a tight plate.\n Footsteps could be heard in the distance before a tall man with curly, blonde hair appeared. I could see the bags under his eyes, but she couldn’t; it was too dark and would have been a waste to light a match anyway.\n“Borys,” she breathed.\n I guess she was trying to conceal the shivering from her voice, which was pretty pointless, in my opinion, as everyone was blooming cold.\n“I brought two,” he said roughly.\n Straight down to business. But could you blame him?\nI wish I could say that after sifting through his thoughts I found some ounce of hidden emotion, but that would be a lie. I think it might have dissolved when they beat his girlfriend to death.\nZofia stood and reached to accept the two children that had been clinging to his hands like a lifeline. I had watched him find them; two scruffy children hidden underneath a flap in the floor. They had almost screamed, but even at that age they learnt some common sense and chose to follow Borys instead.\n “What are their names?” she asked.\nYes, I was wondering that too, because I definitely didn’t know them at all.\n“Like I know,” he responded gruffly. “I didn’t have time to find out their life story. I have to go, there might be more.” He vanished into the darkness, his steps fading out.\n He did care deep down. He must have, or else he wouldn’t have brought them to her. But he was being wise by not forming attachments as they would most likely die soon, anyway. I have noticed this, over time. The people who don’t create an attachment to others don’t morn, yet the sad thing is that when it’s their turn to go, no one mourns them either.\n “What are your names?” Zofia asked, turning to the two young boys who had huddled together.\nOne’s head was shaven, but he had wide eyes and the other had tufts of black hair and a scar across his cheek. I had seen him get that. He was stealing bread from an old beggar a couple months ago and she had wacked him with her cane. It had bled for a while, but he wasn’t sorry for it; he had food for a couple days which was all that had mattered.\n “I’m Marcel,” said the boy with no hair. “And this is Lech.”\n She grunted, sitting back down.\n “Well Marcel and Lech, you will have to stay here for a while,” she told them.\nShe didn’t know what to do with them, I could tell. She never had any siblings so was no expert in dealing with children. She moved her hand, motioning them to sit. They didn’t, preferring to hover in the almost non-existing light; Lech chewing on his fingernails and Marcel dancing from foot to foot.\nZofia scrounged round, trying to find a topic of conversation. I noticed people do this a lot. Sometimes I wish I could help them in that area, because I know so much that should be talked about but isn’t.\n“Where are you from?” she asked.\nShe didn’t really care either. But they had to wait for Borys to return with the pistols they had gained access to; bombs too if they were lucky.\n“Poland,” said Marcel. “He is too.”\n“Are you related?”\n“No.”\nNo, they weren’t related, that I knew too. Marcel had never had any family that he had known of, I knew them though. A father who was a salesman and a mother who taught at a school. Both decided to abandon the child because he “cost too much”. They could have kept him though, I had done the math myself, but there are many sick people in this world and his parents had been some of them.\nLech had family. A mother and an uncle. He didn’t know it, but his mother was scrounging for air at a camp for “Juden” , as they say, the doors locked and carbon monoxide gas being poured out of what looks to be shower heads. His uncle is doing his back in carrying artillery, tears falling down his cheeks as he remembers the smell of his mother and his father’s creases when he laughed.\n“Why are we here?” asked Marcel.\nZofia hesitated for a moment, looking at the children Yes, they were children, but they were experiencing something that was never going to make the bedtime story books.\n“There are bad people in this world…,” she drifted into her thoughts.\n“The Germans?”, he asked.\nShe cleared her throat. “No. Not the Germans. The Nazis.”\nShe rubbed at her numbing feet and tried to inch them away from the puddle they had been swimming in.\n“You know what is happening, ah? They are trying to get rid of the Jews…get rid of us; that’s why we’re here. But…but there is a worse place they want to take us to.”\nThe children didn’t look stunned. I know they weren’t because at that moment all Lech could think about was when he could next get his hands on some more bread.\n “We are fighting back,” continued Zofia. “We have formed a resistance against them.”\n“What are we doing to fight back?”\n“We try to sabotage their plans.”\nMarcel, knowing the answer to this question but asking it anyway, said, “What plans?”\nLech spoke, his voice gravelly and his eyes clouded with a granite. “Their plans to kill us.”\n“Yes,” she said, sniffing as her jaw hardened. “But remember…iron doesn’t bend that easily.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: A period in time\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1644\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character is stuck reliving their worst Christmas ever, over and over again."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was Christmas Day, 1990 at 'Mount Farm' in North Cornwall and thirteen-year-old Jemima was sure she had heard her parents stir from their slumber. She always knew it was her dad going into the bathroom because he had a knack of letting the whole household know. He couldn't do anything quietly including lock the door. He was a champion wrestler taking on ‘The Lock’. He had a multitude of other opponents including furniture which hadn't done anything to him, gadgets, even DIY projects usually lost the fight. Then the familiar sounds of farting, flushing, taps whistling as they were set free. It didn't help that they lived in a sixteen-century farmhouse which had its own in-built sound system: the creaking floorboards, the noise of the air in the pipes, the banging doors, the whistling windows. When anyone had a shower, the pipes started rumbling and the Neighbours must have thought Mount Farm was about to blow.\n Jemima heard her dad blow his nose and head downstairs, to make mum her first of three cups of tea that she’d need to summon the energy to function. They would then slowly come round listening to the news headlines on repeat. Jem saw this as her opportunity to see her mum on her own before her siblings rose and the juvenile behaviour started.\n\nShe always knocked on the door before entering her parents' bedroom as a few months before she had witnessed a very unfortunate scene. On charging into her parents' bedroom one Sunday morning, she had found her dad on top of her mum with some very disturbing sounds coming from them both. Mum had immediately pushed him off and on seeing her mums flush face and chest exposed , Jemima had left the room as briskly as she had entered.\n\nThis had then promoted the second of the embarrassing ‘chats’ that her mum felt the need to have with her. Her first 'chat' at the age of ten was prompted by her return from primary school with a pack including a sanitary towel and a leaflet showing the inside of a woman and what happened when she menstruated.\n\nLooking back on it, she wasn't sure the school had handled the topic that well. The girls were taken into a class and a lady talked through what to expect when your first period arrived. By contrast the boys were given a sort of horror story version with a short video on childbirth. Maybe the teachers could see just how feral some of the children were back then and how a shock tactic may help to save the human race from their spawn.\n ‘Morning mummy, happy Christmas’\n Jemima’s mum was curled up under the covers and slowly came to. ‘Morning darling, happy Christmas. It’s so early darling, why don’t you go back to bed for a bit?’\n ‘Oh, I can’t sleep now. Is it ok if I switch on the TV?’\n ‘Of course, maybe just keep the volume down in case it wakes your brother and sister.’\n ‘Ok’ Jemima switched on to BBC One and found a Christmas episode of the rugrats. Although it seemed quite childish, she still enjoyed watching some of these cartoons. A strange feeling came over her which she struggled to understand but it was definitely a sadness at the thought that she shouldn’t be watching these cartoons anymore.\n Her dad came charging through the door, ‘morning darling, happy Christmas.’ He handed mums cup of tea to her and gave Jemima a huge hug and kiss.\n ‘Has Father Christmas been?’ \n ‘Dad!’\n\nThey all then heard what sounded like a baby elephant running across the landing,\n\n‘Happy Christmas everyone’ Jemima’s little sister, Sally appeared or ‘Nelly’ as Jem referred to her when they were having one of their squabbles. She looked like a cherub in her pink towelling onesie but those thoughts soon disappeared as with no warning she lunged onto the bed and started jumping up and down.\n ‘Careful Sal you’ll knock mums tea.’\n ‘Saareeee, Father Christmas has been! Can we open our stockings?’\n ‘Shall we wait until jimmys awake?’\n ‘Wake him up, wake him up!’ barked Sally.\n ‘I’ll go and get some more drinks and then maybe after those we can think about stockings.’ Dad suggested secretly wanting to escape to the kitchen for quiet.\n ‘Ok, hurry up.’ Sal demanded.\n As dad returned up the stairs, he was not carrying drinks. Attached to his face was a video camera which had lots of lights on indicating that it had started rolling.\n\n‘And as Paul enters the boudoir of Paul and Debbie Smith, the scene is of absolute chaos possibly caused by some very cheeky monkeys.’\n\n’oh Paul you’re not going to have that David Attenborough voice all day. That’s going to wear thin.’\n ‘Well your mum and sister did say that they had rented this camera for us so we could film the WHOLE day.’\n ‘Oh, Paul put it away, it’s so early’. Mums tone started to move into that annoyance phase the children knew well.\n Dad acted like the cat that had the cream. ‘Maybe we can go and greet little Jim.’\n\nJemima got up and tried to intercept dad waking up her little brother with the camera.\n ‘Don’t be so mean. He’s still asleep.'\n ‘Daddy what’s that? I don’t like it.’ Said little jimmy stirring.\n ‘Come on Jim, let’s go to mum and dads' room to escape the meanie.’\n With that Jemima held up a hand to the camera trying to block the filming while her dear little brother looked blearily towards his older sister and reached for her hand in a plea to escape.\n With all the children piled on top of mum and dads’ bed along with their bulky stockings, the volume certainly increased. They all had their own approach to opening presents which mum and dad frequently commented on. Jem ripped everything open with no appreciation of the wrapping or the time taken to deliver such a beautiful gift, Sal was the slowest of the lot and loved to accompany each element of the wrapping process with a ‘mmmm, I wonder what this is? Is it the Barbie I really wanted? Oh no, not long enough. Is it jewellery?’ With her older sister thinking get the feck on with it, you attention seeking freak and her brother who was only a mere seven years old and the sweetest boy in the world, was more than grateful for the cardboard covering the present than the gift itself.\n Dad would then end the stocking opening session saying ‘right now here is a little something for your mother.’\n ‘Oh Paul, we said we weren’t giving gifts. Can you turn that camera off for a second?’ \n\n‘Oh, I know sweetheart, but I thought you deserved something.’\n As mum opened her tiny packages in a little stocking, she was pleased to have a mixture of perfume, jewellery, chocolates. \n Jemima felt slightly irritated at this point as she just wanted to head downstairs and open presents from under the tree so she grabbed the last package from mum and said looking at the camera.\n\n‘Ok let’s see what dad has got mum...maybe something sexy?' slowly opening the tissue paper she was mortified to find it was a set of lacy underwear which she threw at her mum. ‘Yuck, let’s go downstairs!’\n Lots more tea and bacon butties were consumed downstairs while opening pressies under the tree. Jemima found herself feeling more irritated by the second and felt the start of a slight headache. On receiving a beautiful gold wishbone ring, she was so excited and put on her best received pronunciation accent taking centre stage in front of the camera ‘I absolutely love my wishbone ring’.\n\nHer brother and sister were completely catatonic by this stage having opened the best presents ever: a Barbie kitchen and James had received a wonderful green bike. When her sister kept saying ‘oh thank you Father Christmas, I love you. You have been so generous’ Jemima found herself wanting to smack her sister but instead gave an awkward smile and headed to the bathroom as her tummy felt quite sore.\n Her mum noticed and said ‘Jem, are you ok? You’re looking quite pale.’\n ‘Yep, fine mum, I’ll be back in a bit.’\n\nAs she headed to the bathroom, she noticed some sort of red liquid in the middle of her pajama bottoms. Oh no, not this today. She’d been waiting for this day since her thirteen birthday in June. Her best friend Jo had started at the start of term and Jen felt she was so slow to keep up. She kept saying to her aunty Cath ‘everyone at school has started. Why haven’t I?’ and cath would smile and say ‘you’ll certainly know when it’s arrived, just enjoy not having them.’ It wasn’t how I thought it would be. I hate Christmas, I hate my stupid family and now I’m bleeding all over my favourite pyjamas.\n\nMoments later she could hear her mum on the landing ‘are you ok darling? Shall I go and get something?’\n\nJemima instantly welled up and sobbed ‘yes please mummy, I’ve got it all over my trousers’\n\n‘Don’t worry sweetie’ she came into the bathroom and helped her daughter out of her pyjamas. When she was cleaned up she gave her a hug and said ‘my little girl is now a woman.’\n\n‘I don’t want to be a woman’ Jemima unleashed her tears. I still want to believe in Father Christmas like the idiots downstairs. \nShe gave her daughter a huge hug and as they came downstairs, dad still glued to his new toy, mum said ‘all is fine, Jemima just got her period.’ \n\nAnd that line was forever captured and the video was brought out each year for all their relatives to enjoy and her siblings to laugh at."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: A Christmas Worth Forgetting\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2727\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a cynical character gets amnesia on Christmas Eve."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "A Christmas Worth Forgetting\n\nThe doorbell clanged and the whole family moaned. Everyone except Florence, who headed for the door, exasperated. “Kids, be nice to Uncle Brian. I mean it. It’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake.”\n\n“But he’s so mean.” Jillian plopped a bowl of mashed potatoes onto the crimson tablecloth, smoothing her Christmas-colored plaid skirt.\n\n“Not mean. Just crotchety. Do as your mom says. Play nice.” Jim leaned over the golden-brown turkey, carving generous slices, his black brows furrowed in concentration.\n\n“Dad, Uncle Brian’s totally mean.” Kai threw a pea at his sister Jillian and got a smack on the head from her wooden spoon. “Just like Jillian,” he added, scoffing.\n\n“Ha ha.” Jillian's heels clicked-clicked into the kitchen. “You’re so lazy, Kai. Come help. Get some ice for the water glasses.”\n\nKai’s gangly teen legs kicked back his chair. “Yes, commander.”\n\nWith a blast of frigid air, the front door opened. Florence called out, “Look who’s here, even through a snowstorm!” She reentered the room with her blond middle-aged brother, whose wrinkled trench coat matched his scowl.\n\nJillian sighed under her breath and placed a smile on her red lips. “Hello, Uncle Brian. Nice to see you.” She gave him an arm’s length hug. It was the best she could do.\n\n“Damn. Turkey for dinner.” Brian shook his head and threw his coat on a chair. “It’s not Thanksgiving, last I checked.”\n\nKai walked around the table, aggressively plunking ice cubes into water glasses.\n\nBrian watched him with disgust. “I see Kai wants to give us all a disease. Did you even wash your hands? I’m not drinking from those.”\n\nKai’s face turned pink with anger, and he plunked harder.\n\nFlorence closed her eyes to gather strength and took Brian’s arm. “Come on, brother. Ease up a bit, okay?”\n\n“Fine. I’m drinking scotch, anyway.” Brian’s eyes drilled into Kai’s. “Neat. Guess what that means? It means, no ice. And for god’s sake, won’t anyone make that boy cut his damned hair?”\n\n“Brian! Stop.” Florence pleaded.\n\nKai grabbed the bottle of scotch from the counter and slammed it on the table. And snatched a large handful of ice and threw it in a scotch glass. “You’re getting it on the rocks today, asshole, and next time I’m spitting in it.”\n\n“Brian!” Florence blanched, shocked. “Please; all of you…”\n\nBrian didn’t even blink. He grabbed the glass and slowly dumped the ice onto the floor, smacked the glass down, grabbed the bottle of scotch, and took a deep swig. “Merry fucking Christmas.” He stepped back and his foot slipped on an ice cube. He toppled backward, smacking his head on the tile floor, and lay there, out cold.\n\n“Oh my God! Call 911!” Florence shouted. Jillian stood for a moment, stunned, then ran to get the phone.\n\nFlorence knelt by her brother. “Jim! Kai! Help me get Brian on the couch.”\n\nJillian frantically shouted their address to dispatch and finally stepped into the living room, announcing, “They’re on their way.”\n\nBrian lay still and pale on the couch, and Florence knelt beside him. Kai sat nervously in the armchair across the room, jiggling a foot, with his arms tightly folded. “Sorry, Mom.”\n\nFlorence placed ice under Brian's head and glanced up at her son, noticing his eyes were watering with anger and guilt. “He did it to himself, sweetie. He was completely out of line.” She sighed deeply. “He’s got a goose egg, but I think he’ll be okay.” Jim rubbed her back in silence, shaking his head.\n\nJillian sat on the floor and took her mom’s hand. “What the hell made him like this, Mom?”\n\nFlorence smiled sadly. “Believe it or not, it was love. A few years before you were born.”\n\nJillian frowned delicately, her dark eyes studying her uncle’s face. “What happened?”\n\nFlorence shrugged. “Veronica happened. He fell in love. Hard. They were going to marry, but she left him at the altar. He was humiliated, and he never recovered. He said he wouldn’t ever open his heart again, and he never did. And it poisoned him. Turned him into… this.”\n\nJillian cautiously touched her uncle’s shoulder, as if she might get bitten by a snake. “He looks peaceful. Isn’t that strange? I’ve never seen him without a frown.”\n\nBrian stirred, his eyes fluttering, then opening slowly.\n\n“Hey!” Florence’s lips parted to a smile. “There you are! You scared us.”\n\nHe tried to focus. “Hi.”\n\nFlorence giggled, relieved. “Hi, back. How are you feeling?”\n\nHe touched the back of his head, adjusting the ice pack. “A bit of a headache, but other than that, I’m fine. How are you?\"\n\nFlorence laughed. “I’m fine. We’re all fine.”\n\n“And… who’s we?” He started to sit up.\n\nFlorence gently pushed him back down. “Hey. Not so fast. You fell.”\n\n“I’m Brian.”\n\nFlorence eyed Jillian, concerned.\n\nJillian patted his shoulder. “Hey, Uncle Brian. That’s your sister, Florence!”\n\n“Nice to meet you,” he said.\n\nThe doorbell rang and a moment later, a petite female paramedic was by his side with a med kit. “Sorry, we’re short-staffed. The ambulance will be late. I had to take my own SUV. This storm…”\n\nFlorence looked at her, frightened. “My brother Brian fell and hit his head. And… I don’t think he knows who I am!”\n\nThe paramedic smiled kindly at Brian and tucked her red hair behind her ear. “Hello, Brian. I’m Sophia. How are you feeling?”\n\nHis lips pulled into a grin. “I think I’m okay. I guess I fell. I don’t really recall doing it, but I have a lump to prove it!” He chuckled, wincing.\n\nJillian and Kai exchanged glances. Uncle Brian was being strangely polite. Something was definitely wrong with him.\n\nSophia flashed a light, checking his pupils. “Brian, do you know who these people are?”\n\nBrain turned his head, examining the crowd, and pointed to Jillian. “This young lady here says I have a sister.” His eyes rested on Florence. “But I don’t really recall. Everything is just a little fuzzy.”\n\nFlorence’s eyes welled with tears. “Do you remember our house growing up? The one with the bright red paint and the swing set in the back? And our black lab, Orin?”\n\nHe shook his head, confused. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I… don’t.”\n\nJillian mouthed to her brother, ‘Ma’am?’\n\nKai stood and stepped to his side. “I bet you remember me, Uncle Brian. I make you really mad sometimes. Pretty much, all the time, actually.”\n\nBrian’s forehead creased. He struggled to sit up, and Sophia helped him. “Why would I be mad at you?”\n\nKai smirked. “Because sometimes you’re a humongous ass.”\n\nBrian’s eyes widened with amusement. “Oh! Well, sorry about that!”\n\nSophia laughed. “Well, Mr. Popular, I need to take your blood pressure.”\n\nBrian grinned, examining her freckles and heart-shaped face. “I love red hair.”\n\nSophia raised an eyebrow as she placed the band around his arm. “Fresh, too!”\n\n“Not fresh, just honest.”\n\nShe shook her head. “Okay, Don Juan, stick out your tongue and say ‘Ah.’”\n\n“Ah.”\n\n“Aha!” Sophia stared at him, accusingly.\n\nFlorence interjected, worried, “What is it?”\n\n“He’s got the sassy tongue.” Sophia smiled at her. “He’ll live.” She turned back to Brian. “But you’re going to need an MRI. So sorry about the delay with the ambulance.”\n\nJim sat straight. “I could drive him to the hospital.”\n\nSophia shook her head. “The roads are pretty slick. Best to just keep him here for now.”\n\nBrian leaned back and closed his eyes.\n\n“… and awake.” Sophia poked his shoulder.\n\n“Always vying for my attention, aren’t you, Sophia,” he crooned.\n\nShe raised an eyebrow and turned to Jillian, teasing. “Is he always like this?”\n\nJillian shook her head adamantly. “He is literally never like this. This is new.”\n\nFlorence took Brian’s hand. “Actually, this is how he was, before…”\n\nBrian frowned curiously. “Before what?”\n\nFlorence wasn’t sure if she should bring up the forbidden subject. But maybe it would jar his memory. “Before… Veronica.” She held her breath.\n\n“Who?”\n\nFlorence shot a glance at Jim.\n\nJim folded his arms and sat back, thinking. “This is interesting. Take away the memory of Veronica, and…”\n\nFlorence’s eyes widened with hope. “And the poison is gone!”\n\nSophia’s head jerked up. “Poison?”\n\nBrian asked, “Was I poisoned?”\n\nJim waved his hands at them. “No, no. It’s a figure of speech. He had his heart broken years ago and hasn’t been the same since.”\n\n“Um—sitting right here, folks.” Brian added, “I’d probably be embarrassed if I could remember anything about it.”\n\nFlorence tenderly asked, “Do you remember her, at all? Anything about Veronica?”\n\nHe shook his head and shrugged.\n\nSophia frowned. “I don’t think we need to dredge up bad thoughts. How about creating new memories? It’s Christmas Eve. And I smell a delicious dinner.” She craned her neck. “I believe I see it sitting on the table. Why don’t you all go eat, and I’ll stay with Brian.”\n\n“Hey, no fair. I’m hungry too,” Brian said playfully.\n\nSophia’s face brightened. “Well, appetite is a very good sign. Any nausea?”\n\nBrian shook his head.\n\n“Dizziness?”\n\n“Nope. My head is clearing, too.”\n\n“Do you remember these guys here?”\n\nHe smirked. “No, but I sure remember this gorgeous redheaded paramedic who came to rescue me.”\n\nShe ignored him but couldn’t hide a subtle grin as she turned to the family. “Go have your dinner.” She turned back to Brian. “If you promise to behave.”\n\n“I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”\n\nKai headed for the dining room. “That’ll be a first.”\n\nTo his surprise, Brian laughed good and hard.\n\nFlorence beamed and kissed his forehead. “I don’t care if you don’t remember me. I am so happy to hear your laughter!”\n\nBrian noticed tears in her eyes. “Hey. Um… sister—Florence, is it? Don’t cry. Please. I’m fine. I feel fine. My memory will come back—right?” He looked with hope at Sophia.\n\nSophia leaned close to his face and said intently, “I believe it will, Brian. I truly do. But remember, your life is filled to the brim, right now, with amazing new memories just begging to be experienced. You’ve got your family here, who obviously care a great deal about you…”\n\nKai shouted from the other room, “I don’t.” After a pause, he added, “Just kidding.”\n\nBrian scratched his chin. “I actually kinda like that kid. Who is he, again?”\n\nKai called back, “Your favorite nephew, Kai.” He came strolling back in, gnawing on a turkey leg. “Want some?” He shoved the leg two inches from his uncle’s face.\n\n“Hell, yes!” Brian snatched it from him and took a bite. “Mm-mm, I love turkey,” he said with his mouth full. “Why on earth do we only have it on holidays?”\n\nSophia chuckled. “Hey, easy now with the solid food. You should be drinking water. You need to hydrate.”\n\n“On it!” Kai ran to the table and grabbed a glass of ice water. He sauntered back. “Here you go, Uncle Brian. The ice was hand-selected by me, placed in that glass by my own fingers.” He wiggled them in his uncle’s face.\n\nBrian took a sip. “Hand-selected? I feel so special.” He raised an eyebrow, confused at Kai’s behavior.\n\nJillian slugged her brother’s arm with her free hand, the other one carrying a steaming plate. “Leave your poor uncle alone.”\n\n“What? We’re bonding. Aren’t we, Uncle Brian.”\n\nBrian shrugged. “Sure.”\n\n“How’s the water?” Kai stared intently at it while eating mashed potatoes.\n\nBrian examined the glass. “You didn’t piss in it, I hope.”\n\nKai involuntarily spat out potatoes with a burst of laughter.\n\nBrian groaned. “Oh, God. You did piss in it.”\n\nKai couldn’t breathe for a minute, he was laughing so hard. “No. I promise. Nothing but ice and water. But if you’re not nice…”\n\n“Geez! Okay, I’ll be nice. Please don’t ever piss in my water, and this is a very strange conversation.”\n\nSophia packed up her equipment and tilted her head to Brian with a teasing grin, her hair tumbling over her shoulder. “Looks like you’re feeling just fine, Brian!”\n\nBrian was caught off guard, breathless for a moment. She was just so lovely.\n\n“What?” she asked, curious at his intent stare.\n\n“I just hope… we can be friends. In all seriousness. I haven’t laughed for years.”\n\nFlorence nearly dropped the plate she was carrying, shocked. She turned to Jim. “Did you hear that? Is he starting to remember?”\n\nJim held a finger to his lips. “Shh. Just watch.”\n\nSophia chatted softly with Brian.\n\nJillian headed for the living room, but Jim touched her arm. “Wait.”\n\nKai, seated again in the living room chair, shot them a glance. They all heard waves of laughter mixed with gentle conversation, from Brian and Sophia.\n\nSophia's brow furrowed at a new cell phone message. “The ambulance is stuck in the snow. It’s not coming.”\n\nBrian stood. “I’m glad. I haven’t felt this good in years. Will you join me for dinner? My sister’s an excellent cook. And Jim always carves the turkey extra thick.”\n\nSophia grinned and took his arm, strolling to the dining room, and the rest of the family followed. “Well, look at you! You’re remembering!”\n\nHe stopped in his tracks and frowned at the revelation. He studied Sophia’s stunning emerald eyes. He turned to his punk-ass nephew, Kai, with that mop he called hair. Then to his kind sister, Florence. There was Jim—a good man. And Jillian, his teenage whirlwind of a niece. “Yes…” he said, as if a veil was lifting. “Yes, it’s all coming back to me.”\n\nSophia nodded. “Well, this will be a Christmas to remember!”\n\n“No.” Brian said it sharper than he’d meant to. “I’m sorry.” His voice softened. “I just… remember… everything. I remember…” he cringed as if he’d been pierced in the gut with a hot poker. “I remember… hate.”\n\nSophia slipped her arm from his and said gently, “But you no longer have to claim it. Hate… that was the other guy. The man I met tonight was actually kind of sweet.” She stepped back, knowing this was a family moment.\n\nHe looked around, deeply pained. His eyes rested on Florence. “Oh. Oh, Florence. I have been so… cruel.”\n\nFlorence cautiously stepped to him. “No. Not cruel, brother. You’ve just been lost.”\n\nHis lips trembled and he hung his head. He whispered, with a broken voice, “I’m sorry.”\n\nFlorence held him tight, and, though he was a tall man, he buried his face in her shoulder and shook with silent tears.\n\nFlorence whispered, her eyes wet too, “Oh, how I’ve missed you, little brother.” He lifted his head, and his sister wiped his tears. “Merry Christmas, Brian.” Florence stood back, patting her own cheeks dry with her sleeve.\n\nJillian ran up and flung her arms around her uncle. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Brian. This is my first real hug from me to you.”\n\n“Thank you, Jillian.”\n\nShe stood back and nodded sincerely.\n\nJim extended his hand. “Nice to have you back.” He cocked his head. “Are you back?”\n\nBrian nodded. “I think so. Yes. I believe so.” He slowly shook his brother-in-law’s hand.\n\nBrian looked at Kai with eyes still glassy and pink. “How shall we do this?”\n\nKai shrugged and extended a fist. “I promise I won’t piss in your water if you promise not to be an ass.”\n\nBrian bumped his fist. “Works for me.”\n\nSophia cleared her throat. “The weather is clearing. I think I’ll just slip out. It looks like you’re in good hands, Brian. And get an MRI in the morning. Until then, if you get any headaches, nausea, or dizziness, please call 911.”\n\n“Or… perhaps I could call you directly?” Brain gazed at her with hope.\n\n“Oh… that is against protocol…” Sophia smiled shyly.\n\nBrian nodded. “Of course. I understand.”\n\n“But I would like to follow up on you. Perhaps I could have your number… sir?” She held back a smile, mustering up a professional demeanor.\n\nBrian cleared his throat and held back his elation. “Of course—ma’am.” He handed her his card.\n\nShe smiled enigmatically. “Merry Christmas, Brian.”\n\n“Yes. Yes, it sure is. The best one yet.”\n\nShe waved his card in the air and turned away, but he saw her reflection in the window, and she was beaming. As she opened the door to a dusting of snow, he swore he heard her whisper, “Yes. The best one yet.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: We Build the City\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2353\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two people whose dreams are somehow connected."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "New Orleans, 2021\nCamille wakes with a gasp, just before the boy took her hand in his.\nWhy do dreams always end just before the most heart-wrenching part?\nClosing her eyes against the gray morning light one more, Camille stubbornly tries to fall back into her dream. Just a few more minutes . . .\nBut her phone’s alarm breaks her resolve with a not-so-gentle tinkling of bells, and she wants to cry. Couldn’t she get just a couple of more minutes with him?\nWith a final, frustrated harumph, Camille rolls her limbs one by one out of bed and pads over toward the cozy aroma of her freshly brewed coffee pot, stretching her arms as she goes.\nThe warmth of the mug in her hand reminds her of the boy’s warm cheek against hers as they sat nestled together on a bench in Jackson Square. He had a timeless air about him, in his smile, in his crinkled brown eyes. Camille finds herself smiling into her mug.\nStop it, Camille, she suddenly thinks to herself, shaking her head in a desperate attempt to wash the boy’s image away. With a slight wave of embarrassment coursing through her, she gulps down the last of her coffee and pushes herself away from the little round table.\nShe shouldn’t be swooning over a boy who doesn’t exist. Even if he’s been the subject of six dreams this week.\nWith the next thirty minutes passing in a blink, she collects her canvases, brushes, paints and rushes out the door.\n***\nLa Nouvelle-Orléans, 1721\n“Good morning, Pére,” Andre says with a bright smile. He kisses his father on his stubbled cheek and sinks into the rickety wooden chair stationed beside the paper-strewn work desk.\nHis father looks up from his sketch, eyes wide under the wired rims of his spectacles. “Bonjour, mons fils.” He lays his pencil down and stretches his perpetually graphite-stained fingers. Andre sees the dark circles under his father’s heavy eyes, and droop of his shoulders.\n“You need more sleep, Pére.”\nHis father gives him a side-eyed smirk. “I’ll sleep once the city is finished. You seem to be getting plenty for the both of us, anyhow.” Andre doesn’t miss the hint of accusation in his father’s tone. “If sleep makes me as chipper as you’ve been, perhaps I’ll continue burning the candle into the young hours before my colleagues think something is amiss with me. Honestly! What’s gotten into you, boy?”\nHis father’s taunt bears no malice, so Andre plays along. “Indeed, I’ve been getting excellent sleep. Only you would think it negative to feel well rested! You should leave space for a public square right here.” He points over his father’s shoulder to the area between the River and the sketched box labeled with a thick cross and the word église.\n“Why on God’s terre verte should I waste this space?”\n“That’s precisely why, Pére! Leave some terre verte in the middle of the city!”\nHis father shakes his head. “I am Adrien de Pauger, and I do not design parks. I design streets! I design cities!” Still, as he speaks, Andre sees him draw a rough box stretching to the bank of the river. “I’ll leave it to Mr. Pilié down the road.”\nAndre prods his father’s shoulder before collecting his hat from the stand near the dusty doorway. “I’m off to the trading post. Do you have a need for anything else aside from the wicks and oil?”\n“More paper! Please!”\nAndre hides the roll of his eyes as he steps out onto the sooty carriage road. Always more paper.\nAnd he finds himself whistling as he walks, hands in his pocket, his mind returning once again to the girl in his dream.\n***\nNew Orleans, 2021\n“Aw, c’mon, Marcelle! How can you be out of green? Green is everywhere and in everything!”\n“Sorry, Camille.” Marcelle shrugs his shoulders and directs a teasing grin toward her. “You try making paint and see how it goes.”\nCamille shakes her head, holding up her hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just can’t believe I let myself run out.”\n“Every artist’s mistake. Need anything else?”\n“No, I think I’m set now. Thanks, Marcelle.”\nCamille collects her bags and jostles her way through the crowd of the French Market. The hum of hundreds of bodies, voices, and vibes bounce through the livened air, and Camille breathes it in with gratitude. The constant energy is a beautiful thing to her, strums her creative heartstrings, and it follows Camille through the narrow one-way streets of the city. As she passes the street performers, the same every day, she drops a dollar in their collection buckets, hats, and instrument cases. The same every day.\nFinally, she reaches her workplace—a piece of concrete sidewalk her studio, the black wrought iron gate of Jackson Square her gallery. She gingerly lowers her heavy bags to the ground, quickly works up a display of her finished pieces, and sets up her easel. She used to bring a chair around with her, but after finding it too clunky and too far from the earth beneath her, she since opts for the concrete itself, nothing surrounding her but blankets, pillows, and paintbrushes.\nCamille deeply breathes in the city’s autumn air, which is not so chilly today, and slowly dips her brush into her vial of paint. With her eyes closed, she lets herself recall the only inspiration she has felt this week.\nShe starts with the boy’s excited brown eyes.\n***\nLa Nouvelle-Orléans, 1721\nAndre waves away the rolling dust from a horse’s cart as he walks through the settlement, the staunch red, white, and blue of French flags bustling in the autumn wind.\nThe expanse of what would soon be called the Vieux Carré according to his father stretches before him, and the Mississippi River rushes behind him. The water runs so powerfully, rich and bold, that it reminds him of the girl. Her skin, the beautiful hue of chicory coffee, was so soft under his fingers. The memory of their light touch sends a thrill of goosebumps through him, his fingertips to her cheek as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear.\nIf only for the dreams he’s been having since his arrival one week ago, he is glad that he made the trip across the world to join his father here. His apprenticeship in Paris offered him little, aside from a new enlightenment of the inequality between the rich and the poor, and a realization that carpentry is not for him. This new adventure brings with it opportunity, growth, and a dream girl.\nThe sun is already beginning to set, and he cannot wait to see her tonight.\n***\nNew Orleans, 2021\nCamille unlocks the door to her apartment with a flourish and hustles inside out of the chilled darkness, careful not to bang her new piece against the doorframe. It will be weeks before she finishes this particular painting, but she already knows this one will never be for sale. No, she is sure that it will find its home upon her own walls.\nHer cheeks feel warm with windburn, her paint-stained hands icy as she presses them to her face. She plans out her night, already excited to crawl into bed for more reasons than one now. A quick bath, and off to bed.\nBut as she slips out of her shoes and walks toward the bathroom, she decides she can spare a few more moments to relax and defrost in a nice, hot bath.\nShe knows it’s foolish to feel such excitement over a dream boy. She knows she’s setting herself up for a broken heart when her dreams of him cease.\nBut how can she not fall in love with Andre?\nHow can she ever ignore his calloused hands tucking her hair behind her ear? His heart filled laugh encompassing her in warmth? His honey-sweet voice whispering that she is beautiful, that she is talented, that she is brilliant? \nWho can ignore that?\n***\nLa Nouvelle-Orléans, 1721\n“Mons fils, come to me for a moment.”\nAndre’s father catches him as he is sprinting through their door, the night having crept in on him as he helped unload lumber for the new, and already reaching for the doorknob to his bedroom. He backs away from his door and stands before his father with his hands behind his back. “Yes, Pére?”\n“You’ve been here for a week now. I’ve let you explore. Don’t you believe it may be time to settle down and learn?”\n“Pére, I—”\n“You’ll need to support your wife. You’re seeing a girl, aren’t you?” His father looks at him through smug eyes. “That’s why you’ve been acting as you are, isn’t it? I should have seen that glint in your eye before now. I felt the same way about your mother.”\nAndre chuckles. “I suppose I have—”\n“And in only a week’s time, too!” His father whistles. “You will bring her here before long, yes? And you must be smart about this, Andre. A young woman is to be respected, both in public and in private—”\n“Pére, I understand.”\n“Work with me tomorrow. No more simple errands to run. Give your future bride the life she deserves.”\nHis father’s words send a burn of agony through Andre’s veins. He cannot give this woman anything. But he cannot tell this to his father. “Of course,” he says instead. “I will stand by your work tomorrow. Good night, Pére.”\n“Bonne nuit, mon fils.”\nAndre escapes to his room and sits on the corner of his mattress, the horsehairs picking at him through the cloth and down feathers. As he unlaces his boots and dresses down to his knickers, he plays his father’s words in his head.\nTime to settle down.\nYes, time to settle down in more ways than one. This girl in his dreams drives him mad. How is it possible that the first woman he loves is a figment of his restful nights? That she cannot be more than images his tired mind wishes to see? How can he conjure up someone so unique, so beautiful, so strong, when he was never met anyone of the sort?\nAndre shakes his head. He is but a foolish twenty-seven-year-old man chasing a dream.\nBut God knows he will chase it until it ends.\n***\nNew Orleans, a dream\nThe city here is different than what Camille knows. It is more like the New Orleans portrayed in the black-and-white film, A Streetcar Named Desire. Only, Vivian Leigh is not here playing Blanche DuBois, and Marlon Brando is not shouting for Stella, as far as Camille can tell. Also unlike the movie, and very unlike the city on a normal night, the streets are calm and quiet, with a sole trumpet cutting through the still air.\nAnd for Andre, to see the city as complete as this should shock him. To see his father’s city laid out and built up before him should be overwhelming. But it doesn’t, and it’s not.\nNeither of them feels confused. It is a dream, after all. Instead, this city feels right, as if it has always been this way. Of course it looks like this, with iron streetlamps and paved streets, massive oak trees canopying overhead. And of course Andre is here with Camille. And of course Camille is here with Andre.\nWhat they feel is timeless.\nThey walk down a lit street together, Royal Street the sign says, and this time, they are hand in hand. Camille leans her head against Andre’s shoulder, and a happiness she only feels when she paints flows and flourishes through her. The kind of happiness that leads to hours of inspiration in front of her canvas.\n“My sweet Camille,” Andre murmurs, burrowing his nose into her pillow of thick hair. Here, it feels as if they have known each other longer than ten lifetimes.\nA left on Louis Street, a right on Chartres.\nAt the street corner, Andre turns Camille around in a dance to the floating jazz and takes her in his arms. He gazes down at her, taking her in—her relaxed smile, the shine in her amber eyes.\nHis sudden, bright laugh lights a tenderness in Camille, and she finds the courage to stretch on her tiptoes and kiss him.\n***\nNew Orleans, 2021\nCamille wakes, her hand to her chest.\nIt’s still dark through her curtains, and she would do anything to return to her dream. Instead of trying to go back to sleep, however, she gets out of bed, sets up her paints and brushes, and sits in front of her city scene, Andre front and center.\n***\nLa Nouvelle-Orléans, 1721\nAndre sits up in his bed, his lips still prickling from Camille’s kiss. It’s pitch black in his room, pitch black through his window, no lamps lit outside in the middle of the night. What a strange world his dream takes him to every night, where the lamps burn along the street all night long.\nBut he doesn’t think about that for too long. Dreams are a wonder.\nInstead, he throws his thin sheet off him and laces his boots, dresses in his trousers. He leaves his room and finds just what he expects: his father leaning over his desk, oil burning late.\nHis father looks up at the sound of footsteps. “Mons fils, what are you doing awake?”\nAndre shrugs his shoulders, but a gentle smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Just awakened from a dream, that’s all.” He walks over to his father and studies the thin lines of graphite stretching across the paper. “The Vieux Carré is looking fantastic, Pére.” Andre is not sure how he knows, but it looks just as it should.\nQuickly, before he forgets, he points over his father’s shoulder. “This street should be named Royal.” The memory of Camille’s hand warms his.\n“And this one here should be Louis.” Her head rests on his shoulder.\n“And this one—Chartres.” He pulls her into a dance to the smooth brass instruments."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Sixteen to Sixty - A Love Story\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1220\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who visits their hometown for the holidays and reconnects with a former love interest."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I don’t remember why we stopped seeing each other but I do remember that we always went back to each other.\nAnd then we got married. But not to each other.\nAnd then we had kids. But not with each other.\nOn and off for over thirty years I thought about him. Not in the heat of a fight, not in desperation or regret or longing, just in passing. And I would think he’s thinking of me too. He wouldn’t forget me. It’s not possible.\nAnd one day I would see him again and I would tell him I love him. I would say I’ve always loved him.\nFor certainly you can love someone you haven’t seen in over thirty years.\n***\nThe note passed to me from a classmate informed me that if I wouldn’t he would find someone who would. I couldn’t bear to lose him, so I prepared with a bottle of vodka before joining him in the back of his van. The fear of intimacy due to lack of experience and emotional immaturity broke me down into tears for as much as I loved him I just wasn’t ready. Sobbing I told him I understood I was losing him, and he laughed and told me he loved me. The first time he said that to me. And I was empowered. And I was safe. And I was more of a woman than I would have been had I succumbed to the threat of the classmate. Picking petals off the daisy; he loves me, he loves me not, we settled on he loves me. And I carried that around with me as a secret in my pocket. He loves me.\nIt wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies as time went by. Standing by the front door looking out into the night, hair and makeup done only to retreat back into my bedroom with the admission he wasn’t showing up. Before cell phones we counted on the verbal promise, I’ll see you tomorrow night at 9:00. Calling his house and having his mother answer yet again was humiliating, not an option. Did he make those plans when drunk and didn’t remember the following night or was he out with his friends too drunk to keep those plans? Either way left me with stomach pains.\nThe breakup was brutal lying in bed sick and heartbroken.\nThen years later being each other’s plus one celebrating life events of others. We ran away for spontaneous romantic weekends finally reaching the maturity to enjoy each other in every way. Half teasing and half serious we promised to marry if still single when turning thirty. The office party where he conspired with my coworkers, tell her to marry me already. Why wait, marry me now. But there must be a reason to wait, we realized. Otherwise surely we would have taken the plunge.\nMy mother in her bluntness said I was in love with him even years into my marriage. Looking back, I wondered how she turned a blind eye to the comings and goings, the tears, and the laughter. She had refrained from advising me for or against, perhaps seeing in him the same things I did. And then the surprise visit long after I had relocated for a job offer settling down to raise my family out of state. He showed up at my childhood home updating my mother on his marriage and two daughters. She had asked me about him over the years, but I silenced her in front of my sons feeling somehow it was inappropriate to discuss.\nAnd now our children were older than we were when we met. \nHe, the father of girls. Did he worry when they dated, did he give them advice, or did he slip into the background allowing his wife to take on that responsibility?\nAnd I, the mother of boys. After being mystified and obsessed with boys, I came to know the nature of the beast, cracking the mystery finally. They were my babies, soft and gentle and caring. They would never hurt a girl but treasure her instead.\nFinding the family photos on her Facebook account I downloaded them ever so carefully for what if I clicked ‘like’ by accident? The eyes and smile that I knew showed up on the face of a middle-aged man. He was living a life I did not know. Maybe he did forget me for I was just a silly schoolgirl with a crush.\nI studied the face, the body of the woman who took him away from me although I knew that was not an accurate assessment. Did she know me? She did not seem his type, their home stuffy and overly decorated when he had been a simple boy shying away from fuss and attention. I imagined him feeling like a stranger in his own home retreating into a den or man cave to watch movies and drink beers. I was surprised that he was attracted to her for she was not me. I realized I had married first, telling him of my engagement over the phone the very last time we spoke. She was his rebound person, not his actual person, I consoled myself.\nAny shift in decision would have changed the outcome dramatically. My sons disappearing, his daughters disappearing like a picture drawn on an etch a sketch and then shook until gone without a trace. We could have been a happy family of four, perhaps one boy and one girl creating the perfect dynamic. Would we have lasted or end in eventual divorce with me returning to my childhood home? Maybe I was destined to be alone back where I had started regardless of which path I chose.\n***\nThen that random Christmas Eve I rushed into the bakery for a box of cookies to bring to my parents’ house. Still honoring their vows for better or for worse, unfortunately sickness was in the lead over health as they approached the finish line. Keeping it simple we planned a light dinner and dessert in the house that held the secrets of my youth, the bedroom turned guest room where I spent many a night crying into the pillows after my divorce and licking my wounds getting back on my feet. Again, my mother supported me without interference. Standing in line holding my number tightly I wondered how many more holiday dinners fate would allow me to share with my parents, and I said a little prayer. Startled I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to face him. Like I knew I would. But I never knew when or where.\nAll these years later I once again became frozen by the fear of intimacy but not from lack of experience but rather lack of confidence. A bitter divorce with ugly words. A soft belly from pregnancies and then complacency. He brushed the hair out of my eyes, and I thought of the gray just beneath the surface around my temples and I cringed. The lines exposed on my forehead for him to see made me want to cry in shame and despair. He leaned in and kissed me like the boy from high school all those years ago when we were sixteen and not pushing sixty and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Premonition\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2634\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who believes their dreams predict the future."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was a normal day when Zoe awoke. She got up, brushed her teeth, showered, and dressed for work as usual. Before heading out of her loft apartment, she stopped in the small kitchen for a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. It was while she was sipping the coffee that she remembered.\n\nThe previous night, as she slept, she’d had a dream that she now suddenly recalled. She straightened where she stood as chills moved down the length of her spine. How odd that she’d had the dream, but even odder that now, where she stood, she was suddenly recalling it all with a vivid detail. She’d had many dreams in recent years that had come true, so she knew better than to shake them off. Just last month, for example, she’d had a dream that her Great Aunt Vivian had died, and it had come true with her aunt dying the very next evening. And right now, standing in the tiny kitchen, Zoe felt an eerie in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps last night’s dream was also a foretelling of events. Dear God, but she hoped not.\n\nIn the dream, Zoe had been at work, but things looked very different from a typical day in the office. Furniture had been strewn all about, she, everything, and everyone had been covered in a white film or dust, and heat had enveloped the entire space. Her ears were ringing and muffled in the dream, but she could still hear echoes of people screaming as they panicked and ran all around her. It was much like being in the midst of a war zone.\n\nAs she finished the cup of coffee, Zoe tried to shake the memory of her dream and the eerie feeling that had invaded. This was one dream she did not want to come true, so she attempted to convince herself that it was only a dream. Maybe she’d been watching too many action packed movies on television and needed to revert back to the Hallmark Movie Channel. Yes, that must be what had precipitated the dream – an action packed, suspense thriller she’d watched the previous night.\n\nAs she left the apartment, Zoe's neighbor, Marcus, greeted her.\n\n“Good morning, sunshine,” he said with a smile, leaning over to pick up his morning paper. “Heading to work?”\n\n“Good morning, Marcus. Yes, heading to work as usual. I hope you have a productive day of writing,” Zoe said as she entered the elevator.\n\nInside the elevator, Zoe greeted everyone. She noticed that Rodrigo from the 14th floor stood in the rear. While he spoke to her whenever he saw her – usually in the mornings or afternoons - she’d had little opportunity to get to know him. She was hoping that this would change. Rodrigo worked in the building beside hers in the city, so perhaps if they became better acquainted, they could have lunch together. Or maybe other possibilities might loom in the future for them? Zoe looked down at her feet and smiled at the thought. Who knew?\n\nAs everyone exited the elevator, Paul, the doorman, greeted the group and wished them a good day as he opened the doors for the departing tenants, all of whom were headed to work.\n\nPeople bustled and hustled on the sidewalks as Zoe made her way to the subway station, each person hurrying to their destination and few taking note of anyone else. It was a short distance to her work in a neighboring borough, so she always took the subway. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was 7:00 am. She had a while before she had to be at the office. However, this morning, she hoped to arrive early to prepare for an important meeting scheduled for 9:30.\n\nAs Zoe entered the subway car, her mind was engulfed with images from the dream she’d had the previous night. Try as she might, she couldn't seem to shake the overwhelming eeriness and fear she felt. This dream seemed to linger and permeate her memory in ways that left her uneasy and nearly sick to her stomach.\n\nZoe looked about seeking to distract herself. A woman in a maid’s uniform was seated two rows over, but her eyes were closed as if she’d not gotten enough rest the night before. A young teenager lounged lazily against a side seat, one hand on the pole by his side. He was singing along to the music he heard through his earbuds - an odd, offbeat sound in the stilted silence of the subway car. Across from Zoe, a woman sat with her arm around a young girl, obviously her daughter, who leaned across her lap. The young girl, playing with a small doll, looked at Zoe and smiled. An old woman with hair coifed meticulously, her makeup and clothing immaculate, sat stiffly a few aisles down as if she were being judged in a beauty contest.\n\nZoe sighed as she looked out the window, the images floating past so quickly she couldn't focus on any particular thing. There was a strange vividness to everything and everyone this day and the world seemed to be a revolving blur, as if Zoe was looking at things from the outside. Despite her best efforts, she was reminded of the lingering images from last night's dream. Why had it seemed so real and haunt her so? Looking down at her hands, she realized that they were shaking. The dream had affected her more than she had realized when first she’d remembered it.\n\nThe subway suddenly halted, and Zoe heard the call for Cortlandt Street. This was her stop. She rose and headed out onto the subway platform and up the steps that lead to the street. As she did so, a feeling of dread filled her, and each step she took became more difficult. As she finally reached the street, she pulled out her cellphone and called her mother.\n\n“Hey Zoe! Is everything all right?” her mother immediately asked since it wasn't normal to hear from her daughter so early in the day.\n\n“Hey, Mom. I’m good. How are you?” Zoe asked.\n\n“I’m fine dear. Are you sure you're all right?” her mother could hear the hesitancy in her daughter's voice and knew there was an underlying reason for the call so early.\n\n“Yeah, Mom, I’m OK. It’s just….” Zoe didn't know how to begin.\n\n“It’s just what, dear? What’s going on?”\n\n“Mom, it’s just that I had this horrible dream last night about something really bad happening at work, and I can’t seem to shake it. Now I’m dreading going to the office. That’s crazy, right, Mom?” Zoe's voice was full of doubt.\n\n“Now Zoe, didn’t you tell me you had that important marketing meeting this morning?”\n\n“Yeah,” Zoe admitted.\n\n“Well, that’s easy then. I’m sure the dream just represents your fear about the meeting. Don't worry - there's nothing to fear. You go to work and show them what you can do!” her mother said with conviction.\n\nZoe was quiet for a long moment before she responded. “Yeah, Mom, you’re right. It’s nothing but a bad dream caused by my anxiety over a stupid meeting. It'll be fine.” But Zoe did not convince herself even though she spoke the words.\n\n“OK, dear. Be sure to call and let me know how the meeting goes. I love you, Zoe.”\n\n“Will do, Mom. Love you, too.”\n\nZoe headed down the sidewalk to the last block until she had nearly reached her building of work. Stopping just outside of it, she entered the Café next to it to get another cup of coffee before she went up to the 82th floor of her building. Standing in line, she was greeted by her co-worker, Rachel.\n\n“Hey, Zoe. Ready for your meeting this morning? It’s going to be a big one!”\n\n“Yes, definitely,” Zoe tried to sound confident.\n\nRachel arched a manicured brow questioningly. “What’s up with you? You don’t seem like yourself this morning, Zoe.”\n\n“It’s nothing. I had a bad dream last night about work,” Zoe shrugged.\n\nRachel laughed. “What did you dream? That the marketing department burst into flames, the meeting was canceled, and we all went home?”\n\nZoe's face turned white as a ghost. She looked at Rachel, her brown eyes wide.\n\nRachel looked at Zoe with disbelief. “Zoe, I was just kidding, girl! Are you sure you're all right? It was just a dream, after all – whatever it was about!”\n\nZoe nodded. “Yeah, I know. I’m being silly, Rachel, but it just seemed so real.”\n\nRachel picked up her latte and turned to leave. “Most dreams do seem real, Zoe, but whatever your dream was about, I’m sure it was just a dream - probably caused by something you ate, like jalapeños.” Rachel laughed and headed out the door.\n\nEveryone thought she was being silly, but Zoe’s gut was speaking volumes to her. Thanking the barista, she headed to the door and moved the few short steps toward the towering building where she worked, stopping just outside the revolving glass doors at its' entrance.\n\nZoe didn’t know how long she stood before those glass doors, all she knew was that she could not take another step toward the building in front of her. She was absorbed by the memory of white dust covering everything, heat surrounding everyone, ringing in her ears, and people screaming as they panicked amidst the chaos. Her legs felt weak and her hands shook worse than before. Zoe was now more than ever sure that last night's dream was anything but just a dream.\n\nMeeting and work be damned, she thought. Without further hesitation, Zoe threw her cup of unfinished coffee in a trashcan and headed back to the subway station. She never called in sick, but today, she was definitely sick: sick from the memory of the frightening dream.\n\nReaching the subway platform, she waited for the next train home as she looked at her watch. It was now 8:15 am. She must have stood on the sidewalk contemplating going inside to work much longer than she had realized. Jarred to reality by the subway doors opening, Zoe quickly entered and took a seat inside, an immense relief invading her as the train took off to head the distance to the borough where she lived.\n\nZoe picked up her cellphone and texted her boss to let him know she’d be unable to attend the meeting and wouldn’t be in for the remainder of the day. She apologized for the short notice but said she was unwell. It wasn't exactly a lie. She had felt sick to her stomach as she stood before that tall building and nothing could have propelled her any further. Her mother and people like Rachel would scoff and say she was paranoid, but she didn't care. All she felt as she exited the subway station to head home was unexplainable relief.\n\nAt her loft apartment, the doorman greeted her with a surprised look. “Hello, Miss Zoe. Are you unwell?”\n\n“I’m fine, Paul. I just decided to take the day off.”\n\n“Excellent. Enjoy your day then!” Paul smiled as she headed for the elevator.\n\nExiting the elevator, Zoe walked down the long corridor to her apartment. As she unlocked her door, Marcus opened his.\n\n“Playing hooky?” he teased.\n\n“More or less!” Zoe responded and laughed.\n\n“Well, come over later for a game of rummy,” the older man said. “I’d love the distraction!”\n\n“Will do,” Zoe said as she entered her apartment and closed the door behind her.\n\nThe clock on the wall said 8:45 am. Removing the cellphone from her purse, she placed it on the kitchen table before going to the fridge for a bottle of cold water. Lounging lazily on her comfy sofa, she was very glad she’d followed her intuition and come home. Plumping up the pillows behind her, she relaxed and began to doze off, more tired than she'd realized from not sleeping well the previous night.\n\nIt was about thirty minutes later that Zoe’s cellphone began vibrating on the kitchen table. Half asleep, Zoe considered not answering it, assuming her boss was calling to fuss at her, but thinking better of it, she sat up intending to answer it, but the phone stopped.\n\nAs Zoe started to lie back down, the phone immediately began to vibrate again, as if someone was trying very hard to reach her. She realized she could also hear the roar of sirens from the streets below. Was the building on fire? Zoe rose quickly and headed to the table to answer the phone, but as she did so, there was urgent knocking on her door. Uncertain now as to what was happening, Zoe grabbed her phone and opened the door simultaneously.\n\n“ZOE!” It was her mother. She was screaming and obviously upset.\n\n“Mom? What’s wrong?”\n\nLooking at Marcus, Zoe realized there was panic in his eyes as he mouthed the words, “Turn on the TV”.\n\n“Zoe! Oh my God! Are you all right? Where are you?” her mother was yelling so loud that Zoe that had to remove the phone from her ear. Her mother was crying.\n\n“Mom, I’m OK – it's OK. I’m at home. What’s wrong, Mom?”\n\n“Oh my God! Oh my God! Thank God!” her mother’s sobs and apparent relief were obvious as she continued to cry, but she had finally ceased her screaming.\n\nTurning on the television, Zoe looked questioningly at Marcus. His eyes were wide with fear. As she turned to the television, she saw the words she would never forget, headlining the bottom of the screen Airplane Crashes into Twin Tower.\n\nDear God in Heaven. The Twin Tower was where Zoe worked. It was now 9:03 am and as they watched the television, their faces revealed further horror as a second plane hit the sister tower. Dear God in Heaven! This was no freak accident. Zoe could barely think less alone speak as she still listened to her mother’s sobs.\n\n“Mom. Mom. It's OK. I’m OK. I didn’t go to work,” she said, attempting to calm her mother and trying not to cry, too. Marcus touched Zoe’s shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. It was apparent he was thankful Zoe had come back home this morning in lieu of going to work. Zoe was in complete, utter shock.\n\nZoe's mother at long last calmed down and was able to say, “I’m so thankful you didn’t listen to me, Zoe. You know, about the dream - the premonition. I was so stupid. Thank God you didn’t go to work, Zoe. What would I have done if I lost you? All those poor, poor people.” Her mother started to sob again.\n\nZoe’s heart sunk to her feet and tears filled her eyes. The dream. The horrible dream had in fact been a premonition - her worst fears realized.\n\nZoe, too, immediately thought of all the people she knew in the towers like Rodrigo and Rachel. Would they all perish or would they escape this horrible tragedy? It did not seem a likely possibility at the moment. She immediately sent up prayers for the safety of all those souls involved.\n\nZoe’s heart broke into a million pieces as she and Marcus somberly watched the news the remainder of the long day and night while listening to nonstop sirens that filled the streets of the city. She would forever give thanks that she had listened to her instincts and heeded the foreboding brought about by the dream. She would never, ever again doubt herself, her instincts, or her dreams. This day of September 11, 2001 was a day that would haunt her always, as it would many others for as long as they lived."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: \"Echoes of Redemption: A Christmas Resonance\"\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1038\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character is stuck reliving their worst Christmas ever, over and over again."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Cold wind whipped through the desolate street, swirling snowflakes in a dance of bitter nostalgia. Charlie stood frozen, his breath visible in the frosty air. The neon lights of a flickering sign nearby spelled out \"Bing's Diner,\" casting an eerie glow on the deserted sidewalk. The air was thick with an unsettling quietness, broken only by the distant wailing of sirens.\nWithout warning, a surge of memories flooded Charlie's mind, dragging him back to that fateful Christmas Eve. The laughter, the warmth, all shattered like fragile glass. He blinked, finding himself inside the diner, where the echoes of that haunting night manifested.\nThe room was dimly lit, adorned with tattered tinsel and flickering Christmas lights. A melancholic melody hummed softly from a jukebox in the corner. Charlie's eyes darted around, recognizing the same faces frozen in time. The patrons were lost in their own worlds, eternally sipping on lukewarm coffee and pretending not to notice the cracks in the faded vinyl booths.\nA sense of dread enveloped Charlie as he realized the cruel twist of fate that bound him to this haunting loop. The door chimed, signaling the arrival of a familiar figure – his ex-girlfriend, Lily. Her eyes mirrored the sadness that had marked that Christmas, the one he couldn't escape.\nAs Charlie tried to speak, the words caught in his throat, stifled by the oppressive weight of déjà vu. Lily approached, her gaze piercing through the thin veneer of civility they had feigned in that ill-fated celebration. The atmosphere grew thick with tension as the same conversation played out like a broken record.\nThe bitter exchange, the shattered promises, the heart-wrenching goodbye—they all unfolded with meticulous repetition. The same words, the same expressions, the same tears. Charlie felt like a marionette, forced to dance to the tragic rhythm of that night.\nTime became a paradox, bending and contorting, trapping him in the purgatory of that one dreadful Christmas. Each iteration was a cruel echo of the last, a relentless reminder of his inability to change the course of events. The clock on the diner's wall ticked mockingly, counting down the seconds until the painful cycle reset.\nDesperation gripped Charlie as he tried to break free from the suffocating loop. He attempted different actions, altered his words, but the outcome remained immutable. The universe, it seemed, was adamant in its insistence that he relive the anguish of that Christmas, over and over.\nDays blended into nights, and Charlie lost track of how many times he had witnessed the tragedy unfold. The faces around him became hollow masks, their expressions etched in an eternal dance of sorrow. The once-familiar decorations mocked him with their stagnant existence.\nAs Charlie resigned himself to the inevitability of this temporal prison, a glimmer of realization sparked within him. If he was destined to endure this perpetual torment, perhaps he could find a way to redeem the unforgiving night.\nWith newfound determination, Charlie embarked on a quest to understand the intricacies of his temporal cage. He delved into the subtle nuances of the conversations, dissecting every word and gesture. The diner became his laboratory, and the loop, his relentless experiment.\nIn his pursuit of understanding, Charlie discovered fragments of hidden pain beneath the surface of each character. The seemingly mundane conversations held the key to unraveling the layers of unresolved emotions that bound them all. As he uncovered the complexities of their intertwined stories, he realized that breaking free from the cycle required addressing not only his own regrets but the collective anguish that haunted the diner.\nArmed with this revelation, Charlie faced each loop with newfound empathy. He reached out to the other patrons, offering solace and understanding. Slowly, the atmosphere in the diner began to shift. The heavy air of despair gave way to a fragile hope as the characters confronted their own demons.\nIn a twist of fate, the perpetual Christmas Eve transformed into a collective journey of healing. The patrons, once trapped in their individual sorrows, found solace in shared vulnerability. The jukebox, once a somber tune, now played a melody of resilience and redemption.\nAs the cycle reset once again, Charlie braced himself for the familiar scene. Yet, this time, there was a subtle difference—the characters bore the marks of healing, their eyes reflecting a glimmer of acceptance. The conversation with Lily unfolded, but the bitterness had softened into a poignant acknowledgment of the past.\nCharlie, too, felt a profound change within himself. The weight that had burdened him through countless repetitions began to lift. As the loop continued, he found himself caught in a moment of genuine connection with Lily. The ghosts of that painful Christmas Eve seemed to retreat, overshadowed by the possibility of a different outcome.\nThe air in Bing's Diner, once stifling and oppressive, now carried a whisper of redemption. The neon lights flickered with a renewed vitality, casting a warm glow on the patrons who had once been prisoners of their own sorrow. As the clock ticked, marking the passage of time, Charlie realized that he had broken free from the shackles of that haunting Christmas, rewriting the narrative of his worst nightmare into a story of resilience, understanding, and the transformative power of compassion.\nAs Charlie walked away from Bing’s Diner, a subtle yet profound transformation occurred within its walls. The diner, once a vessel for the perpetuation of painful memories, began to shed its dilapidated appearance. The flickering Christmas lights steadied into a warm glow, and the tattered tinsel regained its festive brilliance.\nOver time, the diner became a cherished hub for the community—a place where friendships were forged, stories were shared, and the echoes of redemption reverberated through the lives of those who entered its doors. The legacy of that transformative Christmas Eve lingered, not as a haunting memory but as a catalyst for a brighter, more connected future.\nAnd so, Bing’s Diner, once ensnared in the relentless loop of Charlie’s worst Christmas, emerged from the shadows to become a symbol of resilience, forgiveness, and the enduring power of human connection. The neon sign glowed proudly in the night, signaling to all who passed that within those walls, the spirit of redemption had triumphed over the ghosts of the past."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: A Grocery Store Memory\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1323\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a certain food makes your character travel back in time."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Arthur yanks on his mittens and quickly rubs his palms together in a pathetic attempt to generate some warmth. He wonders (for at least the hundredth time) why he hasn’t moved away from this godforsaken town with a windchill that makes Antarctica look like paradise. \nHis car door creaks open as the cold December air sucks his breath away and freezes his nose hairs. Careful not to slip on the black ice in the parking lot, he places his boots firmly onto the ground and hoists himself up out of the car. \nA mother and her three young children bustle past him, one of them crying “Mommy, slow down!” Arthur barely has time to leap out of the way in order to avoid a collision with a stroller the size of a golf cart. \nChrist, what’s everyone in such a rush about? Arthur thinks to himself while shuffling towards the grocery store doors. The last thing he needs is to slip and fall in the parking lot. Being surrounded by a flock of do-gooders hastily running over to help a poor old man up off the cold, wet concrete sounds like his worst nightmare. Just thinking about it gives him a shiver of dread down his spine as he imagines the pity he’d elicit from the worried faces of strangers. \nArthur wouldn’t be wandering into the grocery store alone, worrying about falling if Cece were still here. What would she think of him if she saw him now? Grief blooms in his chest. \nThe sudden chime of the automatic sliding doors snaps Arthur out of his daydream. He notices a folding table set up outside the store entrance. It’s covered with a cherry red tablecloth and decorated with cut-out paper snowflakes, the ones he recalls making as a child in elementary school. There’s large thermoses resting on the table surrounded by stacks of styrofoam cups and bags of marshmallows. As Arthur approaches, he notices the sign boasting, “Best hot chocolate in town!” Adults and children hurry around the table pouring hot chocolate for those who have wandered up to the table for (what’s probably not) the best hot chocolate in town. \nDespite the cold, these people look pretty cheerful. A donation box sits perched on the far end of the hot chocolate stand, explaining that all proceeds will be donated to the local food pantry. Being in the presence of people doing good just to do good brings a pit to Arthur’s stomach. This is something he and Cece would have done during the holiday season, but instead he’s plotting how to sneak by them without making a donation. He wonders when he became a bitter old man. \nBut, the feeling of guilt isn’t enough to make Arthur want to stop and make conversation with the friendly volunteers. \n“Would you like some hot chocolate?” He hears a tiny voice calling up to him from the ground. \nArthur peers down at the small girl dressed in a shiny purple jacket with a purple knitted hat and gloves to match looking back up at him expectantly. \n“It’s really good. I promise!” She exclaims hopefully. \nAt first, he says nothing. The child has a sprinkle of freckles across her round cheeks and little nose, both turned deep red from the cold. Two braids the color of honey stick out from the bottom of her hat. Her dark brown eyes shine up at him and her bright smile doesn’t falter. \nNot a bad salesperson, I’ll give her that.\n“Um, no. No, that’s alright,” Arthur mutters as he tries to walk past her. \nWhat kind of monster am I, turning down a simple cup of hot chocolate from a little girl?\nShe is not deterred. “Are you sure? I can even put mini marshmallows in it!” The confident voice of this young child reminds him of his own daughter when she was that age. There’s no doubt Olivia inherited her charm and cheerfulness from Cece. \nCece. \nCece would be beaming back at this girl, already having said yes and standing in front of the table chatting with the other adults. He can just imagine the look on her face when she’d take her first sip and crouch down to tell the girl, “This really is the best hot chocolate in town!” Cece always knew just what to say. \nArthur sighs and takes stock of his frozen nose hairs and chapped lips. He figures he can enjoy a quick cup of hot chocolate, throw a few singles into the donation box, and get on with his day. \nWith resignation he says, “Well, alright. I’ll take one hot chocolate please. But go easy on the marshmallows.”\nThe child squeals out an excited, “Yes!” and hurries back over to the stand where an adult helps her assemble the drink. Arthur approaches the table and thanks the volunteer while placing a few dollars into the box. He smiles tightly, hoping to convey his gratitude while making it clear he’s not in the mood for small talk. \n“I really hope you like it. I think it’s the best one I’ve made today!” The girl grins brightly at him. She turns away but after a few steps looks over her shoulder and calls back to him, “Oh, and Merry Christmas, sir!” \nArthur brings the steaming cup to his lips and hesitantly takes a small sip. \nLaughter fills their kitchen. \n“Mom, I want you to open my gift next!” James shouts from the living room, where he’s sprawled across the living room floor in his plaid flannel pajamas. He peels open another chocolate snowman while Olivia peeks into her stocking. The fire crackles loudly and Christmas lights twinkle outside in the dark December night. \n“Okay, I’ll be right there sweetheart!” she calls back, quickly pouring steaming milk into four mugs featuring Santa’s face. \n“Arthur, would you grab the bag of–” She jumps and squeaks out a surprised “Oh!” Arthur has wrapped his arms around her waist to give her a firm squeeze accompanied by a quick kiss to the spot right below her ear. Cece turns to face him and places her hands on either side of his face, feeling rough stubble on her fingertips. She grins and his favorite dimple on her right cheek appears. \n“Kiss me. It’s Christmas,” he smiles back at her. \n“Ew!” Olivia shrieks as she slides into the kitchen on her new fuzzy reindeer-covered socks. \nCece presses her nose to Arthur’s before releasing him and turning back to the hot chocolate. \n“Mom, don’t forget, I need extra marshmallows with mine,” James says while licking a smudge of chocolate off the side of his hand.\nArthur walks over to the pantry, reaching for the bag of marshmallows. He places them on the counter just as Cece swirls a spoon in each mug to dissolve the powdered chocolate. The clink of a spoon against the inside of a mug is the sound of Christmas Eve in their household. \nHe grabs two of the mugs while Cece picks up the others and he follows her into the living room. He hands one to Olivia who says sweetly, “Thanks, Dad.” James has already taken his first gulp, and yells, “Ouch!” Cece chuckles and shakes her head. “Blow on it first, sweetie.”\nOlivia snuggles into her spot on the couch while James goes searching for his present for Cece under the tree. Arthur sits next to his wife, placing an arm around her shoulder. He pulls her in close and taps his Santa mug against hers. The golden glow from the fire reflects off her dark brown eyes. \n“Merry Christmas, Cece,” he murmurs as he gently presses his lips to hers.\nArthur blinks and finds that his eyes are wet. The fist of grief that usually clenches his chest is replaced by a feeling of warmth. He’s finished his hot chocolate. \nPulling the crinkled grocery list from his winter jacket, Arthur steps inside the store."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Gingerbread Cookies\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1012\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character is stuck reliving their worst Christmas ever, over and over again."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The Gingerbread Cookies\nLet’s go downstairs and bake some cookies, like mother used to make. The warm smell sits right at home in your nostrils, invading them like wild ax-murderers hacking and slashing their way through endless miles of human bodies that stand in the way of their inhumane, carnal desires. Shhh, shhh, but that’s too dark. It’s Christmas after all. So let’s go downstairs and bake some cookies, like mother used to make.\nOne step… then two… Ooooohhhh, isn’t this great? You’ve never baked gingerbread cookies before, oh no, because you always thought that you would never be able to make them oh so good like mother used to. What did she say she made them with? Some kind of special ingredient. What was it? Was it sugar and spice and everything nice? Was it…love? That special ingredient that every mother cooks with because you are their extra special little kid?\nOh my, this is exciting! Your heart hammers against your ribcage as you set the oven to… Oh, you don’t know what to set the oven to, you’ve never made these before. Probably 300º will be good. You bend down, spin the dial. But what’s that? What the heck? There’s already a baking tray in there. You take it out, confused. On it, there’s a set of perfectly cut gingerbread men. They wear little black tuxedos with white buttons, their smiles expose endless rows of sharpened, white teeth, and their wide green eyes watch you intently with their white pupils. In the center, one of them stares right at you, holding a folded up note in its tiny dough hand. You snatch it from him, not caring about the little man’s feelings.\n“To my little boy,\nMy oh my, I can’t believe how the years have passed! It seems like just yesterday that whatever secret deity governs this universe sent me to my untimely punishment beneath the Earth’s soil. I know, I was always so poetic, right? Now enjoy these cookies, I hope they taste just like how mommy used to make.\nLove,\nMother”\nDing! Apparently ten minutes pass while you read that short letter, but to be fair you don’t read it once, do you now, you read it time after time until the words start doing tangos in your head as they spin spiderwebs around one another. \nNow after it dings, you’re supposed to put the cookies back in and start the baking, Mother said.\nHow hot do you bake them? you asked.\nHot, very hot, Mother said.\nBut don’t they not like being so hot?\nOh, these little guys won’t mind at all, Mother said, She slid the tiny men into the three hundred degree heat chamber. She smiled. There was really nothing to it.\nNothing to it.\nWell, there’s nothing to it, you think as you slide the baking tray in.\nAnd as the minutes tick by, their faces change. No more are the artificial smiles plastered on by a woman who would ruthlessly murder them. Now are the faces of men who know their deaths are coming, smiles that slowly flatten in the corners as three minutes turn to four, five minutes to six, until the red frosting of their mouths fall clean off, and they can’t shout for help, just as you couldn’t call the ambulance when your – their? – mother started clutching her heart and breathing heavily minutes after she slid the baking tray filled with small people into the oven for the final time, yelling for you to get the phone, to get up, to do something and not just sit there as the people cooked in their torture chamber. \nAnd then they come alive. One of them pokes its head up, its blank eyes staring into your heart. It’s lifeless, dull, unknowing of the infernal fire around it, like you on that fateful night, not knowing that mother will soon be gone for good. It looks at you, and then it stands on its two stubby legs, stumbling as it gets up. It walks to the edge of the baking tray, carefully navigating around its still dead – unconscious? – friends as they lie down, their backs against the aluminum’s sun-hot surface. It looks its friends in the eyes, and maybe it thinks “I’m sorry that I’m here and you’re not,” and then steps over the edge, falling down into the oven’s fiery, incomprehensible bottom. \nClunk.\nMother? you asked, your body shaking all over. Why was she on the ground? Why were her eyes closed? She may have been asleep for all you knew. Maybe she was. Maybe–\nAnd then they all stand up. They look like an army, all dressed in their uniform suits. One of them peers down and looks at its friend, all dismembered and burned on the oven’s floor. It looks more like charcoal than a body. They form a single file line in the middle of the tray, a gingerbread snake if you will. And one by one, each of them takes turns taking suicidal leaps off the edge, and one by one you catch their faces as they take their fatefull falls. \n“Stop crying, kid,” they all say. “Mother will be okay.”\nClunk. Clunk. Clunk.\nThe gingerbread charcoal pile grows and grows until it is a small mountain. In it, you see a face. Mother. And she smiles the gingerbread smile, looking at you, and you can’t tell if it is a smile of relief or a smile of scorn. But it doesn’t matter. Your mother’s smile is the thing you have always wanted the most, and if this was the way you got it then so be it. But that smile rang hollow, now devoid of any meaning, any life. An eternal reminder that mother is gone. \nAnd who’s to blame for that?\nAnd yet you bake those cookies every year, forgetting that you tried the year before because the waves of memory forces their dark underbellies to recede. And every year you hope that they taste like how mother used to make."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Words\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1125\n\nPrompt:\n\nInclude in your story a scene about a family's last meal before a significant change."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Words\nOnce upon a time, a long, long time ago in a land far away there lived a band of brothers. Well, some of them were actually brothers by birth, the others all brothers by beliefs. The group started out very small but eventually grew to thirteen plus others that were like-minded but didn't necessarily travel with the core company constantly. Mostly they traveled together but sometimes they broke away and ventured out separately or in twos or threes. They were a peace-loving lot, however, out of necessity, some would still keep a weapon at hand. They were willing to fight for what they believed in if it came to that.\nThey had left their occupations for this new mission, this new vision they shared. The lead guy was quiet yet dynamic in his demeanor convincing the others there was purpose and worthiness in their endeavors. He was their teacher and they took directions from him. He was kind and thoughtful always putting needs of others before his own. He helped them in anyway possible so became very popular and sought after.\nSince they had no source of income they relied heavily on the good will of others to provide sustenance. They camped out under the stars or stayed with new friends along the way. A small land investment operated by friends and family back in their home town eventually provided some reliable support. Otherwise, they traversed their homeland talking to fellow countrymen telling them of this new hope they had discovered. Really, it was an ancient hope that their people had heard about all their lives. Their mission was to convince them it was coming to light now in their lifetimes. Some welcomed the news. But naturally some were skeptical. Some were afraid it was going to affect their livelihoods, replacing the need for them entirely.\nTheir countrymen lived under the rule of an oppressive dictatorship. One had limited rights unless considered a citizen of that ruling class. Therefore, their fellow nationalists were at the mercy of the rule of law that often contradicted what they wanted. To defy it could mean death. However, to keep the peace the rulers did allow certain customs to be observed even if they, as foreigners, didn't understand why all the traditions existed.\nNow this band of brothers had been traipsing all over the countryside for at least three years. Sometimes they drew humongous crowds. Imagine how tiring that could be trying to address the problems and concerns of so many people at once! But the word was getting out there, they felt they were making an impact. So much so that they started attracting the attention of people in charge. Both among their people and the rulers in charge. Now that could be good or bad.\nOne of their traditional holidays was approaching. It was the biggest of the year. They planned on going to the largest city to observe it. But since they were exhausted, they stopped in a small nearby hamlet to visit some close friends first. Even there they found little respite. Their friends' home was in turmoil after the death of the head of the family. Everyone wished they had gotten there just a little sooner. Maybe they would have been able to make him well. Even the leader was so moved that he had tears in his eyes. He called forth to his childhood friend and to everyone's amazement the young man arose. The leader pleaded with all not to let the news of this spread for fear they wouldn't be believed or they would be sought after for the wrong reasons.\nThe group traveled on towards the bustling city. A lot of people made the seasonal journey to the mecca. The news of the miraculous healing of a man thought to be dead had traveled faster than this party and people swarmed out along their path to see them all the while praising the leader. He reluctantly accepted their triumphant adoration knowing full well it was for the wrong reasons. The multitudes wanted a leader to rise up against the oppressors. He knew that had never been his mission so he would disappoint them and they would turn against him once they realized the truth. And how quickly all that would take place!\nThe entry into the city took place on a Sunday. The following day the leader got angry when discovered wrong doings in places meant for worship. On Tuesday he was confronted by men of the cloth who were trying to trip him up. Then he taught his followers using stories and foretold many happenings concerning himself. Often it seemed he spoke in riddles leaving the young men befuddled. During this week he taught with much more clarity and authority. Wednesday was more of the same with maybe some rest. On Thursday the band asked him where they should prepare for the feast. He told them to follow a man carrying a jar full of water. Whatever house he went into they should ask the owner there about his upper room. They were shown the room and made preparations there for the evening meal.\nThat evening they followed all the traditions of their ancestors with this special feast. But before the last course a new tradition was instigated. Unfortunately, before that happened an insidious devil entered into one in their midst. So he withdrew.\nWords. They were only words the leader spoke but they forever changed the course of mankind:\n“And as they were eating, he took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to them, and said, 'Take; this is my body.'\n“And he took a cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them and they all drank of it. And he said to them, 'This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many....” Mark 14:22-24 (See also Matthew 26:17-30; Luke 22:7-23; John 13:1-30)\nPerhaps you know the story from here. They went out to a garden where the leader asked the men to watch with him one bitter hour while he prayed. But they kept falling asleep. The betrayer came by and betrayed him with a kiss to those that wanted to do him harm. His most devout follower denied that he knew him three times before the morning rooster crowed. He was tried and not offering any defense convicted of blasphemy. He was taken before the Roman leader who washed his hands of the whole affair and handed him over to do whatever they wanted to him. They crucified him between two criminals. On the third day he rose again defeating death and the devil forever and became our Savior. His name is Jesus Christ."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Cerulean\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1327\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a student discovering a hidden room in a university library."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The door is cerulean, a bright and vibrant blue, but really it is the color of my sudden uneasiness. The feeling creeps up me slowly, jumps out at me dauntingly, and I am frozen in it. If the door were a mirror – and how I wish it were as innocent as a mirror – I would see my face reflected back to me, and it would tell me to run.\n\nI’m not sure what’s more jarring: the fact that this door is a clashing contrast to the rest of the library décor, or the fact that I’ve never noticed the path we took to get here before. I suppose there are better things to do freshmen year than look for the oddities and notice the details inside the university library.\n\nOr maybe it’s the subtle shift in his gaze that is so jarring, the way his grip on me transforms, and the way his voice now suddenly holds something heavy, concealed behind his hardened whispers.\n\nIt seems impossible to retreat now, and even if I had the courage to, to turn and run away, following my screaming gut all the way down the stairs and out the library doors, there is still a part of me that is curious; hopeful; lustful.\n\nWasn’t dating a professor supposed to feel dangerous?\n\nWasn’t that how it felt just moments ago when he’d pressed me up against the wall of shelved books downstairs and kissed me, and I thought to myself, is there anything more thrilling than this?\n\nWasn’t it that same exciting feeling that I felt when he’d whispered into my neck that he had a secret to show me, and I eagerly followed him up the stairs?\n\nI had thought it was thrilling before, when we were nothing but flirty eyes and lingering bodies inside an empty lecture hall room, neither of us willing to be the first to say goodbye. He’d chipped away at his desk with his nails, while I’d fingered it, tracing circles and pathways across the dark mahogany wood, each stroke a question: what would your skin think of this? Meanwhile, our mouths said frivolous things, silly words about the weather and hometowns and restaurants off campus, things that had nothing to do with anthropology assignments. Between those words, our silences begged the other to stay just a little longer, so we could eventually – maybe – use our mouths for other things.\n\nWe were testing the waters then, seeing how far we would swim out before turning back. It turned out this professor could swim all the way out to my dorm room – somewhere I’d never seen another professor go.\n\nLet me take you to the library tonight, he’d whispered. I can get us in after it’s closed. His voice had been desperate and demanding, like I could break him if I said no.\n\nI wanted to savor the power I had over him in that moment, like licking the peanut butter off of a spoon. But there was no chance I would say no. I would have given him my heart on a silver platter right then. I was breathless when I said, What time?\n\nHours later, under a hazy orange street lamp, I’d watched his fingers unlock the double doors like a jungle cat eyeing its prey. I wanted to lunge at them, feel them unlocking my body, but even then, just moments ago, I still hadn’t been sure, that dangerous, thrilling ripple somewhere within me undulating like a wave. There is nothing illegal about doing the things we both wanted to do, just a school policy that both of us treated like nothing but a suggestion.\n\nWhen the doors pulled open, the scent of the library engulfed me. I read somewhere that the smell of old books is actually the smell of organic matter reacting to light and heat, a decomposition of wood pulp, but really it is the scent of my body on fire. When I told him, he only smiled, running his finger across the spines as he guided me down one of the aisles.\n\nAll of these stories dying beneath our fingertips, and we get to live a whole other life just by splitting them open…\n\nWhen I’d heard those words, I thought he was a sexy young, anthropologic, literary genius, and I couldn’t believe he’d chosen me. In that moment, I was certain I’d let him split me open and read me like one of those books.\n\nBut now, there is an edginess to this thrill, a sense of danger that hadn’t surfaced yet, a creature rising from the midnight zone. Hairs standing up on the back of my neck – or is that his breath? – I feel my bones run cold, like I am standing on a precipice, and if I open that door, I might freefall right into the sky.\n\nI’ve never showed anyone this before, he lies, but I barely register his words, my mind lost in a tumbleweed of disregarded warnings; from my mother; from friends; from school advisories; the university campus newspaper: THREE FRESHMEN GIRLS STILL MISSING.\n\nHe wraps his arms around my waist, like we are comfortable lovers now, like the one kiss we shared downstairs turned our student-teacher relationship into something more intimate. I lean into it, still playing the part of the brave girl. I thought I wanted that. I followed him up those stairs wanting just that. There is still a part of me that does. Fear has stolen many of these experiences from me, and I’d promised this year would be different, didn’t I?\n\nI shouldn’t take hold of the door knob, but I do, and I hear him giggle behind me. It sounds like victory. It sounds like, good girl.\n\nThere’s no creak when I turn it. The handle glides smoothly, and I hear it unlatch.\n\nIn another life, I push the door open, and there is a room with a small round table sitting in the middle. It is adorned with a white cloth and candles, and there is a violinist playing a soft, soothing song. From somewhere, a perfectly prepared steak meal is delivered, and we slice it slowly with our knives while drinking wine and slurring out delectable secrets. In that life, we make love above a thousand love stories bound in leather and spend years happily together. After I graduate, we get married and have two children, Olive and Iris. We grow old together, and tonight becomes a treasured story about the romantic night when we fell in love, a story that belongs in one of those books downstairs.\n\nIn another life, I open the door, and there is a boring room with a game of chess set up for us on a table in the corner. We play a few rounds, him winning twice before he finally lets me win once. I pretend to love it, and we date in secret for a few months before things fizzle out. Maybe there’s a dramatic ending, and I spend a summer lovesick and cursing his name, knowing I’ll never forget the year I dated my college professor.\n\nIn another life, I let the door handle go and sprint down the stairs, running faster than I ever have all the way back to my dorm room. I tell my roommate all about it, and wonder if I let my fear make a fool out of myself again.\n\nIn this life, I push the door open, and there is a room that has no table, no white cloth, and no chess board. There is a room with four walls, ones I wish had mirrors on them so I could see my reflection. The realization settling in my eyes would tell me there's a shark in the water, to swim fast, even though I know it's too late. They would tell me the truth: that I might never see the color cerulean again."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Do Flamethrowers Belong In The Library?\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2273\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with a librarian searching for something."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "We lose people all the time. It’s just the nature of the job. What can you expect from a place full of nooks and crannies people intentionally go to get lost in?\nI usually don’t worry when I don’t see someone for a while, but when it’s been days since someone’s checked out, it’s usually a sign that I need to step in.\nI’m not doing this alone, thankfully. No Librarian is ever truly alone, are they?\nI have help from the Watchers and Listeners of the shelves. Thanks to them, it usually doesn’t take long to get the scent, if you know what I mean. However, today is one of the rare, and unfortunate, exceptions when my search has exceeded more than an hour—and an hour is pushing it.\nI’ve been searching and asking around for almost six hours, scouring shelves and listening for the telltale breathing.\nThe Watchers have their quadrants, so it’s much like playing hot and cold.\n“Bad news.” One says, and my brain shivers in my skull, both from its existence and its statement. \n“They crossed the tape.” Says the Watcher, and I groan. “Are you sure?” My stomach still drops at the thought, even though I’ve been doing this a very long time (long enough that I remember every book on every shelf better than my own child’s face), but knowing a poor soul lost themselves beyond the tape… I grieve for them. \nThe Watcher doesn’t speak, but generates an affirmative sensation. That means I have to backtrack to my desk for supplies. I thank them, asking that they send word ahead of my arrival.\nIt’s been a while since I’ve had to go past the tape, which means it’s been a while since I entered the broom closet. The helmet is dusty (it looks almost like it’s from one of those old-fashioned scuba diving suits. It’s not nearly so heavy, though.)\nThere’s a bright lamp affixed to the front just above the visor, but it’s as much of a hindrance as a help. While, most of the time, those beyond the tape know not to bother me, some still get bored enough to try—and the lamp acts like a beacon. I don’t blame them, it’s what prisoners do. Find the weakest among them and test their mettle.\nI’ve got a sack full of non-perishables, tinctures, aspirin, and a compass (not like the kind you’re used to, but would take too long to explain—and time is of the essence, so I’ll let your imagination handle it from here.) \nI sling the sack across my body, and fasten my waist with a utility belt that would make a trust fund bat character with abandonment issues jealous. It’s got floss, lighters, matches, and a few more tools that don’t exist outside of The Library. \nThe last thing I grab is the flamethrower.\nThis is where I should be very transparent with you. I’m not actually the Librarian. I’m the Librarian’s Assistant. I know, isn’t that just your luck, right?\nNot to worry, I’m very good at using this thing, and it does the job nicely—whatever job I may deem necessary at any particular moment. But the Head Librarian doesn’t really need much of anything to ward off what lingers here.\nI don’t know exactly where he is at the moment, nor do I want to know. If this were a real pickle I would summon him, but while a rare occasion, it’s not unusual in the scope of a thousand years. After all, no one comes here without the intention (whether it’s conscious or subconscious) to get lost. It’s the nature of this place.\nBut you know that, don’t you? \nIt’s why you’re here, after all.\nIt doesn’t take me long to find the tape, which is fortuitous. Sometimes it moves around, but the Watchers and Listeners kept a beat on it this time so as to direct me.\nYes, it is really dark.\nYes, it’s literal tape. Hazard tape, but that’s almost like a beacon to the adventurous, isn’t it? I think The Library knows that. It’s greedy, but it’s also quite discerning in taste.\nIn some circles that means that I should extend congratulations to you… in others, I offer my sincerest sympathy.\nI hear my name and ignore it as I crawl through the crisscross of reflective strips.\nThe tape moves not at random, by the way. It genuinely serves as a warning.\nWhether it’s gatekeeping sections currently under construction, in repair, or missing. I try not to, but I think that last one has something to do with where the Head Librarian went.\nDon’t worry about it, my name is not important. \nSo ineffectual that I’ve forgotten.\nI hear my name again as I begrudgingly turn on the lamp. Not a lot of help, just enough light to ensure I don’t trip over anything, or disturb the shelves. \nMany sleep here.\nI send off a warning shot from the flamethrower. Showing I carry more light than just atop my appetizing head. The flash of flames sends things… slithering. But most of those this close to the tape have never been very convicted by nature, so I’m not concerned. \nThere are more Listeners and less Watchers past the tape, for obvious reasons. Thankfully, they say I don’t have to go too far. I look down at the telling clicking sound to see rocks rolling. Some as big as my foot, and some as small as the tip of my thumb. The smaller ones move more easily, but all are rolling as if pulled toward a central point. I don’t even need the compass, but I glance down at it one more time before stuffing it back into the sack.\nWhile I don’t have to go too far, things are… relative here. Ten steps may be ten thousand. And so even after only a few moments of exploring, I feel acute pressure jamming into my temples. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed, and my vision blurs. My fingers tingle by the time I’m able to shake the aspirin into my mouth.\nI chew it, ignoring the sound of my name—my true name. The one only I can hear. You’ll hear your own as well, if you stay here long enough.\nMy vision clears, which just means the dark looks sharper, and I sweep another warning arc from the flame thrower for good measure. \nI do this as much because I love the sound as for protection. I also appreciate the warmth. It gets cold here. But in a strange way, which shouldn’t surprise you at this point. \nIt’s cold like how the first signs of spring show in the early morning dew that’s only just melted. I can smell and taste the sweat on my upper lip. And it’s cold.\nAnd then I hear it. \nA few or a thousand steps later. \nThe breathing sound I’ve been listening for.\nThe pace of the rocks quickens, and my head is turned down so the helmet light prevents me from tripping over—or impeding—their journey.\nA famous author once said “All things serve the beam”, and that’s as true in this world as it is in the others. Except this beam—this beacon—is attached to our lost visitor.\nI can only hear the rocks, mumblings, and the breathing sound now. The smell is so musty and thick. Like the air is full of sweat and dust. Like I’ve stuck my head out the window during a heavily falling rain. If I think hard enough about it, soon I’ll be drenched. \nSo, I don’t.\nWhile the rocks are almost the perfect tell, and the Listeners’ too corroborates the evidence, you can never be too sure. Only light can be sure.\nI take a match from the tiny box, snap it to life, and then blow it out. Tiny smoke tendrils curl and waft until they also follow the same flow as the rocks.\nExcellent, we’ve not been led astray.\nA few or a thousand more steps, and the rocks are gathering down an aisle where the breathing is more like wheezing—like the desperate struggle to take in.\nLo and behold, we found them!\nPoor thing, judging by the state of her, she got lost early. She’s likely been here for most of the day. The book covers her face—consuming her head like a kid on a particularly large popsicle. The pages flutter gently against her too-white jaw. \nThe papery quality of her skin, and the wanting muscle mass, show how little time was on our side—not a moment to waste.\nI grab the book by the edges of both back and front covers, it’s got most of her head inside at this point, just her earlobes, hair, and edge of her jaw peak out from beneath the pages I now grip firmly. The wheezing turns into a moan that turns into a sob.\n“Now, now.” I say, and test the hold the book has on its victim. It’s snug, too snug to yank like a leech. I need to treat it like a tick, making sure to get the head out.\nNone of these are intended as puns, but it just happens after being surrounded by books and pros for so long.\nI draw one of the tiny viles strapped in my utility belt and pull the cork out. It smells like nothing to me, but I see the reaction immediately. Our half-consumed explorer moves a bit, her fingers mostly, and I hear a second, tinier moan beneath that of the book’s. I pour a small amount of the substance into the palm of my hand, and I smooth it gently down the spine of the book. It wails again, and so does the girl, both full of sorrow and reluctance. \nI feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, so I turn at the hip, cock the flamethrower, and send off a very intentionally long tail of flames. When the feeling subsides, I shrug the weapon back over my shoulder.\nI use the backs of two knuckles to knock gently on the book cover, “It’s time to come back now. My apologies.” I say, and I mean it. The book and the girl moan again, more hollowly, and I can feel the seal—the bond—splitting like a seam. I grip the book again, because these two are stubborn, and have to pry them apart. The color and mass return beneath her skin, and though her eyes are open, they can’t see anything. She’ll be like that for a while, it’s normal. She’ll recover.\nI pour the remaining contents of the bottle down the part of her frazzled blond hair. Tears fill the empty eyes and drip down her face. Her mouth presses into a thin white line and grimaces so intensely that the flesh folds in multiple layers at the corners of her mouth. Great pain.\nEven after a thousand years I still can’t help but feel sorry, so I pull her burning head under my chin, and rub circles into her back. \n“I’m sorry, dear. I know you’ve been told otherwise, but this place is a prison, and that isn’t your story. Yours is still being written, and the one which made you pretty promises is lying and jealous. \n“One day you, if the world is cruel, may yet have a place here. But it’s not today. So let’s go have a cup of tea.” I tell her, as I’ve told many like her. I’ve gotten better at it over the years. I used to have to fight with them. Often I’d give up and just keep them safe until the Head Librarian got back to talk them down. \nShe finally lets out a weak, wheezing breath. I take advantage of the broken seam of her lips and pour a tincture down her throat. I don’t even have to look anymore, I can just feel the specific melodies that make each tincture different. It helps that the one I need usually sings a bit louder as a courtesy, and it’ll purr like a cat when I’ve touched my fingers to it.\nShe chokes a bit, but her eyes start to clear.\nGood enough for now. \nThe back of my neck has another sudden influx of goosebumps. We’ve overstayed our welcome. It’s time to go. \nI put the book back on the shelf. I don’t scold it, just allow its ache and frustration flow through me. I apologize, but there’s no comfort I can give. My words and compassion are meaningless. I’ve noted the volume and will tell the Head Librarian, they might be able to soothe it back to sleep.\nI tap the metal bauble around my neck, and we’re back at my desk.\nI drape the girl onto a nearby loveseat that’s seen better days, starting the kettle before heading to the broom closet to stash the emergency kit.\nShe’ll be fine. People like her (and you) always are.\nThis place was made to help the wanderers and recklessly imaginative. Those who can’t wrap their heads around the world the way it is, and can see the truth of magic between heartbeats and heartbreaks. \nAnd people like me, and the Head Librarian (when they so choose to grace us with their presence), keep the place orderly and open for you… and we’re here to help guide you back on track if you lose inspiration for your own story.\nIt’s the nature of the job—The Library itself. \nWhat else can you expect from a place full of nooks and crannies that people choose to get lost in?"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The selfie of Dorian Gray\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1434\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin or end your story with a character taking a selfie."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "[Content note: substance misuse, suicide, transphobia]\n\nPicture this: Dorian Gray, 25, gorgeous bachelor of the Brighton gay scene #handsomeAF #queen #slay. Picture his blazing blue eyes set above aquiline nose and a rosebud pout of a mouth. Cheeks ready to blush under the lick of glitter from a make-up brush. Deep gold locks styled to perfection. Forehead wide and empty as a summer sky #beautynotbrains #imageiseverything #skindeep.\n\nPicture this: Dorian perched on the sleek leather and chrome of a barstool in the Poison Ivy, margarita in one hand and phone in the other – twin totems of the god of the gay bar. Picture his thumb hitting the camera app (muscle memory leads him there always) and hovering, now, over the shutter button. Picture him pausing for a fragment of time to check the image on the phone screen: it is, as always, empty perfection.\n\nClick!\n\nThere it is: the button is pressed, the shutter closes, the selfie is taken.\n\nAnd all around him life continues in the Poison Ivy: the disco-ball spins, Lady Gaga roars through overamplified speakers, a drag queen at the bar wipes lipstick and white wine from a red twist of a mouth.\n\nBut for Dorian Gray, life has stopped. Here. Now. In this moment – the moment the selfie was taken #liveinthemoment #lookgoodfeelgood #selflove. Because, as he licks the salt rim of his margarita glass from perfectly glossed lips, Dorian realises that he has taken the best selfie ever.\n\nWhat is it about this selfie that makes it so exquisite? Is it the background of dancers blurring to hot whorls of colour? Is it the shards of light from the disco-ball falling like a shower of diamonds across the face? No, it is the face itself, caught at the very moment of its blooming, like a young rose, beautiful.\n\nDorian knows, the instant he sees the selfie, that there, right there in front of him, swimming in a million pixels, is the great truth he’s searched for his whole life: beauty.\n\n‘What would you like?’ the barman asks, plucking an olive from a discarded martini glass and popping it into his lipsticked mouth.\n\n‘I’d like – ’ says Dorian, ‘I’d like it if this selfie aged instead of me…’\n\n‘You what?’ the barman hollers over Gaga’s jagged vocals.\n\n‘I’d like another margarita,’ Dorian says.\n\n*\n\nBut Dorian’s wish came true. Picture this: years later, Dorian is flicking through his phone when up pops the selfie #throwback #memories #tenyearchallenge. Picture Dorian, 35 and still on the cusp of blooming like a young rose, locking eyes with the image of his 25-year-old self.\n\nBut not the image as he left it, 10 years previously. No. For etched into the selfie, right there in front of him, are the tidelines of age – wrinkles beginning to show on the forehead, the skin wilting around the aquiline nose, twin creases either side of the rosebud pout of a mouth.\n\nDorian sees too a certain sneer, a certain curl of the lip, not present in the original selfie #bitchface #meangirl #judgingyou. Was it the many times he’d put others down on the basis of their looks, the many ugly comments he’d made on another’s “ugliness”, that had written that sneer into the selfie? Did the curl of the lip evidence a life lived in selfishness, selfie stick in hand and judgement in mind?\n\nDorian swipes off the selfie, a cold sweat of horror breaking out on his preternaturally youthful brow. He tries putting a softening filter on the selfie, hoping to erase those harsh lines. But the app glitches and increases the contrast on the image, only etching those lines deeper into brow and cheek. Like a Narcissus staring into troubled waters, Dorian recoils in disgust from the sight of his own image #uggo #notfeelingcute #badhairday.\n\nHe clicks off the app, fingers barely shaking, and runs to the bathroom. Looking into the perfect circle of the stylish chrome-rimmed mirror #homedecor #interiordesign #trendsetter, Dorian scours his face for wrinkles, blemishes, imperfections. But he finds, as always, the same strange youth, the same pure beauty, that is synonymous with his reputation in gay-bars from the pier to the marina.\n\nHands clammy on the cold porcelain of the sink, Dorian exhales and spits from his perfect mouth the salivation that warns him he will vomit.\n\nLeaning over the toilet, he pukes onto the perfect white porcelain, loops of saliva falling from his face like hot tears of shame and disgrace.\n\n*\n\nDorian commits himself to a life of velvety pleasures and empty aesthetics. He progresses his modelling career at the London fashion shows #strikeapose #modellife #catwalk. In his spare time, he buys designer handbags in the Lanes and showcases his latest outfits in the bars of Kemptown. At night, the selfie haunts his dreams, mouth twisted in hideous grin, cheek disgraced by defects, brow wrecked by wrinkles – a face defaced by imperfections.\n\nThe years pass in a blur of nights spent knocking back shots in Bulldog #cheers #downit #happyhour. But still Dorian’s face stays young.\n\nHe courts a beautiful drag queen, name of Sybil, dreams of the lavish wedding they’ll have. In bars they sip sex on the beach together and rate the other twinks on their looks in loud whispers #roastme #2outof10 #fugly. In dark bedrooms with drawn curtains they smoke Tina with hookers and dropouts. At the nudist beach they work on their tans.\n\nBut soon Dorian and Sybil are fighting, conversation withering to ridicule and cheap digs. Picture this: the couple at 2am on St James street roaring insults and comebacks at each other with beer-soaked breath like baying stags.\n\n‘You’re a right bitch!’ Dorian screams, ‘a nasty cheap tranny whore!’\n\nHe flings his pint glass to the gutter and struts off into the night.\n\n*\n\nPicture this: Dorian is 45 and as his age has increased so too has his reputation for youthful good looks. He launches his own line of face cream #skincare #antiaging #results. He proposes to Sybil, they break it off, they get back together, they break it off again.\n\nThe night they call off the engagement for the second time, Dorian sits sombre at the dressing table in his bedroom. He stares into the vanity mirror, his face flawless even in the bright white light of the bare bulbs, searching for flaws, any clue as to why Sybil left him. But he finds, as always, perfection.\n\nThe selfie haunts his thoughts like an unwelcome ghost. He pulls out his phone and clicks on the photo app. He pulls up the selfie and finds it more hideous than ever – crow’s feet at the corners of the eyes, scoops of black shadow underneath them, a complex network of wrinkles deep-cut into the face. And still that hideous exaggerated sneer like the face of a horrible puppet.\n\n‘It’s just a selfie,’ he says, ‘it doesn’t look like me! I – I cannot look that bad, surely?’\n\nReassuring himself, Dorian decides to take action. Why let a selfie ruin your night? Why let a photo curb your self-esteem?\n\nQuickly, before he changes his mind, Dorian clicks on the bin icon.\n\nA message flashes up on the screen: Delete photo?\n\nHe pauses for just a fraction of a second, shaking finger hovering over the button, and presses it.\n\n*\n\nPicture this: Sybil, the next day, hungover and contrite and missing her boyfriend, mounting the stairs to Dorian’s flat in her stilettos, heel-clicks echoing in the otherwise silent stairwell. She knocks on the door. Silence. She fumbles in her rhinestoned handbag for the spare key and lets herself in.\n\nInside the flat, everything is in its usual perfect order. Dorian’s designer coats hang in the entranceway, a half-drunk bottle of Chablis sits on the marble worktop illuminated like a yellow jewel in the beam of a kitchen spotlight. The Dyson tower fan blasts out cool air in the lounge #2000watts #700cubicmetersperhour #ultimatecoolingtechnology. It blasts a jet of cold across Sybil’s fishnetted legs like an icy river or a ghost passing through her.\n\n‘Dorian?’\n\nSilence still.\n\nShe checks everywhere and, letting herself into the last room, the bedroom, she finds it empty. She pulls back the bedsheets. Nothing. But seeing the door of the walk-in wardrobe ajar, she opens it to find – picture this: Dorian hanging by his neck from the rail.\n\nAt first she doesn’t recognise him. For the swollen purple face of the dead man is ugly, carved with deep wrinkles, pocked with blemishes, the lip curled up in a final expression of disdain.\n\nBy his side, there lies his phone."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Safe and Sound Safe and Sound\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1130\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character staring at a picture they don’t remember taking."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Trigger warning - psychological abuse.\n\n7.15am - go downstairs. Phone fully charged, remove cable. Stare at phone wallpaper – not familiar – photo of huge oak in West Park at end of my street – where Rich proposed. Maybe took it yesterday – maybe not. Not sure. Stare more. Check for messages. Mum, Sarah, Rich. Rich? Not heard from him in ages. Is he ok? Oh, he’s replying to me. I didn’t message him. I must have, yes, look. Asked if he had a good weekend, sent 23.03 yesterday. Was in bed by 10. Must have got up - come downstairs - forgotten. Sleepwalking? Again? Getting regular now. See a doctor? Whisper: Safe and sound safe and sound. Rich is fine, am I ok? Reply – short and sweet – don’t encourage the ex from hell. Don’t know why I messaged him at all. Ping! It’s your move on Words With Friends. What’s that? Looks like Scrabble game. Never heard of it. Why’s it on my phone? Quick look around it. I have 5 games in play. 5. It’s my move in all of them. Didn’t drink last night. Uninstall Words With Friends. Whisper: Safe and sound safe and sound. Coffee. Cinnamon roll. Sofa. Slightly more awake. Check phone again. More from Rich. Why did you get back in touch? Want to meet up? Ignore. Sarah – she says thanks with thumbs up – thanks for what? Scroll messages - yes she can borrow my copy of Catch 22. Still own Catch 22? Thought I lost it ages ago. Scroll more – told Sarah I found it – don’t remember that – check bookshelves later. Reply to Mum – yes still coming for dinner on Thursday. Thursday? When did we plan that? Never mind, I’m free, I’ll go. Add to calendar. Entry for Saturday – what’s that? Date with Tom. No details. No memory of this. Message Tom – Hi, are we meeting this Saturday? 8am now. Ring for doctors’ appointment. 32nd in the queue. Sorry no more appointments today, please call back 8am tomorrow. System is enough to make me need a doctor. Whisper: Safe and sound safe and sound. Bookshelves – No sign of Catch 22. Check 3 times. What’s this? Copy of Never Let Me Go lying on top of other books. I never do that. Do I? Don’t remember this edition – cover is blue with picture of cassette tape – thought mine was orange with girl in green dress. Flick through it. Pages dogeared. I never do that. Spine cracked. I never do that. Must be mistaken. Phone beeps. Rich. I can see you’re reading my messages. Tom replies – Hi Grace - Yes. Royal Oak. 2pm Saturday remember? You ok? I’m worried about you. He’s not the only one. Why don’t I remember things I should? Phone announces: There’s Movement At The Front Door – letterbox clangs. Amazon delivery. Thanks – I think. Not expecting anything. Rip open cardboard zip. Copy of Catch 22. Green cover. Same edition I lost. Open Amazon app on phone. Ordered book yesterday. Did I? Didn’t know Sarah wanted it til now. Or did I? Coincidence? Put phone down. Deep breath. Whisper: Safe and sound safe and sound. Phone alarm sounds. 9am Take Pills. Yes. Take pills. Go to kitchen find clean glass. All glasses are clean. When did I wash up? Tap, water, pills, swallow. Running low. Need to order repeat prescription. Open browser on phone – doctors is bookmarked. Multiple tabs already open. What are they? First tab Google – seems about right. Second tab British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy. Have I been looking for a therapist? Maybe I need one? Psychiatrist perhaps more useful? Third tab Royal Oak – I did book a table for Saturday, maybe. Check for confirmation email. Open Gmail. Premium Bonds – you have won a prize. Go to premium bonds app. App not there. Check all screens – no sign. Must have uninstalled – why? Will check for prizes on website later. Message from Rich. Don’t open it. Search Gmail for Royal Oak. Booking confirmation. 3 people 2pm Saturday. 3 people? Me, Tom, who else? Message Tom. Who are we meeting on Saturday? He’s not online. Phone rings. Withheld number. Hello? Man’s voice: Is that Grace? I’m responding to the enquiry you made through my web site are you still looking for a therapist? Did I do that? Hang up. Rings back. Don’t answer. Too weird. Whisper: Safe and sound safe and sound. More coffee. Must order meds. Back to browser – bookmarks – medical practice online – order repeat prescription – done. Bookmarks – what did I just see? Lingerie site? Wasn’t looking at lingerie. Click on link. There are 4 items in your basket. Click on basket. Red peephole bra and matching satin G string. Pink see-through babydoll. Black crotchless body suit. All in my size. None to my taste. Shopping for Tom? Not his thing either. More what Rich would like. Eugh. Empty basket. Delete bookmark. Whisper: Safe and sound safe and sound. Phone beeps. Tom. I don’t know who we’re meeting – you said it was a surprise – see messages from last night – were you drunk? Surprise for me too. Check last night’s messages with Tom. 23.05 message deleted. 23.08 message deleted. 23.12 message deleted. Whisper: Safe and sound safe and sound. Not drunk. Possibly not fully conscious. Sleeptexting? Need stronger pills. Call doctor again tomorrow. Good news needed. Open premium bonds web site online. Password not recognised. Type again. Slowly. Password not recognised. Type again. Very slowly. You only have one more attempt before your account is locked. Was I drunk last night? No. Worked til 8 – home – showered – changed - bed by 10. Back to kitchen. Open booze cupboard. 4 ciders and half bottle of bailey’s missing. Sleepdrinking? Whisper: Safe and sound safe and sound. No hangover. Didn’t drink all that. Brought friend home? Who drinks? Bed by 10 – makes no sense. Would remember someone else in house. Check spare room anyway. No one there. Bed not slept in. Phone beeps. Rich. I have to look. I miss you - are you ignoring me? Check all rooms. Front door locked. Back door locked. Spare key gone? Message Tom: Have you got my spare key? Phone beeps. Sarah. Hey Chick you ok today? Don’t suppose you can send me the pic of that new restaurant we saw last week? I knew I’d forget the name Hahaha. Tom replies – not this time, gave it back to you on Friday – are you ok? Check camera roll for Sarah. Multiple pics of girl asleep in bed.\n\nWait.\n\nCan’t have taken these pics.\n\nThat’s me.\n\nSafe and sound safe and sound?"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Winter\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2559\n\nPrompt:\n\nInclude in your story a scene about a family's last meal before a significant change."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The Jamison family gathered around the dinner table in the cozy dining room, adorned with twinkling Christmas lights that cast a warm, golden glow on the scene. The flickering flames in the fireplace added to the inviting ambiance, and a soft, instrumental Christmas melody played in the background, enhancing the festive atmosphere. Sarah, the culinary artist of the family, skillfully orchestrated a feast that teased the senses.\nThe enticing aroma of a festive meal filled the air, a delightful blend of roasted turkey seasoned with a secret family spice mix, emanating from the perfectly cooked centerpiece. Bowls of creamy mashed potatoes, adorned with melting butter, sat beside platters of crisp green beans lightly drizzled with a balsamic glaze. The cranberry sauce, a deep crimson jewel-like concoction, added a sweet and tangy note to the culinary symphony.\nThe dining table was a masterpiece, adorned with festive holiday-themed decorations. Handcrafted ornaments, each telling a story from Christmases past, dangled from the chandelier overhead. The intricately designed tablecloth featured delicate snowflakes and winter scenes, creating a picturesque setting for the family's meal before the eagerly anticipated ice-skating adventure.\nAs the family settled into their chairs, the clinking of cutlery against fine China echoed through the room. Sarah, beaming with pride, presented the bountiful spread she had meticulously prepared. Laughter and conversation flowed as each family member filled their plates, their eyes gleaming with anticipation for the culinary delights that awaited them.\nKiera, the imaginative 6-year-old with a sparkle in her eyes, couldn't wait to share her elaborate plans for mastering the art of skating. Her animated gestures and expressive storytelling added a touch of whimsy to the festive atmosphere.\n\"Mom, Dad, you won't believe it! I'm going to twirl like a snowflake on the ice. First, I'll take a step like this,\" Kiera demonstrated, mimicking the delicate movements of a skater, \"and then I'll spin around, just like the ice dancers on TV!\"\nSarah exchanged a proud glance with her husband as they listened to Kiera's enthusiastic recounting. \"That sounds amazing, sweetheart! You're going to be the star of the rink tonight,\" Sarah exclaimed, her eyes brimming with maternal pride.\nMeanwhile, Vaughn, the energetic 4-year-old, sat fidgeting in his chair, his eyes wide with wonder and excitement. The aroma of the feast had captured his attention, but the prospect of the impending ice-skating adventure had his imagination running wild.\n\"Daddy, can I wear my superhero cape while skating? I want to be a super skater!\" Vaughn blurted out, unable to contain his exuberance.\nHis father, with a playful grin, responded, \"Of course, buddy! Superhero skater it is. Just remember, superheroes need to be careful on the ice too!\"\nThe room resonated with laughter and the innocent joy of the children's anticipation. Kiera continued to share her intricate plans, vividly describing the envisioned pirouettes and spins, while Vaughn, in his superhero daydream, couldn't help but occasionally glance at the scrumptious spread before him.\nAmidst the laughter and animated discussions, the father, James, leaned over to his wife, Sarah, with a mischievous glint in his eye. \"You know, before we head out to the lake, how about we treat ourselves to some eggnog? It's going to be quite cold out there, and a little warmth might just be the perfect touch.\"\nSarah smiled, appreciating the thought. \"Eggnog sounds like a wonderful idea, James. I'll whip up a batch while you make sure the little ones are all bundled up for the cold.\"\nThe family room buzzed with activity as James and Sarah synchronized their efforts. The soft melody of a Christmas song played in the background, adding to the festive ambiance. James, clad in a cozy sweater, headed upstairs to gather the winter gear for Kiera and Vaughn.\n\"Alright, my little snowflakes, time to get ready for our big adventure!\" James announced with a twinkle in his eye as he entered the kids' room.\nKiera, already dressed in layers of warm clothing, twirled around, showcasing her excitement. \"Daddy, look at my special skating outfit! It's like a winter fairy costume!\"\n\"That's fantastic, sweetheart!\" James praised, helping Vaughn into his tiny superhero cape. \"And what about you, Vaughn? Ready to be our superhero skater?\"\nVaughn beamed with pride, his superhero cape fluttering as he nodded enthusiastically. \"Super Vaughn is ready for action!\"\nThe process of getting the kids ready involved snug snowsuits, colorful scarves, and the essential task of securing mittens and hats. Laughter echoed through the halls as the family prepared for their chilly escapade.\nDownstairs, Sarah ladled creamy eggnog into festive mugs, adding a sprinkle of nutmeg for that extra holiday touch. The tantalizing scent of the seasonal drink wafted through the air, enticing everyone to gather around the fireplace for a cozy pre-skating ritual.\nWith everyone bundled up in their snug winter clothes, the Jamison family joyfully piled into their trusty family car, its windows already frosted with the promise of a winter adventure. The vehicle's engine roared to life, and they embarked on the short drive to the glistening lake where the icy rink awaited. The anticipation in the car was unmistakable, matching the excitement that radiated from the festive decorations lining the streets.\nInside the car, the heater hummed softly, dispelling the winter chill as the frost on the windows gradually melted away. The rhythmic crunch of tires against snow-covered roads echoed the family's journey toward the icy expanse that would soon become their winter playground.\nAs the car glided through the quiet, snow-laden streets, James, at the wheel, reached over to tune the radio to a local station broadcasting classic Christmas carols. The nostalgic melodies filled the car, creating a harmonious soundtrack for the winter journey.\nKiera and Vaughn, nestled in the back seat, their breath creating small clouds in the cold air, exchanged excited glances. The carols resonated with the festive spirit, and their faces lit up with joy as the familiar tunes surrounded them.\nThe family began to sing along to the familiar tunes, their voices merging in a cacophony of laughter and joy. The warmth of togetherness permeated the car, transforming it into a mobile stage for the Jamison family's holiday celebration. The off-key notes and playful laughter echoed in harmony with the Christmas carols, creating an unforgettable symphony of familial love.\n\"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!\" they sang, their laughter blending with the spirited music.\nSarah, in the passenger seat, couldn't help but join in, her voice harmonizing with the cheerful chaos. The car became a festive cocoon, shielding the family from the winter night's chill as they basked in the simple pleasure of being together.\nAs the Jamison family approached the lake, the glow of the rink's lights shimmering in the distance, the last notes of the carol faded away. The radio continued to play a soft instrumental rendition, setting the stage for the magical evening that awaited them on the frozen canvas of the ice-skating rink.\nEager to begin their long-awaited adventure, the Jamison family wasted no time in reaching the ice-skating rink. They quickly rented a pair of skates for each family member, and soon the air was filled with the sounds of blades scraping against the ice. The excitement was palpable as they laced up their skates, the chill in the air heightening the anticipation of the frosty escapade.\nKiera, beaming with enthusiasm, couldn't wait to showcase the skating moves she had described during dinner. With a determined look, she glided onto the ice, her small hands mimicking the graceful gestures she had practiced in her imagination. \"Look, Mommy and Daddy! Watch me twirl like a snowflake!\" she exclaimed, her skates creating wobbly patterns on the ice.\n\"That's amazing, Kiera!\" Sarah cheered, clapping her gloved hands in delight. James joined in, offering words of encouragement, \"You're doing fantastic, sweetheart! Keep it up!\"\nMeanwhile, Vaughn, having opted for the safety of his winter boots over skates, gleefully ran onto the ice. His face lit up with joy as he discovered the thrill of sliding on his belly, leaving a trail of laughter in his wake. \"Watch me, Daddy! I'm a superhero sliding on ice!\" he shouted, his infectious laughter echoing across the rink.\nJames chuckled, watching as Vaughn reveled in his own unique way of enjoying the icy terrain. \"Superhero sliding, huh? That looks like a lot of fun, buddy!\"\nThe rink transformed into a canvas of joy as the Jamison family embraced the winter wonderland. Children and parents alike glided, twirled, and laughed together, creating a scene straight out of a holiday card. The colorful lights surrounding the rink cast a magical glow, accentuating the smiles and laughter that filled the air.\nKiera, determined to perfect her skating skills, continued to spin and twirl, each attempt accompanied by cheers and applause from her proud parents. Sarah, with her own skates, joined the festivities, gliding gracefully alongside her daughter. James, despite a few comical stumbles, showcased his own skating prowess, adding to the familial merriment.\nAs the night unfolded, the rink became a symphony of laughter, the chilly air filled with the melody of families enjoying the simple pleasures of winter. Vaughn, unfazed by his choice of boots over skates, continued to sprint across the ice, his gleeful laughter punctuating the familial harmony.\nThe Jamison family, amidst the shared joy and occasional spills, discovered the magic of skating under the starlit sky on Christmas Eve. Little did they know that the evening had more surprises in store, weaving an unforgettable tapestry of winter memories on the icy canvas of the rink.\nAfter a delightful session of skating, Kiera, feeling a sudden urgency, leaned in and whispered to her mother, \"Mommy, I need to use the restroom.\" Sarah, understanding the importance of the moment, turned to her husband and Vaughn, announcing, \"Us girls will be right back. Vaughn, keep an eye on Daddy for me, okay?\"\n\"Okay, Mommy! Hurry back!\" Vaughn exclaimed with a wide grin, his eyes already scanning the area for potential adventures.\nAs Sarah and Kiera made their way towards the facilities, a man pushing a cart laden with steaming cups of hot chocolate passed by. The rich aroma wafted through the air, catching Vaughn's attention. He tugged at his father's coat, his eyes gleaming with excitement. \"Daddy, can we get some hot chocolate, pleeease?\"\nJames, sharing in Vaughn's enthusiasm, chuckled and agreed. \"Sure thing, buddy. Let's go grab some hot chocolate while Mommy and Kiera take a quick break.\"\nAs they approached the hot chocolate vendor, James realized his wallet was nestled under layers of winter clothes. Undeterred, he began the task of unzipping his coat and digging through the various pockets to retrieve the elusive wallet. The chilly air nipped at his fingers, but determination fueled his efforts.\nWith a triumphant smile, James finally unearthed the wallet and approached the hot chocolate vendor to place their order. \"Two hot chocolates, please,\" he requested, the warmth of the steaming cups promising a cozy respite from the winter chill.\nAs James fumbled to pay for the drinks, the vendor smiled, understanding the common struggle of navigating winter layers. \"No rush, take your time,\" he reassured, handing over the comforting cups of hot chocolate.\nBack on the ice, Vaughn eagerly awaited his father's return, his eyes scanning the rink for any signs of Mommy and Kiera. The gentle hum of laughter and the soft melodies of Christmas tunes filled the air as families continued to revel in the joy of the winter night.\nAmidst the festive atmosphere, Vaughn's eyes were fixed on something just beyond the illuminated edges of the ice rink. A tent set up for ice fishing piqued his curiosity, its shadowy silhouette calling out to his adventurous spirit. Unable to resist the temptation, Vaughn's excitement got the better of him, and with a burst of energy, he bolted toward the intriguing setup.\nAs he approached, large chunks of ice, removed for fishing, created a makeshift obstacle course. Vaughn, fueled by his superhero imagination, began climbing and jumping from one ice block to another, each leap accompanied by a burst of childish laughter. His tiny figure moved like a pint-sized daredevil, the darkness beyond the light concealing the treacherous opening in the ice.\nWith a final, daring jump, Vaughn slipped, his boots skidding on the icy surface. The joyful laughter turned into a startled yelp as he slid uncontrollably, tumbling into the gaping hole in the ice. The chilling water embraced him, and a sudden, terrified scream pierced through the wintry air. The sound quickly faded as Vaughn sank beneath the inky darkness.\nHearing his son's scream, James turned back from the hot chocolate stand, the cups slipping from his hands as he frantically scanned the surroundings. Panic set in as Vaughn's small figure was nowhere in sight. Dropping everything, James sprinted toward the ice, his heart pounding.\nA concerned onlooker, witnessing the unfolding tragedy, pointed in the direction Vaughn had gone. James's feet pounded against the ice, the urgency in his voice cutting through the night. \"Vaughn! Vaughn!\" he yelled, the echo of his son's name amplifying the desperation in his plea.\nReaching the hole, James skidded to a stop, his eyes scanning the dark water below. A sinking feeling gripped his chest as he caught sight of Vaughn's cape floating on the icy surface. Time seemed to slow as the gravity of the situation set in, and James, fueled by parental instinct, prepared to plunge into the frigid water to rescue his son. The joyful atmosphere of the skating rink had transformed into a scene of fear and urgency.\nAs James made the heart-wrenching decision to dive into the icy water after his son, his wife, Sarah, and a group of onlookers reached the hole just in time to witness the unfolding tragedy. Without hesitation, James plunged into the frigid water, his immediate instinct to reach Vaughn and bring him to safety.\nThe icy water sapped James of his breath as he descended into its cold depths. Panic set in, and he instinctively tried to swim back up to the surface. However, the water had permeated his heavy winter clothes, and the weight of the soaked garments, combined with the bulkiness of his ice skates, proved too much to overcome. Slowly, inexorably, James sank to the bottom of the dark abyss.\nOn the edge of the frozen expanse, attempts were made to restrain Sarah and Kiera from approaching the hole. Sarah's anguished screams echoed through the night as she realized the gravity of the situation. Tears streamed down her face, mirroring the frozen droplets on the icy lake. Kiera, not fully comprehending the severity of what was happening, sobbed uncontrollably, her small hands clutching onto her mother for support.\n\"James! No, James!\" Sarah cried, her voice a desperate plea that seemed to dissipate into the cold air. The onlookers, helpless in the face of the tragedy unfolding before them, exchanged somber glances, their faces reflecting a mixture of shock and sorrow.\nAs Sarah sobbed and clung to her daughter, the haunting silence of the frozen lake contrasted with the muffled sobs and cries of grief. The once joyful atmosphere of the ice-skating rink had transformed into a somber scene, marked by the weight of loss and the cruel reality of a life-changing event that would forever alter the course of the Jamison family's existence."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Unbecoming of Belinda Blackwell\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 3013\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a backstabbing (literal or metaphorical) gone wrong."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "There are few places Belinda Blackwell likes to lay down to rest more than upon her husband’s chest. \nHe hadn’t been expecting her. Belinda hadn’t been expecting to be home so soon, either– what with the unpredictability of her father’s illness demanding open schedules from his children, someone on-call at all times lest the old man die without one of them there to hold his hand. When Oscar had come to join them a week early— something about a case closing timely and a stiffening in his shoulders when Belinda enquired about her sister-in-law— she pounced on the opportunity to bid her brother and father adieu and return early to the husband she so desperately missed. \nFinding Etienne still tangled in their bed covers, she had stripped down to her chemise and crawled atop him slowly. He had thrashed hard upon stirring and finding her there, his eyes foggy with confusion and fright, but she had kissed his face and rubbed his arms, whispering “It’s me, it’s only me” until he relaxed back into the sheets. \nNow they rest quietly, teetering on the line between half-asleep and half-awake, Belinda’s ear pressed to Etienne’s chest to hear the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart. \n“Well, I’m glad Oscar will be with him,” Etienne says appeasingly, having listened in silence to her stories from London. \n“Mmm. I think it will do him as much good as father. He seemed like he could use some time away.”\n“Away from what?”\n“I’m not sure…” Belinda plays with a loose thread on Etienne’s nightshirt. “I feel bad saying away from his wife, but all signs point to it being the truth. He seemed uncomfortable when I brought her up, but he wouldn’t tell me anything specific.” \nEtienne’s hand tightens where it rests on the nape of her neck. “Then I hope that time will serve them both well.” \n“I do, too.”\nShe tilts her head to observe the strong profile of her husband’s nose. “And you?” she teases, “Has time away from me served you well?”\n“All I managed to accomplish was missing my wife.” He tucks his chin to look down at her. “Though I have been doing some research in your absence.” \n“Yes, I’ve noticed.” The entire walk to their chambers was an obstacle course of books and journals on every table top and cast aside in the middle of the hallway like he had thrown them down as he was walking. And before that, there was the cook coming to greet her in the foyer with concerns of her husband’s increasingly strange demands while Belinda was away– his supposed need for rabbit hearts and pitchers of salt water, bunches of fresh rosemary left to dry on the windowsill for exactly thirty six hours and demands of her and the housemaid to not disturb him when his doors are closed, certain tasks he’d undertaken where it was vital he not be interrupted. \nFor the sake of goodwill, she gave them both the rest of the morning off. \nBelinda knows of her husband’s beliefs— glimpses into a world of ritual and wardship, studies of augury and communion and necromancy that he prefers she not get too close to.\nEtienne shifts underneath her, and she reads discomfort in his movements. She strokes a hand down his cheek so he knows not to be ashamed of it all on her behalf. “What has prompted it? Have I come to see you while I was gone?” \nHe’s told her, too, of the spirit that haunts him– the one that looks just like her, that follows him around the house and watches him from doorways and windows and stares at him unblinking, stares at him like he’s done something unforgivable. Belinda has never seen herself, and Etienne claims the spirit has never appeared while she’s in the house. \nShe fretted for days over having to leave him when word of her father’s illness arrived, knowing what it might invite back into Etienne’s life, but there was no getting around the trip and besides, Etienne had sworn his confidence that that time was behind them. \nIt would appear that he’d spoken too soon. \nHis eyebrows tick up at the middle, like he’s attempting to contain his emotion. “I thought it was over,” he whispers. “It’s been so long. I feel like a fool, letting my guard down as I have been.” \nA deep ache swells behind Belinda’s ribcage. She squeezes Etienne tighter. “You’ve been happy. It’s not foolish to hope. What have you found?” \n“There is a ritual. One for banishment. I have been completing the prerequisite steps over the past week.” \n“Oh?” Belinda struggles to understand. \n“Yes. There is only one step left to do. It won’t be easy.” His fingers flex against her back, a signal that he is thinking hard. He seems to choose his words carefully. “The act won’t be physically challenging, but I fear the toll it will have on my heart and constitution.” \nBelinda frowns. “It sounds taxing. Are you sure this is the only way?” \nShe considers not for the first time bringing up the possibility of relocation– abandoning this home that torments him so in favor of a fresh start, a life away from paranoia and body doubles she can’t see.\nBefore she can muster up the right words, he’s saying, “It will be worth it. I want to do it. I want my Belinda to be the only Belinda in my life.” \nShe smothers a grin against the column of his throat. “I’d quite like that as well.” \nEtienne is quiet for a long moment before speaking again. “I won’t pretend it isn’t terrible. But it is necessary, too. I want my wife to have a good life, and I need to be better to give one to her. I need to be rid of this.” \nA strong rush of affection surges through Belinda. Oh, she loves this man something awful. She’d follow him into Hell. “Then you will be brave. And you will be successful.” \nShe rises and falls with the depth of Etienne’s answering sigh. “You sound so much like her,” he mutters. \n“Like who?” she asks.\n“Like Belinda.” \nBelinda’s thumb falters where it was rubbing a soothing path along his collarbone. “What?” A giggle bubbles out of her, confusion mingling with sleepy amusement. \n“It’s uncanny. You’ve never been this good before.” He doesn’t seem to register her stiffening, or he does and ignores it. “You’ve never come to me like this, lay upon me like this. You must know what I’m going to do.” \n“Etienne–”\n“It won’t work.” Etienne raises his voice, speaking over her. “I won’t let it.”\nBelinda lifts her head to look her husband in the eyes. A coldness cracks through her when she sees the resolution in his face. \n“Etienne, I don’t…” Her voice breaks off into a scared whisper. “It’s me.” \nHe shakes his head. “My wife knows me better than this. She tells me when to expect her. You’ve misjudged. I know you’re not really her this time.” \nBelinda curses her attempt at being romantic. He thinks she's haunting him, not surprising him. She's never been so near him when he's in the middle of one of these supposed spectral visits. It's sobering. It's frightening.\nShe tries to sit up, and grunts when Etienne uses his hand on her neck to ease her back down again. His hold is strong– not enough to hurt, but in her shock, she goes easy. \nEtienne’s mouth is at her ear. “My wife is not to be home for a few days yet. By then, all of this will be dealt with and done. It will be like it never happened. She won’t have any part of it. She will not have such a weak, nervous husband.” His voice shakes. “I will keep her safe.”\nIt’s all the warning Belinda gets before the knife is plunged into her back. \nShe jerks violently. Pain whips through her, fast and brutal. \nIt’s like someone has dumped a full basin of water over her. \nNo. No, the sensation is real and it’s not water, it’s blood, hot and wet and slick and spreading fast, sticking her chemise to her skin.\nShe frantically shoves herself up, grappling for a place on her back she can’t reach, too low for the arm she stretches over her shoulder, too high for the one she stretches under. She arches, incapacitated by the pain, her mouth opening and closing like a fish thrown onto rocks, gasping into air that isn’t helping her situation, feeling inches from death. The knife digs into her shifting skin– or is her skin digging into the knife?– the awful, writhing, sawing sensation ripping through her. She's never been stabbed before, but this cannot be normal. Flashes of rabbit hearts and salt come to her, and no, of course this isn't normal. Not by Etienne's design. \nShe hunches, trying to scramble away from the pain, but there’s nowhere to go that it doesn’t follow. She shoves her face into the pillow beside her husband’s stunned face, her hands fisting at the sheets. \nEtienne grips her hips tight. “...Belinda?” \nShe can only answer with a whimper. She’s trembling so hard she can barely open her mouth anymore for how hard her teeth chatter. \n“No.” Etienne pushes against her shoulders. She doesn’t understand what he wants. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. “Dear God, no.”\nHis touch moves to her face, and he wrenches her head back with his hands shoved up into her hair. “Belinda.” He jams his fingers under her jaw, ignoring her choking, feeling for something. Upon finding it, his face goes white. “Belinda.” Again, more urgently, wrestling to sit them both upright. “Belinda.” \nIt’s all coming to her in flashes– the horrible red smear on Etienne’s cheek, the wetness that’s dripping down the back of her legs, the sudden realization that she can’t support herself. She slumps against Etienne. \nDazedly, she thinks of her parents, of all the men they’d wanted her to marry. A parade of surgeons and doctors with their deep pockets and upturned noses. Professionals who would know what to do with a gaping wound, professionals she had rejected for the love of a poet, her poet, who had nothing to offer but a quiet life and endless adoration. \nEtienne cradles her against him, rocking them back and forth. He's sobbing. “Why are you here? You weren’t supposed to be here. I thought you were the specter. Please believe me. Oh God, please forgive me.” \nHe sounds wrecked. Belinda wants to comfort him, but she can’t pick her head up. \nThen darkness clouds her vision, and she can’t do anything at all anymore. \n— — —\nBelinda blinks awake. \nThe ground is uncomfortable beneath her back. What is she doing on the ground? \nEtienne is kneeling by her side, head in his hands. There’s something red all over his hands. Belinda pushes herself up, reaching out to touch Etienne’s knee. \nHe jolts at the barest brush of her fingers. “Belinda.” He sounds relieved. He yanks her forward and she goes crashing against his chest. \nWhy is his heart beating so fast? That red substance on his hands is getting all over her now, staining her crisp white chemise. Why does it smell so strongly of metal?\nHer head feels fuzzy. \nReally, why is she on the ground? A moment ago, she was laying in bed, gossiping with Etienne about her brother’s marriage. Did she fall out of bed? Did she hit her head? Is that why everything feels so… Off? \n“I’m sorry…” she murmurs slowly. “I'm not sure what happened. Did I fall?”\n“You…” Etienne is shaking. She must have really scared him. “I fixed it. It’s alright.” \n“Fixed what? How long was I out?” \n“It doesn’t matter. You’re alright. It’s all alright now.” \nBelinda frowns. “Etienne, is my head bleeding?” \nHe winces. “What? Why are you asking me that?” \n“Blood.” She can’t think of anything else to say. She should get a cloth, something to clean him with. \nShe pushes away from him, bracing against the edge of the mattress to stand. Her hand sinks into something cold and wet. \nBefore she can search for the source of it, Etienne pitches forward, grabbing her by the cheeks and pulling her to look back at him. It makes her head spin. \n“Don’t look,” he says. He sounds gravely serious. \nBelinda’s heart stutters. “What?” \n“Don’t look.” \nLike a petulant child, Belinda can’t stop herself. She’s wriggling out of his grip before he can stop her again, ignoring his cry, turning to look at herself laying dead in a mess of blood on the bed. \nHerself. On the bed. Blood. \nAll air leaves her. \nShe jerks to her feet, stumbling backwards. She can’t look away. She’s just laying there– her hair stuck to her forehead and her chemise soaked through with red. Her eyes are still open. \nBehind her, Etienne remains on the ground. His voice is low, thick with grief. “There was an accident. I did what I had to. To fix it.” \n“What…” Her voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away. She doesn’t even know what to ask. She can’t look away. \n“I didn’t know if it would work. I had only read about the ritual. I’ve never attempted it. But the journals said I could comb through time, and bring something back with me.\" He looks up. \"I brought you.” \nBelinda’s stomach turns. Etienne's face is wet with tears. Where is she? “You brought me… From the past?” \n“From before the accident. Yes. It was the only way. You were already gone—” his voice breaks, and he hangs his head. His shoulders are shaking. \nBelinda looks at him. She looks at herself. “But… What of the Etienne in the past? Are you the same as him?” \n“Our paths have diverged,” he says gravely.\n“Well. Then. What of that Etienne? Is he all alone now? How must he feel, having just had his wife taken from him?” \nEtienne shudders, his eyes darkening. “I know how he feels.” \nFor some reason, that’s what does Belinda in. Her stomach lurches and she stumbles to the lavatory, shoving the door closed behind her before retching into the sink. Nothing comes up. It makes her feel worse. \nShe looks up into the mirror. Yes, that’s her face staring back at her with wide eyes and tangled hair. But yes, that was her face, too, staring back at her from the bed. It feels like dying just to think of it. She can’t imagine what dying must really feel like, can’t imagine how anything can be worse than this terror that’s seizing her insides. \nEtienne’s voice comes from the other side of the door, muffled and pleading. “Please. I didn’t want this. All I wanted was you.” \nHe nudges at the door, like a dog desperate to get in. \nShe staggers over to open it. Etienne is still on his knees, still on the ground. When the door is open wide enough, he drags himself forward with his fingernails digging into the wood floor. \nHe bends low to kiss her ankles. She closes her eyes tight at the sensation. \n“My love. My life.” His tears drip onto her foot. “I wish I hadn’t done it. I wish I hadn’t done it.” \nWhat did you do? A voice in her head begs her to ask.\nAnd somewhere deeper, somewhere darker, somewhere inside her that already knows— somewhere she can’t reach, is asking, Which part do you regret?\n— — —\nThey bury Belinda in the garden. \nBelinda watches numbly while Etienne strips that other-her from the bloody chemise, re-dressing her in something soft and clean. He gathers her hair and fastens it into a braid to keep it off her face, and his touch is so gentle and reverential that this time when Belinda excuses herself to retch into the sink, she throws up the entire contents of her stomach. \nBelinda gets dressed herself, tugging on a gown, though her hands shake so hard that Etienne has to help her with the fastenings. \nShe follows behind Etienne and stares at her own face, lax where it rests against her husband’s— their husband’s?— shoulder as he carries her down the stairs and out the backdoor. Is that what she looks like when she sleeps? \nThey leave the bloody mattress as it is, for the housemaid to find. \n“We’ll say you were with child,” Etienne had said, not meeting her gaze. “They won’t ask questions if they believe you lost something.”\nEtienne is right, as he tends to be. When Belinda retires inside hours later, the silent vigil over the little upturned patch of dirt beneath her favorite tree becoming too much for her to bear, the housemaid, Miss Clarke, is already waiting for her, wringing her hands in the hallway. All it takes is just enough performance of Belinda’s averted eyes and a hand pressed to her stomach for Miss Clarke's face to drop. She coos sympathetically, fussing over Belinda so tenderly that Belinda is weeping before she can hold herself back. \n“We buried her in the garden,” Belinda croaks. \n“All by yourselves, ma’am?” Miss Clarke asks, sounding surprised. \n“We couldn’t bear to leave her.” Belinda says, and now she’s telling the truth. Then, she tells another. “I don’t know what happened.” \n— — —\nBelinda looks out from their bedchamber, trying to ignore the sharp smell of vinegar and lemon, the bed stripped of its linens behind her, the way the mattress has been flipped. \nShe watches Etienne as the sky goes from blue to orange. Hours pass and still he remains, bent over the grave of his dead wife while his wife watches over him. \nAfter what feels like an eternity, he rises, stretching his arms. He turns, shielding his eyes against the setting sun to look back up at the house. \nBelinda tries not to notice how he flinches when he spots her, feeling like a specter in the window."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Gingersnaps\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1515\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a certain food makes your character travel back in time."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Just let me off here”, she urged. \nThe yellow cab pulled abruptly to the curb. Ginger stepped out into frigid slush, thoroughly sopping her ankle height boots. It had been a gruelling day. Wet ankles and pelting rain provided zero improvement. \n\nGrandma had not lingered. For that she was grateful. A life well-lived. She ruminated to keep the dull pain at bay. It simply had to wait until after the holidays. Christmas Eve, eve. She and grandma loved the holidays and there was no way that Ginger was going to let her down.\n\nArriving at her door she mentally perused the list of holiday preparations. Presents: check. Turkey: check. Clean house: check. Decorate: check. Food, wine, eggnog: check, check, check!\n\nTears well, overwhelm and threaten to spill from her bleary eyes. Things had happened so quickly. Her head spun. With the funeral firmly behind her, the last thing looming was to make their traditional and beloved seasonal treat - gingersnaps. \n\nGinger cherished the ritual. The warmth of the kitchen. The readying - gathering the utensils and ingredients. The measuring. The mixing. The nose-tingling smells. The mouth-watering anticipation. The red gingham-clad basket, long readied for the tender-crisp cookies, had waited patiently on the kitchen island all week. \n\nI didn’t see it coming. Ginger’s thoughts returned to the first week of December, and the phone call that had abruptly altered everything. Ginger caught the call just as she entered the conjoined flats. Grandma had inherited the 19th-century house, complete with carriage house, and over the past few years it had morphed into two units. \n\nAs life twisted and turned, they wound up together. Ginger had gravitated back after the divorce, and with no kids in the picture, it was an easy and logical decision. Grandma had needed a bit of supervision, just a bit, but just enough. It made more sense for Ginger to move into the townhouse, than for grandmother to move out. Their dwellings met in the garden, and the newly installed French doors opened magically onto the envy that was the backyard. The realisation of every creative endeavour she had ever imagined - all of her ideas had coalesced, in this culmination of three summers of planning and hard work. \n\nNow, with the rain cleared and the evening, unseasonably mild, Ginger’s mind returned to the original kitchen in this gentrified space, as she plunked wholly onto the ornate marble bench. Her memories were thick and sweet as she reflected on the tantalising sights and smells of the many and varied goodies that had been created there. These treats always set the stage well, and so deeply good, really good, for the piece de résistance - gingersnaps. Ginger’s snaps… her red hair shone in the light of the full moon. Full moon, how apt. How fitting. The end of the cycle. Next the waning and then the new moon on its way.\n\nGingersnaps. Simple. Without complication. Wholesome ingredients. The steps, few. Ease. Comfort. The finality of the day coming to a rightful, celebratory end in the beautiful Christmas Eve ritual that she and Grandma had shared - the gathering of ingredients and items. The mingling. The mixing. The sifting with the vintage sieve. \n\nWhen the sifter came on the scene in 1971, Ginger was already 10 years old. So, yes by now, vintage. The sieve had sifted more than cookie ingredients over the years. It had been the magic that was part of the “catching up”, the sharing. The sifting was magical. And needed. \n\n“Get this part right”, Grandma reminded, “because this is what makes the good stuff”. \n\nGinger reflected that Grandma had been right. The mingling and the commingling. Beyond the recipe. As if every time we sifted, our pieces fell together. \n\nGinger hugged herself tightly, and stood to face the rear of their shared home. The golden light that reached into the garden was soft and soothing. As Ginger reflected on the baking and the sifting she felt as if her pieces were returning to their places. She pondered briefly, assembling the ingredients in her mind: flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, ginger, egg, butter, and molasses. Ah, molasses. \n\n“Slow as molasses in January”, Grandmother had teased. \nGinger’s astrological sign - Capricorn. January. Slow to meet change. Stalwart. Stoic. Stubborn. M-hmm. \n\nGinger had everything she needed for the cookies. As her mind wandered again from the task at hand, she reflected on her own life. She’d had a good job and now had a good pension. She was stable, she was filling the spaces, and the pieces continued to fall into place. She marvelled at how calm and together she had come to feel.\n\n“It wasn’t time though”, she thought, as her mind went once again to grandmother -- yet no one could argue that she hadn’t lived a good and long life. As she turned to walk the stone path back toward the house, she recalled the recent, chilling day that she’d answered her cell to hear, “Ms. Ames?” We have your grandmother here at County General. She’s had a fall and a bad bump to the head. You need to get here as soon as you can.” \n\nRegretfully, “as soon as you can”, had not been soon enough. It was so quick. Thankfully she hadn’t suffered. And now here Ginger sat.\n\nA steamy breath accompanied Ginger in through the French door; the panes reflected the pleasing space, with a meandering beach-stone path that surrounded a large tree. The maple was the delight of the downtown neighbourhood. As she closed the doors behind her, she was immediately pulled into the kitchen by the heat of the stove. Ginger had preheated the oven and the ingredients were laid out on the countertop. She carefully portioned out her spices, in preparation for the sifting.\n\nBut first, cream the butter, egg and sugar. At once came the flash back to the first of many, evocative memories - the aromatic kitchen of her 10th birthday. Ginger and Grandma eating “midnight sandwiches”, as the strains of Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte, echoed from the living room. Their love of films black and white, and thrilling, rushed forward - their shared passion.\n\nAdd the molasses. Flash to a small garden and the blue watering can - another junk store treasure. It held the rain water that was so carefully poured on the rows of carefully spaced vegetables. \n\nWhen the wet ingredients had been sufficiently beaten and creamed, Ginger’s mind rambled to the weekend jaunts to the second-hand store, and their search for treasures: costume jewellery and “useful things” as Grandma called them. The sieve being amongst the most prized.\n\nThe dry ingredients were carefully measured into the handled measuring cup followed by the sifting into the heavy yellow bowl. That sieve. Ginger paused, and brought that distant treasure walk into view; that half a century ago walk, that first of many walks that she and Grandma had made together. Slow, with purpose, determined. Ginger and Grandma plodded down the hill and across the park under the blazing rays of July at high-noon. The first of many summer walks to find the spoils that awaited. The result of that first foray. \n\nThe efficiency of the simple tool broadcast the dry mixture in even satisfying puffs, and clouds of memory billowed with each squeeze. \n\nSqueeze. Making, “clean out the fridge” sandwiches at midnight. \nSqueeze. Watering the garden plants on a humid, hazy morning. \nSqueeze. Sipping sweet, iced, tea in the shelter of the screened porch.\nSqueeze. Cutting peonies from the enormous plants that lined the fence. \nSqueeze. Hanging wet clothes on the line.\nSqueeze. Exploring the hidden niches in the basement.\n\nFinally, as Ginger added the sifted mixture into the wet and started stirring, she thoughtfully gathered more memories into focus. Delicately, she rolled the dough into small balls and gently pressed them flat with a fork. Studiously, she sprinkled them in a final dusting of sugar. As she bent to put the cookie sheet into the oven, Ginger’s eyes pricked with tears. As she stood and closed the oven door, a tear made its way down her cheek to her chin. \n\nShe set the timer and sat at the island to wait. As the kitchen slowly filled with the cookies’ pungent aroma, Ginger was once again transported back in time, and her head continued to fill with vivid snapshots of the lifetime spent with her grandmother.\n\nSnap. The garden with the building morning heat.\nSnap. The small, sparse basement, a cool respite from a smouldering summer day. \nSnap. The breezeway and the smell of autumn leaves. \nSnap. The covered porch that muted the susurration of passing cars, on a rainy day. \nSnap. The walk to the thrift store, the day we found the sifter. \n\nMy hand in Grandma’s, Ginger remembered. The same hand that now brushed the tears from her face, as finally, she wasn’t all right, no longer calm and together while she sifted through these memories of Grandma. The memories now satisfyingly mingled and mixed. A mélange of Grandma and Ginger. Sifted over time. Snaps of a life well-lived."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Darkness Descended\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1615\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during a total eclipse — either natural, or man-made."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“I see you’ve brought payment. Good, come in,” spoke the woman adorned with a tattered linen hood that draped over her slender shoulders. \n I entered her eerie shop, a dark place which looked condemned from the outside. I was nervous. Inside I met an eclectic array of odd ornaments, peculiar crafts, and sculptures of deities among other things that unfolded like a twisted tableau from one of my own nightmares. The scent of spices and oils hung heavily in the air, suffusing the atmosphere with an otherworldly aura. Amidst the shadowy corners, arcane artifacts hinted at sinister powers. \n “I was told by a man from seas beyond the mountains that I could find a remedy for my ailment here,” I said to the woman in a desperate voice. “I suffer during the days and more during the nights. The darkness crawls inside my head, its feet itching towards my spine. The light of day brings some comfort.” \n “Ah, please, take a seat,” uttered the woman in a tone laced with a peculiar mix of warmth and mystery. “I believe I possess just the remedy for your affliction.”\n “And what is that?” I asked eagerly as the woman shuffled slowly around the dimly lit shop, smacking my hand away from touching an arcane cross, sifting through books and an array of mysterious objects. She moved with a spectral grace, her fingers grazing over ancient tomes, murmuring words until following a coughing reply. \n“Answers.”\n“Answers?”\n“Yes, answers,” the woman affirmed, her eyes piercingly glowing from the darkness of the shadows. But you must not fixate solely on physical cures.”\n“What then?” I pressed, urgency carrying my words.\nThe woman handed me a wooden rune. “You will feel the world stir, and in that stirring, you will find your salvation.” \nI snatched the rune from the woman's outstretched hand, its enigmatic image burning like a brand against my palm. Fear was taking hold. I stashed the rune in my pocket and bid the woman thanks. Wind blew gently as I exited the ramshackle home almost to reassure me of the business I had done. Having walked only a few steps, I feared to turn back to look at the dark place. Exhaling, I took a quick glance. I turned to find the shop at the corner gone, lost to the suffocating and darkened city. \nThe woman marked the final chapter in a long saga of futile remedies, a last grasp of hope from what I’ve been told to be an encroaching madness. \n...\nThe affliction began years ago, as a young boy. It started from where trees loomed tall, a deep forest where the pines danced and mingled, encompassing life and mystery. It was there, amidst the tangled undergrowth where my affliction was born. It began innocently enough, leaving home with friends to explore the vine-entwined woods, drawn to the adolescent promise of adventure. But as dusk descended, the forest grew cloaked with dancing shadows, transforming into a natural labyrinth.\nStumbling upon an ancient clearing, night had fallen, and the moon had risen, its gentle glow guiding us, full, beckoning the nighttime howls. Before us stood a cabin, a refuge, a place perfect for rest. \nCuriosity overcoming caution, we ventured inside, floorboards creaking beneath our feet in the stillness of night. I remember that darkness inside the cabin. Something about it was more malevolent than that experienced in one's own nightmares. The moonlight outside became obscured, the darkness of the woods enveloping the cabin with us inside. A true blackness overwhelmed us. At first it beckoned, but then it devoured. I fled the cabin, distraught by the cold grip of the lightless ocean that weighed me down from all directions. I was found the next day, out in the clearing alone, my friends gone. \n...\nFar removed from the bustling heart of the city, nestled within the uptown neighborhoods, I find solace in the home given to me through inheritance. Yet, even within its plaster-covered walls, my sleep remains fraught with disquieting visions that leave me drained when waking. \nBathed in the morning sunlight that filtered through the window, I struggled to piece together fragments recalled from my dream. It was as if my subconscious weaponized itself, taking the form of a shadowy figure, seated in a chair across from me. He was familiar yet unknown. Only he spoke. I could not. Were these whispers just echoes of my own subconscious bouncing back at me, or had someone breached the sanctity of my slumber?\nUnder a starry night sky, I contemplate the boundless expanse of darkness that surrounds my home. Without the shy white rays of starlight, I fear what sinister depths lie beyond. In the absence of the moon's gentle glow, fear grips me, its tendrils reaching out to torment me. It taunts me. Shadows dance menacingly at all edges, darkness looming, threatening to extinguish the flame of day and enveloping all in its suffocating embrace. \nThese words struck a chord deep within me, stirring a mix of fear and unease. I was adrift in a sea of confusion, like a boat unable to make port with reason. Days turned to nights and I felt myself changing. My once clear thoughts were now clouded by a pervasive darkness like that of crushing ocean depths. Amidst the unease, headaches rose like embers and the rune’s presence offered me renewed hope, but I wasn’t ready to learn of its curing properties. The universe was saying otherwise. The rune continually sat in my pocket, ominous, filling me with both feelings of dread and discovery. When was the time right?\nUnder the harsh glare of daylight, I found myself adrift in a city awash with gibberings, bustle, the everyday melancholy of existence. The sunlight cast long obscure shadows across streets and buildings. I didn’t venture near. Neon signs hung unlit until night, their purpose moot. Some colors could be soothing.\nAimlessly I trudged, observing everything around me. There was a consistent theme at play. Emblazoned on every surface like a cult logo, advertised as “Hope” and “The Dawn of the New Age”, “The Ring” stood front and center, graffiti-spread like wildfire. I didn’t care much for the social spectacle. As my eyes scrolled through the fliers and paint that riddled the wall, a voice crept through my ears into focus. The man spoke of the sun and the stars. “Convergence, don’t miss it”. \nAs the day dragged on, the throbbing in my head intensified, becoming a relentless companion. I retreated home, passing protests, posters, the rambles of Convergence-driven lunatics. I yearned for the respite of sleep. Yet, as I laid in bed, the world outside seemed to warp and shift. My head pounded like a hammer striking an anvil. My hands, clammy. I looked at the rune on my nightstand hoping to relieve the coiled pit in my stomach. It still wasn’t time. Perhaps at dawn I would emerge with breathless light and clarity. \n. . .\nThe neon-lit city ensnared me, engulfing me in a cacophony of chaos. It was a new day and thousands of people filled the streets with cars bumper to bumper. Hundreds of people on every block corner pushing their way through shadowy alleyways and intersections to make it to the shoreline. “Convergence” was upon us, and with the overwhelming number of protesters and cultists alike surrounding government buildings, rioting, attempting to ignite reform, it was possible.\nWaterside, I stared out across the sea with thousands of others. High above the moon approached the sun. I was deeply afraid. I feared the impending celestial message, the impending darkness. My head throbbed, my heart was racing, and in my pocket I held tightly onto the rune. \nAs the sunlight began to dim, I shifted my gaze to the city behind me. Beneath the towering megastructures of the city, street lights flickered on. Neon signs buzzed alight in tandem with LED advertisements. The blaze of color lit up what would be harrowing darkness. The sky slowly darkened in the distance, nearing like a wave. The darkness taunted me, its shadows looming closer. \nMy mind churned and my thoughts swirled like a tempest, fear gripping me with an iron fist. I began to shiver, anxiety overwhelming me. With a hand still gripped onto the rune, I pulled it out of my pocket. I stared at the carving as its image stared back. The darkness was nearly here. I feared it more than ever. \nIn mere seconds, the moon eclipsed the sun. The two bodies perfectly converged, but with convergence came horrors. Emblazoned in the sky was a burning Ring. A celestial image never-before-seen. The ring stained the sky while everything below was crushed by nightfall. I had no choice but to trust in the answer I was given.\nPeople danced and praised the burning symbol as it hung over the city. To me, the piercing light offered respite, though the weight of darkness was impossible to bear. I stared at the ring, grasping onto the gleam it provided. So focused, lost in its image, entranced by fear, I stared with a longing for release. My gaze remained fixated until the moon no longer blocked the sun. I stared until I no longer could. \nThe ebony heavens glittered, and the city returned to its regular state, its complexities fading and forming anew with each passing day. Convergence had come and gone, yet I was not freed of my affliction. I now remain confined to the cold embrace of a wheelchair. That unbroken gaze that kept my last grains of sanity doomed me to perpetual night as my light-starved eyes and mind burned under the blazing rays that followed the ring."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Morning Star\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2771\n\nPrompt:\n\nPeople have gathered to witness a once-in-a-lifetime natural phenomenon, but what happens next is not what they expected."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "My husband lies in the hallway as a mangled corpse, and only I would ever know why. It is with this morbid knowledge that I am sitting here now, against the wall, preparing to blow out my own brains, out of fear that I should meet the same fate as him.\n It was April 8th, the day of the solar eclipse. My husband – John – myself, and our dog, Edgar, sat on the hill behind our house. Edgar chewed happily at a stick he found while John and I sat on two lawn chairs we brought to this secluded hill in our backyard. It was one of the things that made it so nice living so remote – the stark lack of other people around made our little eclipse party that much more special as if it were a private phenomenon where the only invites were sent to us three here.\n John sighed and let out a short raspberry. “Well,” he said coolly as he took off his eclipse glasses, “I’m gonna get started on some burgers. Think I’ll grab a beer, too – you want one, babe?”\n I didn’t turn to face him, but instead kept the glasses over my eyes as I said, “I’m fine, thanks.” I leaned my head back with a content smile on my face as I heard the familiar sound of an aluminum can being cracked open, shortly followed by the smell of charcoal on the portable grill John brought with us. “Ya know you should give your peepers a break. Even with those glasses, I don’t think you should look up there for more than a few minutes at a time,” my husband crooned. I waved a hand carelessly in his direction. “I’ll be fine, grill boy,” I mused, “you just worry about getting my lunch going.”\n He chuckled then asked Edgar, “What about you, bud? You want a beer? A burger?” In response, the dog made his stereotypical sound that indicated both mild excitement and contentment – a mellow “Arunf,” and a handful of little wags of his tail. I turned my head around and flicked my glasses down to look at my husband. “If you give my dog beer, I’ll turn you into a burger!” I said in a jeer. He laughed and shrugged at me, and I couldn’t help but smile at him before turning back to return my lean into the lawn chair.\n As I resituated myself and leaned back in my chair. I noticed something extraordinary in the sky besides the total eclipse. “Babe, look – there’s something in the sky!” I excitedly cried to my husband. I didn’t realize the effect this would have on John as he looked up at the sky – I knew instantly he had temporarily blinded himself by looking up at the eclipse without the glasses. He then stumbled and stuck his hand on the heated grill. “Fuck!” he yelled out.\n I stood up and rushed to his side, “Babe!” I yelled. I rushed to his side. John was holding his right hand with its reddish skin up while using his left hand to massage his eyes. “It’s fine,” he said with a pained chuckle, “I just messed myself up a little.”\n I softly grabbed his right wrist and pulled the hand to me. “It doesn’t look too bad,” I said, “but it’s going to need to be iced ASAP!” I looked up at him. He was looking at me, blinking rapidly. “I think I’m okay,” he mumbled through a grin, “Sight’s coming back. I know they said not to look at an eclipse, but I didn’t know it would be that quick. Thank gosh I looked away, huh?” I laughed and hugged him. He hugged me back, saying, “So, what did you see, anyway-?” but as he finished his sentence, there was a loud crash behind him, causing tremors in the ground all around us. He whirled on his heel to face the direction of the crash, his arm instinctively held out in front of me.\n Still frantically blinking his eyes, John moved towards a small crater that was not there mere moments before. He leaned over the edge, almost whispering, “Well, holy shit…”\n Tentatively, I moved to his side and looked down. There sat a small rock, glowing a strange ominous emerald green as smoke rose from the heated, porous stone. Edgar growled hesitantly at it as John leaned forward towards it. “What are you doing?” I hissed at him, “Get away from it!”\n Before my words registered to him, John had already reached out – oddly, with his already burnt hand – and touched it. He instantly pulled it back with a disgruntled yipe and stuck his fingers in his mouth. “It’s hot,” he said around his fingers. “No shit, it’s hot, John!” I scolded him, “I’m pretty sure it just plummeted through the atmosphere so yes, it’s fucking hot!”\n John only chuckled again like he almost always does, as he backed away from the rock in the small crater. “you said… Ah, you said, what, you saw something else in the sky?”\n I followed him away and said, “Yeah, it looked like a meteor or something.”\n John twisted his face in a thoughtful look, already ignorant of the burning sensation in his hand. “Oh yeah, I think I read something about a rare comet that’s visible at the same time as this eclipse. Comet 12 Pons Brooks, I think. Also called the Devil’s Comet, because it looks like it has horns.”\n I looked down at the rock in the crater and asked, “Did this… Did this come from the Devil’s Comet?” I looked up at him, my eyes clearly worried. “It’s possible, but unlikely,” he said with a shrug, “comets are mostly ice. Not like meteors, full of rock, ya know?”\n Pulling at his shoulder, I said, “Well whatever it is, let’s get you back home to ice your hand. We’ll have burgers for dinner.”\n***\n John’s hand had been iced with a healing ointment generously lathered all about it. We had those burgers we talked about for dinner, and now we lay in our bed. “It’s just a cut,” John muttered as he inspected his hand. Though the entire bottom side of his hand had been scorched, he was focused on one small cut on the tip of his pointer finger where he had touched the fallen rock from space, “but it burns,” he said this last word with an irritated growl.\n I was happily enjoying partway through Dean Koontz’ ‘The Watchers’, and eagerly wanted to finish this paragraph at least, but my husband’s constant going-on about his hand disturbed my reading. I put the book down with a sigh. “Well,” I said heatedly, “Maybe you shouldn’t have touched the meteor.”\n “Comet,” he corrected, then, with a frown, added, “I think. Besides, I still hold that it’s your fault I put my hand on the entire grill.”\n “It’s not,” I retorted, “but even if it was, you’re not complaining about the full burn, are you? It’s just that little cut on your finger – the finger that touched the comet – which was entirely your fault.”\n John made to give some smart remark back – I could tell from the grin spreading on his face – but I leaned in and kissed him before a word could escape. “But I think we should get some sleep. I think it would do you, and your healing hand, some good.” I looked up and smiled at him, and his grin grew wider before he kissed me in return. “That’s a good idea,” he mused.\n He turned over to turn off the lamp on his nightstand and rolled back over to hold me in his arms, as we do every night, as the most comfortable for both of us. Not long after, we were both asleep.\n I don’t know how much time had passed after that. All I knew was I woke up in pitch blackness, and I saw the light underneath the bathroom door, and I heard the sink running. “Baby?” I said in a dreamy state, “Are you okay?”\n Silence for a while. Then the sink turned off, and John said in a groggy, scratchy voice, “It’s just a cut, but it burns.”\n I got out of bed and walked towards the bathroom door. The door swung open by John’s hand, and when I saw him I screamed. I screamed, and howled, and sobbed at the sight before me.\n There John stood in the doorway. The small cut on the finger of his hand had swelled to at least four times his finger width and had spread up his arm, growing thicker as it went up. It overlapped his bicep, until it flooded his neck, the swollen and pustuled meat throbbing almost a foot into the air, forcing his head to crook to the side in an unnatural state as he looked at me almost upside-down.\n His right eye had become milky, almost ethereal. That side of his face throbbed with aggressive tendrils of blood-poisoned veins. Through the horror of it all, John smiled at me – that same ‘it’s all good’ smile he had given me for five years of marriage. “Babe,” he said in that same scratchy voice which still held his usual calm demeanor, “I think I’m unwell.”\n He reached his swollen, pus-dripping arm towards me, and I howled in fear again. In my panic, I turned and ran from our master bedroom, down the hall, and towards John’s personal office. I slammed the door of the study behind me.\n “Honey?” John said as he gently rapped on the door. “I think we should talk.”\n I dragged John’s chair across the floor and shoved it under the door handle. I didn’t know if it would really work, but it was the best solution I could think of.\n Not that I would ever know. The door handle never rattled. The pounding on the door became more rapid and more intense until it sounded as if John was punching the door, with all of his might, over and over. Bang! Bang! BANG!\n Yet his voice kept that same, sweet, calming tone. “Honey,” BANG! “I think something’s wrong,” BANG! “I think we should talk about this, babe.” BANG!\n BANG!\n BANG!\n BANG!\n “HONEY!” John yelled. Now the sweetness from his voice had gone. Now, he sounded like something hungry. Something furious. Something that wanted to hurt me.\n “Open the door, babe!” still the door knob never rattled, though the door had begun to splinter. BANG!\n Frantically I tore through John’s various drawers of his desk until I found what I was looking for – his six-shooter revolver. I pulled it, “Babe! What are you doing in there?!” John yelled. I checked the chamber and saw it was fully loaded with all six rounds.\n As I closed the chamber, the banging and the yelling abruptly stopped. I stood motionless, listening and waiting, but nothing followed. Gingerly I moved the chair from the door, and waited again. Still nothing. I opened the door, slowly with soft creaks.\n I looked down and was reminded of a scene not too long before John and I went to our bedroom. Before even when I put the cream on John’s hands. I was reminded of when John held Edgar’s head between his hands, and with the hand with the little burning cut, he rubbed Edgar’s head a little closer to his mouth, which Edgar then licked fiercely while John told Edgar what a good boy he was.\n Now I saw John lying motionless on the floor, his chest not rising or slowing with breath, but sitting completely still. His face held the same ‘it’s all good’ smile, while his eyes – both the still good one and the seemingly dead one – felt as if they were locked directly on me. Below this face, however, was Edgar, who was eagerly chewing through the abdomen of John. I saw around the hallway that wherever John’s blood had been sprayed or spilled, a hideous green fungus grew strikingly fast from the spilled fluid and reached greedily toward the sky, growing at a noticeably fast rate.\n “Ed…Eddie?” I said in a weak, softened voice. The dog ceased its elated chewing in my husband’s chest, lifted its head, and turned to face me.\n Getting a fuller image of Edgar, I saw that the side of the skin on his belly had fallen away, revealing the circuitous organs within his own stomach that thrummed systematically when a chunk of John’s flesh moved downward through the organic material. Edgar’s head looked up at me, and he acted in such a way that was so casual, so in the norm, for the creature, that he said, “Arunf,” and gave the same handful of little wags of his tail. As his body vibrated with this mildly excited wag, Edgar’s right eye popped out of its socket and hung haphazardly from the slim bit of tendon that still held its connection to the brain.\n A choked sob escaped my throat, and with trembling hands, I raised the six-shot.\n “Oh, babe, don’t.” John’s corpse said. It was then I learned that his dead – dead, for which they were – eyes, were actually following me. “Don’t hurt our baby.”\n I wish I would’ve something – anything at all, in case there was anything left of my husband in there. But I said nothing, I could think of nothing to say. I saw the gaping chasm in my husband’s chest, and I knew that whatever was speaking was not John. I fired.\n The round hit John in the forehead, leaving a clear circle but exploding a cryptid green matter from the back of his head which I knew was not natural. The spatter of blood from the back of his head twisted and contorted, and the backward parts of my brain were reminded of a YouTube video I saw once where someone was showing basic science and held a magnet towards liquid mercury and made it dance. John’s blood looked like that, though to what external pull the blood was reaching toward I could not say.\n John’s head slumped back, retaining its innocent, pure grin. But at this, Edgar turned his head once more to me and began to snarl. “Eddy,” I whimpered, “Eddy, no.”\n Edgar leaped at me, jaws snapping wildly like a wounded animal which, I suppose he was.\n He dropped me to my back with my forearm held against his throat, keeping his wild snapping from tearing apart my face. Edgar’s zombified claw scratched my forearm, and I fired the revolver two times.\n The first shot missed, penetrating the hallway wall, but the second shot hit his temple. Edgar slumped lifelessly against my body.\n I rolled the dead dog off myself and sat up. I pressed my face close to my knees and began to weep. Then I began to hear a strange creaking as if something were slowly moving towards me. I looked up and saw that same creeping fungus from my husband’s brain, though now it was all around me, quickly growing closer across the floorboards and along the walls, closer to me. I fired a shot at the fungus, only after seeing it explode to witness it grow faster than before. Again I shot at it, and again it regenerated faster than it was originally spreading across the room towards me.\n I don’t know if it was some divine providence or the force of some twisted malice, but I was able to recall just then that the gun had only one round left in it.\n I watched as this creeping green fungus reached ever closer towards me. I heard them, as they grew closer; I heard my husband, John, calling for me to come and check out something cool he just found. I heard my dog Edgar yowling for food, or whining for pets and companionship. I heard every word by John and every distinctive sound by Edgar in the fungus. I looked at the cut on my forearm.\n “It’s just a cut,” I said with a defeated snarl. \n I looked at the laceration on my forearm from Edgar and felt its sting. The horribly, gruesome sting from just this small cut in my skin, and how it could feel so otherworldly wrong – the pain in it was growing, it was a pain I had never felt before in my life, the intense heat and fire of it.\n I pulled the hammer back on the revolver.\n “But it burns.”"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Blood Rain\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2880\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during a total eclipse — either natural, or man-made."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It wasn’t the red aliens that were the problem. It was the voodoo high priests that caused all the mischief. Monkey hands, parrot beaks, and baboon skulls were one thing. But when the blood rains came, all of the usual cons kicked into high gear.\n\nThe mantis-like, spindly red alien surveyed my vegetables with an air of fascination. He stopped on the okra, holding up a stalk and studying it. He was dressed in ripped whitewashed jeans and a Blink-182 T-shirt. But behind his disguise was a standard silver spandex jumpsuit, like they all wore when they came into town to creep around. Whatever else you could say about the red aliens, they were creepers by nature, with no sense of boundaries. I just wanted him to move along. I clenched a Final Notice of Foreclosure Auction in my hand, as if taking out my anger on the paper would save the family ranch.\n\nYahya Gabon took the deed to our ranch in foreclosure. Yahya was a cattle herder. But before that he had been a TAF General, and still had pull with the government. Yahya was hard. Implacable. Unyielding. A real monster. Yahya once shot and killed a six-year-old boy playing in his grazing pastures while the child begged for his life. The laws allowed one to protect their land from intruders. When asked why he’d done it, Yahya had said, “The signs on the perimeter say, ‘Stay Out—Trespassers Shot on Sight’ – wouldn’t mean nuthin’ if I didn’t follow through.”\n\nThe Police Nationale who had questioned him said, “Yahya—the kid was illiterate.”\n\n“Guess he should have paid more attention in school,” Yahya had said.\n\nThe way Yahya looked at it was, when he set his eye on what’s yours, it was his if he could find a way to take it from you. Uncle Koffi was missing an eye from turning the other cheek in a fight as a boy. But the rock in the other kid’s hand had landed just right and shot the eyeball clean out. Uncle Koffi was a pacifist who wouldn’t even swat a mosquito. So, this was no contest.\n\nI had told Uncle Koffi we should just give up the ranch. We couldn’t afford it. But Uncle Koffi was superstitious. He believed that fate could be wooed.\n\nA few weeks earlier, I had gone with Uncle Koffi to the Akodessawa Fetish Market and met with Guedenon Benoit, “the Voodoo Man.” We entered his “office”—as he called it—which was a hut, with a square framed doorway lined with human skulls that looked like a no frills mine shaft leading into a catacomb. The standing air inside was stiff, musky, and moist. The walls of the inner chamber were filled with the dried heads of dogs, monkeys, birds, snakes, and every imaginable living thing you could think of. You could almost hear the animal sounds echo from the clay walls. Uncle Koffi gasped at the abundance of spirits filling this hovel. I did not share his sense of wonder. I joked to myself, internally, that this was, ‘The Great Roadkill Emporium of Lomé.’\n\n“Here it is,” Guedenon said. His rounded jowl stubbled with patches of white, and his bald head shining from the torchlight. The basket was filled with little dried chameleons, with their helmet-shaped heads adorned with horns and bony lumps, like modern-day dinosaurs. It smelled like furry jerky, dried in the humid, tropical breeze. “Yes, yes, here we are.” After putting a handful of chameleons in a basket, Guedenon gathered a handful of dried parrots, each withered down to the size of a famished mouse. “Now. To change your luck, you will grind up the chameleon, and grind up the parrot.” Guedenon depicted the grinding while he spoke, taking up a pewter bowl and mallet to make the demonstration. The torchlight reflecting off his bald forehead. “You will mix this with soap and bathe yourself in it. Do this two times a day. Three days. Not a day more. Not a day less.”\n\nUncle Koffi tapped Guedenon on the shoulder while he looked for some other nonsense to sell us. “Did you hear about the Douleba?”\n\n“You mean about the strangers whose minds could not be read?”\n\nThey were talking about these totems at the village gates by our farm that look like men sitting cross-legged, with arms extruded, and heads of black tar, with seashells for eyes. The guardians (or Douleba) are supposed to be able to scan the minds of foreigners entering the village, to discern if they have ill-intent.\n\n“I heard that the Westerners, the lanky ones, who appeared before the blood rains—I heard that none of the priests could discern their purpose from the Douleba?” Uncle Koffi said.\n\n“It is true,” Guedenon told him.\n\nI wanted to scream. They are red aliens, you moron! No one knows what they want. But I couldn’t say anything, or I’d be committed.\n\nI was the only one who could see them.\n\nEver since I was a child.\n\nI had been hiking on Mt. Agou, exploring its ridges, when I saw a light in the mist and stumbled upon their cliffside observatory. Normally, it was cloaked. But something about the vapors in the mist had screwed with the effect. Did something to the light. When I walked into what looked like a temple from the outside, I saw a screen wrapping around the length of the chamber in a semi-circle. Large, spindly red mantis-like creatures with four legs on their hind parts were engrossed in the readings and images on their screens, tapping a way with long bony fingers on the consoles in front of them.\n\nOne of them turned its hooded eyes and triangular face in my direction and screamed, the pincers on the sides of its mouth flaring in fright. A group of them rushed toward me. I shielded my face. But they were not violent. That was when they gave me the scarab beetle amulet that allowed me to recognize them despite their cloaking tech and explained to me about the bright blue marble we inhabit.\n\nThey said, “It is not that Earth is special. There are plenty of habitable worlds with natural wonders. It is the size of the moon that counts. Our mission is to scan the cosmos to find other worlds that can host life—other worlds with just the right size of moon.” I had pressed the aliens as to why this was the case, and they had elaborated and explained everything in great detail—but I couldn’t understand much of it. “The only worlds that host life are those worlds with a moon that is just the right size to create a total solar eclipse,” one of the red aliens said. “And once that sacred syzygy goes out of balance—or is disrupted—life moves on.”\n\nI had asked why they didn’t just place moons around any planets with the right characteristics. He said, “There is a directive against playing God. Each civilization rises and falls on its own merits. When the time comes, a people either mature and venture out from their home or are snuffed out.” It sounded dramatic, back then. But these days, I don’t know that a fair judge would deem us worthy of salvation. Least of all us Togolese—who were forever finding reasons to kill and brutalize one another.\n\nThe red aliens come from a sad, timeless dimension. Much like Togo. On their world, there are tiny microbes in the soil that cover everything in shades of red. The microbes are in the air. The soil. The water. And can lay dormant for centuries. Which is what is causing the blood rains. So much of this stuff is filtered out of the observatory that when they are here, they are literally pumping red die into the clouds day-in and day-out.\n\nIn Togo the next calamity is always waiting right around the corner. And word travels fast in Lomé. To stir people into a panic only takes the smallest of rumors. Strange lights flashing around Mt. Agou. Tall, spindly men in strange clothing loitering in the market. Match that up with omens like blood rain and a lunar eclipse and the entire populous was stewing with anxiety and murmuring up a storm. Especially Uncle Koffi. It was great for the priests. But you know what terror and intrigue is bad for? Selling vegetables. And fattening cows.\n\nAnd for all of the divination and soothsaying about how the bloodshed of decades gone by would be punished unless the land was purified—how those cries reaching to heaven would compel the almighty to blot out the sun—despite all of that, all this voodoo accomplished was to tear into old wounds and inspire fresh political violence. Everyone in the suburban villages and the slums blamed someone for their troubles and sought protection or aid from the priests.\n\nThe radicals blamed the Union Party and the rich Kabyé tribe for subjugating the masses and censoring speech. For this and for that. And prayed for their downfall. The Union Party blamed the radicals for deceiving the public with lies and doubled down on censorship. And the disputes were much the same in the suburbs. Each side thought the other evil. Each side saw the issue as one-sided. Good versus evil. In a way, each side was right, and each side was wrong.\n\nAnd our people, splintered in a thousand factions, with no unifying principal, pointed fingers at each other, much the same as our governors did, and old feuds spilled out into bloodshed.\n\nAnd Yahya had sent a man to tell Uncle Koffi he’d be coming to the ranch the next day and it was time we cleared out.\n\nI gripped the crumpled notice in a tight fist and looked up at the stranger.\n\n* * *\n\nThe red alien at my vegetable stall in the Lomé Grand Market grabbed one of my best okra plants and gave it a once over, not knowing I could see through his disguise. “How much for one of these?” he asked in French.\n\n“Why are you here?”\n\n“I am looking for vegetables to thicken a stew.”\n\n“Cut the shit,” I said. “We’ve been having blood rain for the past two months.”\n\nThe red alien laughed heartily. “It’s just from dust kicked up into the atmosphere from a dust storm.”\n\n“For two months? Dust doesn’t take two months to settle.”\n\n“Maybe it is some kind of algae, like a red tide.”\n\n“It stained all my white clothes. It burned the leaves off the trees. People are using it to tattoo skin.”\n\n“What do you think it is?”\n\n“I know what it is. Red alien bugs. What else.”\n\nHis buggy eyes bulged, and his forehead furled, then he settled into realization. “You’re her—You’re Dora Igwe—Dora the explorer—the one who found us.”\n\n“In the flesh.”\n\n“Do you want to come watch the eclipse with us?”\n\n“Why would I do that?”\n\n“It is an important celestial event.”\n\n“No disrespect. But it gets dark once a day. It’s called night. I really don’t get the novelty.”\n\n“You wouldn’t, would you. I guess it’s like the suddenness of the enveloping darkness. It is metaphorical. Sometimes, you know, it is later than you think.”\n\n“What’s that supposed to mean?”\n\n“You know, your people believe that war and bloodshed are like a virus. That it infects even the sun and the moon. And when the sun and moon get to quarreling, that brings about the eclipse. A final warning to change your ways.”\n\n“Those are just Batammaliba folk stories.”\n\n“They say the first mothers, Puka Puka and Kuiyecoke, told the villagers that the darkening of the sun was a warning to make amends for old feuds and live in peace, and the light will return.”\n\n“You are a spacefaring team of scientific explorers. You know this is an astrological, mathematical event. It has nothing to do with violence.”\n\n“Don’t be so sure, child. There is much you do not understand.”\n\nAs the red alien turned and walked up the long dusty road to the forest switchbacks, he turned and said, “Come watch with us, if you want.”\n\n* * *\n\nIn the observatory, we waited for the eclipse. The red aliens were frantic. The one from earlier, who I’d nicknamed Tommy took the controls and lifted the ship to a hover.\n\n“We’ve got to find a better vantage point,” he said.\n\nAs the ship floated through the Tongolese countryside outside Lomé, I could feel the eerie shadow chasing us down. The sky was full of fast moving clouds, and a low mist hung to the valley floor, slinking down the mountain slopes and resting on the fields.\n\nThe ship came to rest in Yahya’s grazing lands. And the moon obstructed the sun. The red aliens gasped, with a sound like the whistling of the wind. Like I said, though, I’m not superstitious. The whole thing seemed a bit overblown to me.\n\nBut there it was, the total eclipse. A black orb with the faintest halo of red, set against a black overcast and moonless sky.\n\nTommy turned to another red alien, who I’d known for years, and had nicknamed Freddie, and said, “The satellite has started moving too close, it is only a matter of time now.”\n\n“Isn’t everything?” Freddie asked.\n\n“Hey, what is he talking about?” I asked.\n\n“Don’t you worry child,” Freddie said. “When the time has come, it will all happen very quickly.”\n\n“She doesn’t know we are here for the moon,” Tommy blurted out.\n\n“It is just the right size for the colony in HD 110067,” Freddie said.\n\nFreddie made a gesture to shush him. But it was too late. I had heard it. So, for all our worries about our Earthly disputes, this was what the end of the world looked like. At least I wouldn’t end up being homeless. That had been the thought I’d been obsessing over for days.\n\nI went to look out the back window, and it was just like Freddie had said. It was coming quickly.\n\nYahya was in the cab rolling the excavator toward the ship and the dipper and bucket were swinging down and about to crash through the ceiling.\n\nThe sound was deafening. Shards of metal and other materials rained down. Wires and diodes and mechanical pieces pelted our heads and the ground. The red aliens shrieked. Tommy was holding Freddie like a kid in a theater caught with an unexpected jump scare.\n\nI ran out in the fields, under the dark, moonless sky. Yahya raised the bucket over and over, caving in the roof of the ship and tearing huge chunks of the fuselage out into his fields. Yhaya was smoking a Cuban cigar, and I could hear him yelling, “Serves you right. Trespassers.”\n\nI guess a similar thing would happen soon to our ranch house, in the family for five generations. Maybe the barn too. That seemed to be the way of things, to tear down the old to make way for the new. Especially here in Togo.\n\nTommy made it out of the ship only to be met by the blast of a shotgun. “Got one,” Yahya shouted.\n\nI just watched, frozen. The blast tore Tommy’s torso nearly in half, felling him. The blood poured and oozed out onto the dark fields. The pool of blood was red, just like ours. I guess however different we are on the outside, maybe all living things bleed red. We are a thirsty bunch, the living, hungering after that red nectar. To stir it. To shed it. To pool it and collect it.\n\nThen Yahya turned to me and pointed the shotgun at my face. “Run,” he said. “Get off my land.” And I ran. Through the pitch dark fields. In the cool of the eclipse. Crying as I waited for a gun shot that never came.\n\nYahya yelled after me, “Enjoy your home, while you can. I’ll be coming for it.” And he laughed. A bellowing stomach laugh. An eerie, chortling, bone-chilling laugh. Inevitable. Unquenchable. Soulless.\n\nAnd as I ran, tripping on rocks. Legs cut by tall grasses. I saw sirens in the night. At least twelve SUVs. The Gendarmerie Nationales—the National Guard. They were coming for Yahya. Alerted by the gunshots and the carnage.\n\nA tall, friendly Fed with a pockmarked face jumped out of one of the vehicles and tried to grab me. “It’s okay, now. We’ve got this,” he said, but I wrestled away from him.\n\nAs I made it to the clearing and the dirt road, I dared a glance back at the haloed specter of the eclipse. I hoped Uncle Koffi would be back at the kitchen table, waiting for me with some vegetable soup. Blissfully impervious to the warring entities ravaging our lands.\n\nThe blood rains fell in a torrent. Coating the dirt road in a river of blood.\n\nI guess not all monsters are created equal.\n\nOurs take life without reason or remorse—just because they can.\n\nA sliver of light emerged from the fading eclipse as I reached the drive to the ranch house.\n\nLighting my path. Warming the shadows.\n\nUncle Koffi was at the door, the smell of the fetish soap on his skin.\n\n“Our luck is changing,” he said."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: False Gods\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2998\n\nPrompt:\n\nImagine an origin myth that somebody might use to explain an eclipse, or some other celestial event."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The ship’s log would state that Captain John Tanner was the first to set foot on the newly discovered lands. This was not the case. Tanner was a shrewd and sometimes cunning man. He prioritised survival over the flim-flam of bravery, chivalry and honour. He had a head on him and he used it. His crew, those who were lucky enough to live through the depravations of numerous long and treacherous voyages, would have likely referred to him as dependable. The word would be qualified, but not expanded upon. Not that anyone would have asked the opinions of the braggards and criminals conscripted into the navy, they were mindless scum and barely fit to be sailors.\nThe voyage to these unchartered lands had seen two in every ten of the crew expire. Most of those deaths had occurred in the weeks preceding landfall. Scurvy took many a sailor and although there were clever minds seeking to address this economic issue, their discoveries were thwarted by the thick and choking gases of ignorance. The establishment of facts has always been a tricky business, in a world where opinions and beliefs rule.\nFrom the outset, it was clear that these lands were inhabited. The signs were there, but most of all, the men could feel scrutinising eyes upon them and so precautions were taken. Muskets were loaded and knives and swords delicately and covertly brandished. There was no way of establishing whether the natives were friendly. Everything would ride on the first encounter. Those tasked with first contact were well aware that the guns of the Albatross were trained on the beach and the treeline beyond. This was cold comfort. Cannon balls cared not as to whether they met friend or foe.\nThe interlopers landed on the sandy shore and dragged their boats out of the lapping waters. Once this work was completed, they formed a line and waited. The wait was tortuous, even for the sailors watching from the comparative safety of the Albatross. Not all the men were friends. There were conflicts and disagreements aplenty, even before a word was said and some of those would never be resolved, such was the nature of men. Nonetheless, there was a bond they shared. They were one and they were about to face outsiders. The desired outcome was one of triumph and conquest. The empty hold of the Albatross could not remain so, and the prospect of leaving these lands empty handed carried with it a bleakness that spoke of death sentences for many, if not all of them.\nThe natives were in no rush to make themselves known. Their absence, and the pregnant silence that accompanied it, carried a warning far more intimidating than war drums. Everything could turn in a moment and even the comparative safety of the big ship could not stave off the growing anticipatory fear of the unknown lurking beyond the treeline.\nWhen the warriors of the tribe stepped forward, it was something of an anti-climax. The men were fierce and self-evidently strong, but they carried with them primitive weapons and they stood a full foot shorter than the swarthy sailors. Any fight would be one-sided. Simple lambs to a beachfront slaughter.\nThe two rows of men faced each other, sizing each other up. Any apparent deadlock was avoided then the largest of the natives lowered his head to listen to words from a wizened, dishevelled and strangely garbed man at his side. Having considered these words he nodded, raised his spear above his head and spoke a few words. In response his warriors lowered their weapons and he and his old companion stepped forth.\nFrampton, Tanner’s second in command, also stepped forward. With him was Baker, the ship’s cook. Baker had been lumbered with cooking duties when the original ship’s cook was taken a hold of by melancholy, stole a sizeable quantity of the ship’s rum and jumped overboard one evening three months back. Despite his lacklustre culinary skills, Baker had a way with languages that leant itself well to this encounter. He was also a head taller than Frampton, making up for the officer’s slight build and timid demeanour.\nWords were exchanged and gestures made. It was apparent to all who witnessed it that the natives were curious and rendered friendly in their curiosity. All was well and before the sun had fallen in the sky, a second group of sailors had disembarked and the visitors were treated to a welcome feast.\nWithin a week of the Albatross’s arrival, a series of deals had been made and these included agreements for future trade. The tribe had accumulated a sizeable pile of animal furs that would fetch a good price back home. They sold these cheaply, exchanging them for a small number of useful tools that fascinated them so deeply, the crew suspected that they would become items of worship and never see another day’s work.\nWhen it came time for the Albatross to leave, there was an impasse with regard to the level of provisions the natives were willing to part with. No deal could be reached here because, as the chief of the tribe explained with a series of gestures and lines drawn in the dirt, Winter was approaching and many of the tribe would starve to death were they to part with such a large proportion of the food they had put aside so they could last out past the thaw.\nDispleased with the prospect of inadequate rations for the voyage home, Tanner took himself off to the Albatross. There, awaiting him on deck was Frampton. Without a word, Tanner bid his number two accompany him to his quarters. Tanner had a look about him that would not be denied and Frampton fancied there was murderous intent in the eyes of his captain. He shivered with a premonition of bloodshed as he trotted along behind him.\nWith the door shut, Tanner indulged in the unexpected, pouring Frampton and himself generous measures of rum. He downed his first glass and refilled it before handing Frampton his rum. Frampton raised his glass as a prelude to sipping delicately at the rough and burning liquid. His eyes watered and he fought the urge to gag. \nTanner eyed his man thoughtfully, “there is a solar eclipse the day after tomorrow, is there not?”\nFrampton, resisted the temptation to nod agreement thoughtlessly. Whereas it was wise to defer and please his captain, getting anything wrong could cost lives, his own included, “Higgins has spoken of such.” He thought for a moment, “I asked if it was to be a partial eclipse, but he was adamant that this one would blot out the sun in its entirety.”\nThe captain nodded and smiled a sly smile, “then we will use this to our advantage.”\nFrampton nodded, said nothing. He knew better than to question the captain. The atmosphere in the cabin then drooped and gave itself over to an ominous quiet. This was how Tanner dismissed his men. Frampton gazed down into his glass of rum sorrowfully. Damnation lay below the surface of that cloudy liquid, and it also stood above it. He could not leave his drink, that would not do. He stifled a sigh as he brought the liquid up to his lips and poured it in its entirety into his mouth. He held it there for a moment and almost choked as he sent it on its way.\nThat evening, Tanner dined with the chief. In attendance was the old man who seemingly never left the chief’s side. Tanner did not like that man. He was filthy and smelt, but there was also something knowing about him. Tanner had caught him staring on more than one occasion and the man never averted his eyes. He had no sense of decorum or shame even, and those staring eyes went right into the very centre of Tanner as though the old man were reading the truth of his very soul.\nAs had been the case from the very first day, Tanner was accompanied by both Frampton and Baker. Had Baker been a gentleman, Tanner would have preferred him as his second in command. Sometimes, Tanner found himself at odds with the notion of birth-rights. Frampton may have been born of a gentleman, but he lacked most, if not all of what it took to be one. \nThe group sat around a fire and having eaten, they smoked their pipes. An agreeable activity that aided digestion. Tanner was the first to break the silence, parting the aromatic smoke with his words.\n“We need those provisions,” he said tersely.\nHis meaning was clear and there was no need to interpret his words.\nThe chief shook his head. Whatever he said equated to a single word; impossible.\n“Our gods will it,” Tanner stated.\nBaker stutter-spoke in tracts of the native language and used hand gestures to help convey meaning.\nThe old man shook his head and smiled. Tanner suppressed his own smile. He had anticipated this. In fact, the old man had inspired his plan. Moreover, the plan had the added bonus of Tanner settling the score with him and addressing Tanner’s dislike of the grubby and insolent thing that dared seat itself before him.\n“If you do not acquiesce to our requests for food,” Tanner said across the fire, “our gods will blot out the sun to show you their displeasure. This will be a warning that you would be foolhardy not to heed as our gods are all powerful and they will not be denied.”\nHe placed increasing emphasis on each word and when finished he nonchalantly brought his pipe to his mouth and relaxed into his smoking. His point had been made and he effected an air of detachment, even as he studied the response his words would have as Baker relayed them.\nHe was rewarded with looks of shock and of fear. The old man babbled words into the chief’s ear. Tanner looked askance towards Baker, but the man only shrugged in reply. But then Tanner knew all he needed to as the old man skuttled off, giving the captain a swift, churlish backward glance before opening the flap of the tent and retreating into the night. Victory was Tanner’s, and now he revelled in the old man’s defeat.\nThe chief spoke briefly, and then he too left his own tent.\n“What did he say?” Tanner asked Baker.\n“They want to see just how powerful our gods are, sir.”\n“Then they will,” replied Tanner before rising and returning to the Albatross.\nThe following day, the entire ship’s crew formed on the beach and as the time of the eclipse approached Tanner gave forth a rousing speech. His timing was impeccable. Just prior to the moon drifting across the sun he raised his arm theatrically and bellowed “Behold!”\nThe men fell into an awed hush. Sailors are a superstitious lot. The sea is a cruel mistress and they do their very best not to displease her. There were many signs of the cross and whispered prayers as day fell to an unnatural and unwelcome darkness. \nDisconcertingly, as the last of the sun succumbed to the shadow of the moon, the tribesmen broke into an unholy hullabaloo. They wailed and they screamed and they danced around small fires waving torches as they jigged this way and that.\n“They’ve lost their minds!” exclaimed Frampton.\n“Wouldn’t you in the circumstances?” replied Tanner.\n“Well, yes. Quite,” said Frampton, but he was taken with a notion that did not quite fit with the captain’s plan and would have voiced that notion had he had the good fortune to spot the look on the old man’s face in that very moment.\nAs the light of the sun returned, the chief approached Tanner and bowed. In his hands he held a ceremonial pipe. This he offered to Tanner whilst remaining in a pose of supplication and humility.\nTanner took it from him and gave thanks.\nThe chief spoke.\n“What did he say?” Tanner asked Baker.\n“They want to hold a feast in your honour,” Baker told him.\nTanner nodded, the tide was turning. His plan had worked. These primitive natives now believed that Tanner’s gods had the power to turn out the light of the sun. He cast an eye around for the old man, but was deprived of the sight of him. He smiled at the thought of the defeated old man skulking off in the aftermath of his defeat. Good riddance to him. He was nothing to Tanner now. A busted flush.\nIn a matter of minutes a procession of tribesmen returned with food. Pride of place was a roasted bull, the sight of which prompted a cheer from the crew of the Albatross. The prospect of a fresh cooked meal was always welcome, more so when the men knew they were about to embark upon the return journey home. A journey that would necessitate many hardships, including the consumption of food not fit to grace the trough of a hog.\nAs the light of the day waned, gourds were produced as though from nowhere. \n“Seems they want to toast our gods,” smiled Tanner as he clapped Frampton on the back, “tomorrow we will take our provisions and leave this place. We will return home and we will both be men of means.”\nThe gourds were passed around from native to sailor and there was much coughing and spluttering as the coarse spirit was downed by the sailors. It seemed that even the most hardened rum drinker found this native delicacy to be potent and none quaffed it with any semblance of ease. The tribesmen however had no such trouble.\nThe chief handed Tanner an ornate gourd and urged him to drink. Tanner looked about him as a sudden quiet descended upon the assembled party. Solemnly, he raised the drinking vessel and made a point of drinking well from it. Try as he might, he could not hold his composure and he coughed and spluttered as though his chest would burst. The sailors gave forth with a loud and raucous roar of appreciation of their captain and through tear filled eyes he saw his men beaming at him. In that moment he experienced a feeling of companionship like no other. He wanted to capture that feeling and hold onto it for as long as he possibly could, and so as it dissolved all too soon, he experienced a crushing sense of loss.\nIn that fugue of loss the old man appeared and with him he brought an inexplicable feeling of dread, even before he smiled a sickening smile at Tanner. Something was very wrong here. So very wrong. \n“Something is afoot,” Tanner said the words but they stretched and contorted and made no sense as they tumbled from his gummy mouth. He raised a hand to his lips as though to make sense of what was happening, “Frampton?” he said with a milky meekness that shamed him.\nIt was with much labour and strife that he manoeuvred himself into a position to view his number two. What he saw undid him further. The man was there, but he was not there. He was taken with a vacancy that horrified Tanner. He tried to distance himself from the absence of the man, but his limbs no longer obeyed him. There was commotion about him, but he could make no sense of it. The world was slowing to a stop and in the moment that it ceased all motion, a moon eclipsed the light of the dying sun. It was the pockmarked face of the old man, and now, as this man spoke, Tanner understood every word.\nOur gods are strong and they are knowing.\nWith the only movement left available to him, Tanner fell backwards so that he was lying on the sands of the beach, staring upwards into the heavens. With unblinking eyes he bore witness. He bore witness as the earth began moving backwards. He felt the movement underneath him and then it crept inside of him and possessed him. \nHe sensed the approaching darkness more than saw it and he understood what it meant even before the sun was blotted out once again. He had lied in an attempt to gain what he thought he had an absolute right to. He had committed heresy and demanded the sacrifice of these people. Now they and their gods would make him and his crew pay for those lies and that heresy. There would be a sacrifice, but it would not be the natives of this land who gave their lives, it would be the entire crew of the Albatross.\nWhen the moon face of the old man loomed over him one last time, it was not his face that Tanner observed but the wicked blade that he gleefully brandished. His fears of a cut throat were unfounded though, the old man would afford him no such mercy. His gods demanded a much higher price than that and he would exact it with zealous fervour. \nAlthough numbed by the liquid he had been invited to drink, the pain he experienced at the hands of the old man was amplified a thousand fold. Before his mind eventually broke and turned in on itself, he found himself wondering how it was that they had all drunk the same poison and yet the tribesmen had not been affected.\nThe answer came to him before the darkness of the second eclipse fell upon the land. Their gods demanded a sacrifice and those gods would choose who lived and who died via the imbibement of that magical and holy liquid. He felt it inside him now. Invading and manipulating him. Consuming him from within. Tendrils slipping upwards into his brain and playing with his thoughts and memories until they crashed into each other in a chorus of exquisite pain and madness.\nAnd then the sun was no more."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The Old Trunk\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1223\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who sees a photo they shouldn’t have seen."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "My mom passed away last month. We all suspected it was because of a heart attack, though none of us could say for certain that that was how she died; she simply passed away, as if all of her at once had just shut down. It was like her soul had decided to just move on, and that was that.\n My dad hadn’t been in the picture since I was little, so my mom’s property had been left to me in her will. I started clearing out the place, finding things I would want to keep and other things that would be better off given to Goodwill. I recently finished up with her shed when I decided next I would clear out the attic and just work my way down through the house. While up there I found pretty much anything one would expect when thinking of an older woman’s attic –dilapidated mannequins that held old pieces of clothing, stacks of cardboard boxes strewed around everywhere, and small knickknacks and curios like a cracked pair of glasses or a ballerina figurine whose meanings and nostalgic purposes have faded in time. I admit the curiosity and lost memories of these last few items tug at my heart for reasons I couldn’t fully describe, but otherwise, I found this to be tedious, boring work.\n That was until when I pushed a few more overly-packed cardboard boxes to the side and I came upon a dusty lockbox with a heavy padlock keeping it latched shut. What I initially found curious about this was how thick the lock was to keep such a simple-looking box sealed. Then I noticed the dust wasn’t as thick in very distinct lines marking the lid of the trunk, as well as the padlock. I realized these marks were those of fingers as if someone not too long ago had opened the trunk and looked inside. The only person who that would be, of course, would’ve been my mother. It quickly became important to me that I see what was inside this trunk – what was so important inside that my mom had to look inside so soon before her passing?\n I dragged the locker downstairs and sat it on the table. I dug through my mom’s room trying to find the key for that ancient lock. I tore through dresser drawers and rifled through coat pockets in the closet. With a heavy sigh, I dropped on the bed. When I did so, I heard a faint, metallic clang. I lifted the mattress and sure enough there was the key, lying against the bedframe's metal lining. I rushed downstairs with the key clutched tight in my fist, and unlocked the footlocker with such a feverous excitement the likes of which I haven’t felt since I was a child on Christmas. It was such a bright curiosity I had to see the contents of this box that my fingers were visibly trembling.\n When I opened the lid, my heart sank. Not in a dejected way, but in a sort of relaxed, “of course” kind of way. Inside the box were no secret jewels or ancient gold, but photographs, dozens of photographs. I smiled, and I felt my eyes getting wet. Of course, somehow my mother knew her time was close, and she decided with her limited time that she was to look in this old chest for the richest treasure of memories. I scooped them up carefully as if I were picking up a newborn puppy. I found old photos of my grandpa holding me as a baby. There were pictures of my grandma and her friends, and my uncle doing a stereotypical uncle-face at the camera.\n I came upon a photograph of my mom, she was young – maybe eleven or twelve years old. My smile deepened as I looked at how little she was standing in her room with a wide grin on her face, blissfully unaware of the future. Then I saw a weird stain on the picture, a smudge on the corner of the ceiling that looked like a frenzied silhouette of a man looking downward at my mother. I set the photo down and looked at the next one, and I frowned. It was another picture of my mom. She was about sixteen in this picture as she sat on a park bench, and there was that same shadow. It loomed over her on the park bench as if it were trying to look at something in her lap. I shuffled through the pictures, my frown deepening as I did so.\n In each of the pictures of my mother I looked at, each one she was a little older, and that shadow a little closer.\n Here is a photograph of my mother with her arms wrapped around me on my sixth birthday, and the shadow in the picture – this twisted visitor – squeezed its too-long fingers over my mom’s shoulders as it looked down at me from behind her. Its eyes had become visible now, two orbs of deep red glowering down at me from its perch on my mother’s shoulders.\n This last one was the final straw for me. The initial tremor in my hands from the excitement of opening the box had turned to quaking shivers that ran up and down my body as if I were sitting on a waterbed filled with needles. My spine felt contorted and awkward in my discomforting anxiety. I know what some of you might be thinking, reading this – some people enjoy ideas of the supernatural and the macabre. But I refuse to believe in something like that, in monsters who lurk in the unseen. The ghoulish visitor who seemingly stalked my mother for her whole life in these photos was nothing more than lens flares, spilled coffee stains, and practical jokes, and I wasn’t going to let this be something get to me; I wasn’t going to let something so trivial as a boogeyman disturb me like this. I took the stack of photographs – regardless of whether or not they had the creature over my mother pictured – and tossed them in the fireplace. I know it was a trick of my overworked imagination, but for a split second, I thought I saw an impassioned shadow of a disproportionate man reach up from the smoldering film.\n I finished my work on the house for the day and laid down in my bed. Throughout most of the day, I had managed to shove the idea of that apparition in the photos out of my mind, though now that I lay here, the dim glow of the outside streetlights piercing in, I felt my mind reaching towards it again. I did my best to shove the idea out of my mind, to ignore it all. Yet there was now a question brewing in my mind and trying to escape from my lips. It was a question that felt important – gravely important – whose answer I knew would be detrimental to the remainder of my life, however much longer that may be. As I kept my eyes locked open and looking upward, this question ran laps around my mind like a frenzied creature locked in the gaze of a predator.\nWhat is that fucking thing on my ceiling?"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Mr. Melancholy's locked in Christmas\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1060\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character hates the holidays, and jets out of town every year — but a historic snow storm means that this time, they can’t make their escape."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Mr. Melancholy always gets sad at this time of year. He lives in the town of ‘Gum Drop Lane,’ where there is not a drop of sunlight from at least ten miles from there. The only seasons that the town experiences are Kerensa and Lucia, which means cold and freezing! This makes the town's citizens very crabby and short-tempered. And Mr. Melancholy is the grumpiest of all. \n On one dark and cold evening, Mr. Melancholy is walking up his wooden stairs, and he starts to hear a creak-creak-creak! “What can this be?” he says. “This house is as rotten and as old as this very town,” the angry old man goes. The ground abruptly shakes, and Mr. Melancholy finds himself on the ground of his patio. The man has lived in this house for fifty years, and in all these years his house has never needed repairing. \n With all his anger and mite, the old man stands up from the ground and marches to his car door. Stomp-stomp-stomp-slam! He is inside his car ready to escape this town because he has had enough of today's antics. One bad moment has ruined this old grumpy old man’s day. He heads North towards Sugar-Cane Lane and takes a right on Snow Street. Up ahead is a preppy young man dressed in red and white. \n The man stops him, and the old man lowers his window. “Where are you headed?!,” the young man says with a smile. “Well, if you can excuse me, anywhere but here! I hate this town! the old man says. Dropping his smile, the young man gives a disappointed look. “I can’t let you do that,” he says. The old man frowns so hard that his face becomes wrinkly. \n “And why is that” the old man says. “The weather is awfully bad beyond this point. There is a snowstorm coming our way. I will need you to start heading back,” the young man says. Without giving it a second thought, the old man quickly turns the other way heading back home. “Gum Drop Lane isn’t that bad!” the young man shouts. \n The old man groans and closes his window shut. As he approaches his house he stares at the broken wood on the ground. He thinks of what to do next because he does not like to be bothered by people. It is beginning to become darker outside, so Mr. Melancholy goes into his house, avoiding the broken steps, so he can rest. \n In the morning he is awakened by a knock on his door. He comes downstairs, looks through the peephole, and quickly realizes it is the young man who did not let him leave town. He slowly and hesitantly opens the door and speaks in a low and intimidating tone. “You already ruined my Christmas by not letting me leave, what more can you want”? The old man says. \n “Nothing sir, honest! I just realized your staircase was broken Mr. Melancholy sir.” The young man says. “How did you find me? Did you follow me here?! And how do you even know my name.” The old man says. “No need to worry about the details, it is the holidays. I just want to be of help. You seem terribly upset, and I did not mean to make you feel this way.” The young man explains. \n “Well, you can help me by going away.” The old man says. In disbelief the young man stands there as the old man shuts the door. As the old man walks into the house his ceiling falls on to the ground, right Infront of his face. As angry as Mr. Melancholy is he opens his door, notices the young man is still standing outside, and lets him in. The young man smiles, and it is brighter than anything has ever shined on Candy Cane Lane. \n Mr. Melancholy skeptically looks at him and crosses his arms. As the young man explains to the old man how he will fix his staircase, they both hear a faint knock on the door. Mr. Melancholy does not know many people, so he wonders who it is. Not even his own neighbors knock on his door because the whole town is as mean spirited and as grumpy as he is. The young man tells Mr. Melancholy that it is a Christmas Miracle, and that his name is Nicholas. \n Nicholas heads towards the door and opens it. The faint knock on the door came with a mighty flock of people eagerly wanting to help Mr. Melancholy. One by one, then two by two, a group of thirty helping hands came in, all in support of Mr. Melancholy. First, they produced a plan to work on the stairs. They executed the plan swiftly then headed towards the ceiling. \n As fast as nobody has ever seen before, they were done before Mr. Melancholy could go upstairs to see the finished work. He had a slight grin on his face. “I am not the kindest old man, and I am sorry for that. “Why would you ever want to help someone like me?” he says. “Everyone deserves the magic of Christmas,” says Nicholas. \n “Would you like to stay for dinner everyone? Please say you will join me,” says Mr. Melancholy. As everyone around him smiles, Nicholas goes outside to bring something from his car. It is a cake! And then he goes outside to bring another item, this time it is an enormous turkey! Just like the helpers came in, they went back outside to bring items for a feast one by one, and two by two! \n Mr. Melancholy cannot believe his eyes. Not only is his house fixed, but he also does not have to be alone and grumpy. Some of the helpers are sitting at the dining room table, some are sitting in the living room, and a couple of them are standing. Nicholas, Mr. Melancholy, and all the guests join hands and give thanks. \n Mr. Melancholy looks outside and sees the snowstorm come to a halt. He also sees a bit of sun. He gives his biggest and only smile yet. “This is the best Christmas ever,\" says Mr. Melancholy. A melancholy man he is no more. The cold mixed with sun and snow created a new season in Sugar Cane Lane. From now on, they had winter!"
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: In Tents\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1404\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who sees a photo they shouldn’t have seen."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Sometime late in the night Mal wakes up. She doesn’t need to pee and she isn’t thirsty. Her pillow is wet with drool; she wipes the cheek that’s been resting on it. It is too dark to see anything, but she can hear John’s steady, sleepful breathing.\nShe checks her phone for the time, blinking sleepily at the bright light that emanates from the screen. Just past three in the morning. Brilliant. \nShe lies down, turns away from John, and unlocks her phone. Just a bit of mindless scrolling before she goes back to sleep. Her phone opens automatically to the photos app, which is slightly odd because she remembers clearing her tabs before going to bed, but she must be mistaken. She decides she’ll go through the photos from the hike they took that day.\nThe first photo is one Mal asked another hiker to take of her and John in front of the entrance to the forest. She remembers thinking he had quite a nice smile but felt awkward saying so, so she didn’t.\nFollowing that is a series of dumb selfies and areas noted as particularly compelling by Mal-standards: a creek, a view from over a wooded hill, a close up of a toad, and a close up of a frog—although, Mal isn’t sure which photo is of a toad and which is of a frog. \nMal is caught off-guard when she reaches what she thought was the last photograph and scrolls to find another. This one is strange and, unlike the rest, not one taken by Mal herself. It couldn’t have been; it is a photograph of Mal sleeping.\nMal stares at it for several minutes that feel like hours. Is this some weird joke? She doesn’t strike this as something John would find funny, but she could be wrong. John has been acting…odd. Was it taken by accident? (Believing that would be disgracefully naive.)\nMal feels around in the darkness for John and, when she finds him, shakes him awake. He grunts and she can hear him sitting up. She waits for him to remember where and who he is before shoving the phone in his face. “What the hell?”\nMal gives John a moment to understand what he’s looking at. “What…huh?”\n“What is this?” Mal demands. “If it's a joke, it needs work.”\n“Why are you…” John grunts as he stretches. “That’s your phone.” \n“Yeah,” Mal says. “With a picture of me sleeping on it. Don’t be dumb, John. I couldn’t have taken it.” \nJohn takes a closer look. “Neither could I. I was sleeping.” His voice is deeper than it normally is, the way it gets when he’s tired.\nMall scoffs. “Yeah, okay, great excuse.”\nJohn takes the phone from her and turns it around. “No, really. You can see it right there. I couldn’t have taken it; I’m in the picture, too.”\nMal narrows her eyes as she she regards the picture a second time, then snatches it from John to get a closer look. Her eyes widen as horror grows within her. How could she have missed it before? \nSure enough, next to Mal’s sleeping form is John’s. He’s turned away from her and most of him is out of frame, but it is unmistakable. That is John’s ear; Mal would recognize it anywhere. It sounds stupid but after seven years together, you come to know these things about your significant other. She knows his fingers in much the same way. In a police lineup of only hands, she imagines she could pick John’s with ease. \nMal doesn’t say anything for a while. She’s thinking something, but if she says it that’ll make it real, and she doesn’t want it to be.\nIt's John who makes it real, the bastard. “Someone else was in the tent.”\n“No,” Mal says with dread, shaking her head slowly. She drops the phone in her lap and brings her hands over her face. She stares into the darkness through the gaps in her fingers. She’s glad for it; with light cometh truth. “No, that’s—”\nThey both freeze. There's rustling outside the tent. “What was that?” John whispers, and Mal hates him a little for it, the way he keeps forcing reality upon her. \nThe rustling sounds close, maybe several feet away. “A deer,” Mal whispers. \nThe rustling grows closer until it is just outside the tent. It stops. Neither of them speak, and neither do the creatures of the forest; it seems the world has stopped to listen. There is a sound like scratching against the polyester, and Mal covers her mouth when she hears the thing on the outside fumble with the zipper. Mal is sure the following moments will be her last.\nWith glorious relief she hears the zippers lock. They’d been having trouble with the zippers since setting up; they kept getting stuck. Bless this cheap piece of junk, Mal thinks. Inside she could cartwheel, but externally she and the world remain on pause. \n“Mal?” A voice calls. “Mal, are you awake? I just went to go pee, I think the zipper’s stuck. Hey, can you hear me?”\nMal’s blood runs cold. She knows that voice: it belongs to the owner of the ears and fingers Mal knows equally well. John’s voice.\nMal cannot speak. She hears John outside the tent curse and mutter something under his breath, then shuffle away a bit. She remains still and silent, and just might've stayed like that for eternity if the phone in her lap hadn’t begun to ring.\nHand shaking, she picks it up and looks at the screen. A picture of John fills it; he is several years younger and his hair is shorter. She isn’t sure if she means to answer the phone; her hand is shaking so badly it very well could’ve been an accident. \n“Hello?” she whispers.\n“Hey,” John chuckles a bit sheepishly. “Sorry if I woke you. I left the tent to pee and can’t get it open again. Can you help me out?”\nMal’s hand is shaking so bad she nearly drops the phone, but doesn’t. John asks if everything’s alright; the question is a duet performed by the voice on the phone and the one outside the tent.\nMal finds the flashlight on her phone, but struggles to hold it steady in front of her. Instead it illuminates her lower half, and his. His. \nShe can make out a set of hands and feet aside from her own. Gently, one of the hands closes over the one Mal is using to hold the phone. He helps her lift the flashlight so it can illuminate his face, but even before she sees it she knows it won’t be John’s. She has seen his fingers and she does not recognize them.\n“Who are you?” she whispers to the man across from her. She is puzzled to find his face is strangely familiar to her, but in a way that unsettles rather than comforts. Outside, she can hear John continue to struggle with the zipper, and she wants to scream at him to run, run far away, don’t look back, but she cannot manage more than a meek exhalation under this man’s gaze.\nThe man doesn’t answer, but he smiles, and Mal can’t help but think it is a good one. An excellent one, in fact. The kind you fall for and never quite regain stature from. \nHe raises a finger that looks nothing like John’s to his grinning lips. “Shh. Don’t want your boyfriend to hear,” he whispers before slitting Mal’s throat.\nWhen John manages to get into the tent, it is completely dark. He is annoyed and confused. He saw Mal’s flashlight go on and she answered her phone. He wonders if she’s playing a weird prank on him, but that isn’t like her. He prays she hasn’t come across the black velvet box, but he can’t imagine any good reason Mal would have for rummaging through the box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies he has hidden the ring in; Mal is vegan. He figures she was probably half-asleep when he called her and not fully awake when she answered. Despite his mild irritation he finds her form in the darkness and settles into it, curling his shape around hers and drawing her closer to him. He smiles. Mal must be drooling in her sleep again. She’s all wet and sticky."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Can You See the Color?\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1217\n\nPrompt:\n\nCenter your story around a photo that goes viral."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I wake with a jolt as my TV blares the jarring tone of the Emergency Alert System. Still half asleep, I get myself out of bed and trudge into the living room. It’s only four thirty in the morning.\nThe screen cycles through the same message over and over: THIS IS A NATIONAL ALERT. DO NOT LOOK AT VIRAL PHOTO IN CIRCULATION. EXPOSURE TO VISUALS MAY RESULT IN PHYSICAL HARM.\nViral photo? I don’t know what it’s talking about. Is something going around on social media?\nCuriosity getting the better of me, I grab my phone off my bedside table and am about to open instagram, but my text and call notifications catch my eye first.\n\nGraham: Bro did you see it?\nMissed call from Dad.\nNick: Have you been on twitter? I want to look so bad.\nMom: Honey please don’t look at the photo. I know it’s tempting. Dad and I are scared.\nAlyssa: Fam are u alright?\nMissed call from Dad.\nJamie: Did you get the alert? I haven’t looked.\nAvery: Are you awake? Call me.\n\nAvery is my girlfriend. I should call her. But I still haven't even wrapped my head around what's going on.\nI exit my messages and hover over the Instagram app, but something stops me from tapping. A nagging fear in the back of my mind. I turn to my internet browser instead. Type: “viral photo national alert” into the search bar.\nA flood of articles populate.\nAll posted within minutes of each other.\nAll within the last hour.\nCryptic headlines.\nVIRAL PHOTO: IS THIS THE END?\nCan Looks kill?\nAI Generated Image Linked to Deaths Across the Nation.\n\nDad calls me again. I swipe it away.\n\nCan You See the Color?\nNew Colors End Brain Activity in Many.\nArtificial Intelligence Generates New Color.\n\nAnother text from Avery comes in: Please call me when you’re awake. Don’t go online.\n\nWARNING: Content May Be Disturbing to Some Viewers.\nGeneral Public Urged to Stay Offline After Viral Photo Leads to Instant Death for Many.\n\nMy throat tightens as my scrolling speed slows. Should I be online at all? Is this safe?\nBut is what safe?\nWhat is this photo?\nHow could an image possibly kill?\nThe last link I allow myself to scroll over is for a website titled canyouseethecolor.com.\nLike an idiot, I click the link. There is no photo on the homepage. Just a block of text in large font:\n\nThis website is a chat forum to discuss the image that AI generated on April 6th 2024. This site does not have the function to upload or share photos in any capacity, making it a safe space for discussion without running the risk of viewing harmful content.\nMy heart is racing now. My hand shakes as I tap the “Enter Chat” button.\n\nInstantly, a stream of comments wash over my screen.\n\nUser3278: DONT LOOK AT THE PICTURE GUYS\nUser3257: Is this a joke?\nUser6832: My sister was convulsing on the floor after she saw.\nUser9763: im so scared\nUser5129: Its so beautiful you have to look\nUser6822: I can see the color\nUser3456: You have to see the color guys\nUser8825: This isn’t real\nUser1744 Y’all are crazy\nUser7629: How can new colors exist\nUser8240: YOU HAVE TO SEE ITTTT\nUser0209: Take the chance it's worth it trust me\nUser1082 I cried when I saw the color \nUser1009: Cant shrimp see like 400 colors?\nUser5485: My dad is dead\nUser3674: I showed my dog to test it and he’s fine\nUser2333: Please dont look this is going to kill you\nUser5583 Your brain cant handle this morons\nUser0226: LOOK!!!\nUser5392: I heard blood was coming out of someone’s eyes\nUser3294: Just google the picture its cool\nUser2404: This is a gift from god\nUser7377: If a color kills you you be weak as hell\nUser1482: How many of you can see it im scared to look\n\nIncoming call from Avery.\n“Hello?” My voice is shaking.\n“Oh my god, Jake I was worried you had looked.\n“No. No, I just woke up a few minutes ago. I’ve been reading-“\n“Stop reading.”\n“I haven’t seen the picture.”\n“I don’t care, you might come across it. Get off the internet.”\n“Jesus, Ave, It’s okay. I’m on some chat site about it.”\n“You know this thing is killing people.”\n“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve heard.” We’re both quiet for a moment. I feel like I can hear her heartbeat through the phone. “Why are people talking about colors?” I ask.\n“Jake-”\n“A bunch of people are saying they see the color. And that it’s this beautiful thing.”\n“It’s not beautiful. It’s death.”\n“Is it death for everyone?”\nSilence again. I hear the birds starting to chirp outside. The hum of the fridge sounds louder than usual.\n“You can’t look at it, Jake.” Her voice is insistent. Harsh. It waivers on my name.\n“Are you not curious?” I ask her.\n“Of course I’m curious, but it’s not worth it if it’s the last thing we ever get to be curious about.”\n“What would a new color even look like? Like is it outside of the known rainbow?”\n“Is that what people are saying? That it’s a new color?”\n“I think so. The headlines were saying something about AI making a photo with a color that’s never been seen before.”\n“That’s impossible. The amount of cones in our eyes- We’re only programmed to see a certain number of colors.”\n“Maybe some of us are programmed to see more.”\n“But more should already exist all around us that we can’t see. It’s one thing to be unable to see a color. It’s another to be able to make one.”\nThe curiosity is gnawing at me. “I want to see it,” I say, slowly.\n“Jake, you might not be able to handle it.”\n“But what if I can?”\n“What if you die?”\nI pull the phone away from my face and put her on speaker, returning to the chat room feed.\n\nUser3466: it’s unbelievable\nUser6271: This color is insane idk what everyone’s so worried about\nUser7138: #teamdidntdie\nUser3394: Dont look at the color\nUser3454: Get off the internet\nUser8861: This is my new favorite color\nUser1151: This is so dangerous guys\nUser0720: LOOK I DARE YOU\n\n“Jake.”\nI’m hovering over instagram again now.\n“Jake, don’t be stupid.”\nI tap the application.\nIt’s the first photo I see.\nThe effect is instant.\n“Where did you go?” The fear in her voice pains me. I know I’m scaring her. But the visual euphoria that’s hitting me overpowers everything she’s saying.\n“I can see the color,” I tell her.\nIt’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.\n“You looked?” Her voice is small and still. “You’re… you’re okay?”\n“It’s incredible.”\nThose are the only two words I can manage. I can’t describe it. I don’t know how to put what I’m seeing, what I’m feeling, into words.\nTears well in my eyes.\nMy hand reaches up to wipe them.\nMy fingers come away red.\nRed.\nBlood.\n“It’s incredible,” I repeat.\nThe blood is dripping down my cheeks. I’ve never been overcome with joy like this before.\nI return to the chatroom, tap the message box, write: I can see the color. It’s incredible.\nSend.\nIt’s beautiful. It’s beautiful. Then it’s all black."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Giving her back Christmas\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2702\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone looking out the window and seeing the first snowfall of the season."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "As the first flakes of snow of the season began to fall, Allyson Hardy stood at the large picture window of her living room. She sipped at her espresso as the large white flakes brightly contrasted from the brown leaves that scattered her front lawn.\nA disgruntled scowl creased her brow not only at the falling snow, but at the fact that her Uber driver was nearly ten minutes late. Three large suitcases stood in the middle of the living room behind her. She had so wanted to be well on her way before this nastiness had started.\nWith a heavy, angry sigh, Allyson took a sip of her espresso.\nAs she lowered the tiny espresso cup from her lips, she saw that a car was pulling up her drive. It was a light blue car, dotted with rust spots, a large cloud of white smoke billowing out from the back of the car, and driving far too fast up her drive.\nShe stared wide eyed as the car came to a screeching halt at her door.\nOnce the car had come to a complete stop, the driver got out. The first thing she noticed was his thick, light green tattered coat and messy hair. As he walked around the front of the car and got closer to the house, she could see the growth of stubble on his cheeks.\nAllyson was immediately put off by the man’s looks, but it was only fifteen to twenty miles to the airport and she would be in the back seat the whole way. The discomfort of riding with this disheveled man for twenty to thirty minutes sure beat the misery of spending the next three days in the snowy weather dealing with all the “Christmas cheer”.\nThe man disappeared from view of the large picture window and the door bell rang out a few moments later.\nAllyson quickly went to the door and opened it.\n“I am so sorry I’m late,” the man said before the door was completely open. “I got a flat on my way here,” he finished once the door was opened.\n“It’s fine,” Allyson said. “My bags are right there,” she said stepping aside and motioning towards the suitcases in the middle of the living room.\n“Ok,” the man said stepping inside not looking to Allyson. “That’s some storm that’s coming in,” he said as he made his way to the suitcases.\nAllyson didn’t say a word.\n“Not to worry though,” he continued. “I’m sure your plane will leave on time.”\nThe man reached the suitcases and looked around the living room for the first time, noticing that there was no decorations anywhere in the house.\n“No decorations?” He asked. “You do realize Christmas is in three days right?”\n“Not that it’s any of your business,” Allyson said with a bit of snappishness. “But I’m not even going to be here, so what’s the sense.”\n“That’s true,” the man said and gave a smile. “I forgot.”\nHe bent to pick the suitcases up. “My name is Tyler, by the way.”\n“Allyson,” Allyson sighed impatiently.\nThe man looked to her, still bent over the suitcases. “Allyson Hardy?”\n“Yes,” Allyson answered, the impatient look replaced with puzzlement.\n“Tyler Gibbs,” the man said standing straight again. “We went to high school together.”\n“We did?” Allyson asked.\n“Yeah,” Tyler said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t remember me. You miss popular and prom queen, while I was the kid who hid in the back row and kept to myself.”\n“That was a long time ago,” Allyson said. “I’m not trying to rush you but, we really need to be going.”\n“Of course,” Tyler said and gave her a smile before bending over and picking the suitcases up off the living room floor. He struggled to get all three but he awkwardly lifted all three off the floor and carried them to the door. As he carried them out and to the car, Allyson followed close behind.\nAt the car, Tyler opened the back door and started loading the suitcases in the backseat.\n“Aren’t you going to put them in the trunk?” Allyson asked.\n“No room,” Tyler answered keeping his attention on loading the suitcases in the backseat. “The flat tire is in the trunk.”\n“Where am I supposed to sit?” Allyson asked.\nTyler finished putting the last suitcase in the back and closed the door. He looked to Allyson as he opened the passenger door.\nAllyson looked in and saw the trash covered floorboard of the passenger seat and slumped her shoulders. This was not going to be a fun ride.\n\n*\n\nIt was only a few minutes later that the two were on the exit to merge onto Interstate 69, which meant only ten to fifteen miles left to the airport. The whole way, Tyler barely took a breath between words. Talking of their days in high school, none of the things he talked about Allyson remembered.\n“And I remembered our senior prom,” Tyler said. “I knew from the moment you walked in that you would be voted the prom queen.”\nAllyson sighed quietly to herself. That was one memory she did recall.\n“And, of course, Chad Woods was Prom king,” Tyler continued. “But everyone saw that coming.”\n“Yeah,” Allyson sighed and turned to look out her window.\n“Whatever happened to you two?” Tyler asked. “Everybody always thought you two would be married and have a house full of kids after high school.”\n“That was the plan,” Allyson answered not turning away from the passenger side window. “Until he left me at the alter.”\n“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tyler said, sympathy filled his voice. “In truth, I never liked him.”\nAllyson gave a small laugh and finally looked back to Tyler. “I don’t think I ever really did either.”\nTyler smiled back at her before turning his attention to the road ahead.\n“Oh no,” he sighed.\nAllyson looked ahead and all she could see was red tail lights. “Oh no,” she repeated.\nThe car came to a stop, not a single car around them was moving, not even inching forward.\n“Great,” Allyson said. “I’ll never make my flight.”\nTyler looked at Allyson a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. “I have never missed a drop off,” he finally said. “And you’re not going to be the first I miss.”\nHe took a quick glance behind them before pulling onto the shoulder and driving the few short feet to the next exit. \n“Do you know the way from here?” Allyson asked.\n“Of course I do,” Tyler said with a smile.\nThey drove on the new road for a short while, the car fishtailing a couple of times, but Tyler was quick to correct it and straighten the car back out. They drove in silence a little ways before Tyler spoke up.\n“So, if you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you decorate for Christmas?”\n“I told you,” Allyson answered. “There is no sense in it if I’m not going to be there.”\nTyler nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Only, I don’t believe you.”\n“It’s the truth,” Allyson said.\n“If you say so,” Tyler said. “But I still don’t believe you.”\n“And I really don’t care if you do or not,” Allyson said with a triumphant smile.\nTyler looked to her, “Someone sure is smug,”\nBefore the words were completely out of his mouth, the spare tire on the front drivers side of the car hit a large pile of slush on the road and pulled the car to the left. Before Tyler could react, the back of the car began to spin to the right. Tyler quickly put the car into neutral and turned into the skid, but it was too late.\nBefore they knew it, the car was facing the way they had just come from and still going the way they were going. The two were screaming until they saw the sight before them.\nThey were now hood to hood with the car that had been behind them. They stopped screaming and looked at the couple in the front seat of the car in front of them, their eyes and mouths open wide. In the backseat of the car were two children that looked to be between 10 and 11. They were both waving at Tyler and Allyson.\nTyler and Allyson turned to each other and looked back at the car before them and waved back at the kids before the car continued on it’s spin and the two began to scream again.\nThe whole interaction with the car and the kids was only two seconds, but it felt like minutes to Tyler and Allyson. The car was finally facing the right way and Tyler was beginning to straighten the car out., but it was drifting from the right lane into the left lane.\nBefore Tyler could get the car right, the spare tire hit the curb and the car was stuck in the median between Eastbound and Westbound traffic.\n“Uh oh,” Tyler exclaimed once the car stopped.\n“Uh oh what?” Allyson asked, breathless from screaming.\n“I think we may be stuck,” he answered putting the car in reverse. He gave the car gas but it didn’t move, the tire only spun, throwing a spray of snow and slush out the front of the car. “Yeah, we’re stuck,” he said putting the car in park.\n“So what now?” Allyson asked.\n“I need you to get in the driver’s seat,” Tyler said unbuckling his seatbelt. “Then I need you to put the car in reverse and give it just a little gas when you see me push.”\n“I don’t think I can do that,” Allyson said.\n“Sure you can,” Tyler said opening the door and climbing out. Allyson scooted over into the driver’s seat and watch as Tyler placed his hands on the hood of the car. She put the car in reverse and watched Tyler. Every time she saw him lean forward onto the car she would give it a little gas like he said. The tires still spun in place, but it was beginning to rock back and forth.\nAfter six or seven times of him pushing, the car was rocking back and forth more and Allyson’s excitement was growing. On the eighth time, she got a little too excited and nearly pressed the gas pedal to the floor. For a moment, the tires spun and the car didn’t move, but it finally lurched backwards back onto the road.\nAllyson happily looked forward with a large smile on her face, until she saw Tyler.\nTyler was cover head to toe in greyish slush.\n“Oh no,” Allyson said, the smile fading from her lips as Tyler walked around the car to the driver’s side door, stiff as a board. Allyson slid back over to the passenger seat as Tyler opened the door and sat down in the driver’s seat. \nShe could see specks of black gravel in his hair and stuck to his cheeks. As soon as he was sat down, a large glob of the greyish slush on his chin fell to his lap. She felt bad that she had done this, and sorry because she knew he had to be cold, but she had to fight to suppress a smile.\nTyler blew out through tightly closed lips, sending a small spray of salty sludge onto the dashboard and turned to Allyson. “I need to find a restroom.”\n“Okay,” Allyson said, still fighting the smile.\nTyler put the car into gear and drove off.\n\n*\n\nA few short minutes later, Allyson was seated in the car as it idled at a gas station. Tyler was inside cleaning himself up. Her eyes were locked on a woman and her two young children sitting on the sidewalk in front of her.\nMovement caught her eyes as Tyler stepped out of the gas station restroom, his hair was brushed back and he was wearing a fresh pair of clothes. As she watched him walk to the car, he stopped at the woman and the two kids and talked to them a moment before pulling a white envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to the woman before walking back to the car.\nTyler reached the car and climbed in.\n“What was that?” she asked as he started the car and began to back out of the spot. \n“That was this months rent,” Tyler answered.\n“And you just gave it to that woman?” Allyson asked, her voice full of surprise.\n“Yes,” Tyler said as he pulled back onto the highway. “It may not be enough for them to get a home, but it could get them a nice warm meal, a decent hotel for the night and hopefully a nice Christmas.”\n“Why?” Allyson asked.\n“Because it’s the season for giving,” Tyler answered.\nAllyson was shocked by his answer, even more shocked by his honesty. They drove on in silence a few minutes and the airport was finally in sight.\n“Chad and I were going to get married,” Allyson said breaking the silence.\n“What happened,” Tyler asked, his voice full of concern.\n“He left me at the alter on our wedding day,” she answered. “It was today, twenty years ago. That’s why I don’t decorate for Christmas, and why I leave this day every year. So I don’t have to deal with the memory of that day.”\n“I’m sorry,” Tyler said. “But you can’t keep running away from your problem, this is supposed to be the happiest time of the year.”\n“If it helps,” Allyson started with a small smile. “You have made me smile today.”\nTyler looked to Allyson with a smile of his own. “That road salt slushie was disgusting.”\nAllyson laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said through the giggle.\n“It’s okay,” Tyler said with a small laugh of his own. “It’s funny now.”\nThey pulled up to the curb at the airport terminal and Tyler put the car in park.\n“I got you here on time,” he said with a smile.\n“Thank you,” Allyson said smiling back. “It was an adventure.”\nTyler climbed out of the car, grabbed her a trolley and loaded her suitcases from the backseat onto it. Once he was finished, he pushed the trolley to her and put his hands in his pocket shyly.\n“I hope you have a good vacation,” he said looking to his feet.\n“I will try,” Allyson said. She reached into her purse and pulled some money out and held it out for him. “It’s not much, but here.”\n“I can’t take that,” Tyler said. \n“Please,” Allyson said. “You need to pay your rent.”\n“I’ll get by,” Tyler said. “I’ll just Uber some extra hours.”\n“No,” Allyson insisted, thrusting the money towards him.\n“Thank you,” Tyler said taking the money from her. He started to walk around the front of the car, slowing so he could turn to her without losing his balance. “Have a Merry Christmas Allyson.”\n“Merry Christmas Tyler,” Allyson said for the first time in nearly twenty years and it actually felt good. No, it felt great.\nShe watched Tyler get in his car and drive off, and for some reason she didn’t know why, she felt sad watching him leaving. She gave a heavy sigh as she turned to the trolley and pushed it inside. Once inside, she stopped and looked up to see her flight was on time.\nShe turned and looked over her shoulder and could just make out Tyler’s taillights disappearing from sight. She had never met anyone like him and there he was driving out of her life. No other person she ever knew would give his rent to a stranger like he had, he amazed her.\nShe turned back to the board and to see those words staring back at her. \nON TIME.\nIt was then and there that Allyson decided that this was no longer going to be the anniversary of the worst day of her life, this was going to be the anniversary of the best day of her life. She pulled her phone from her pocket and opened the Uber app.\nShe only hoped she would get the Uber driver that had just left."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: First Snow\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1051\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone looking out the window and seeing the first snowfall of the season."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "First Snow\nBy Paromita De\nPamela stared out the window and saw the first trickle of flurries falling slowly towards the ground. “SNOW” she cried! It was her first winter in Boston. She was going to college at BU, and she was studying with her friend Matt that night.\n“There is going to be a lot more than that” said Matt sarcastically. “You California peeps are so spoiled ha”\nFor Pamela, there was an excitement in the air. She was feeling the cozy, warm holiday spirit. Matt handed her some hot coffee as they studied for their Chemistry test together.\n“Your apartment looks so bland,” said Pamela. “It needs some holiday cheer”. Pamela felt excited about bringing a real tree over from the tree farm with Matt and decorating it with ornaments. His apartment was always so bare. He did not even have any pictures around of any family or friends. Her apartment on contrast was brimming with lights, and a huge. bright pink artificial Christmas tree with loads of ornaments on it.\nMatt and Pamela were friends for about a month. They both bonded over their previously failed midterm exam, but somehow found studying together helped them focus. And, they also were huge foodies, so that was a plus too.\n“Let’s take a break from studying and order some pizza”, Matt said.\n“Thirty more minutes and then a break,” said Pamela. She was determined to get to Pharmacy school, and move back to California to be next to her family and best friends. It was a bit lonely being so far away from everyone, but she was really grateful that she had Matt.\nPamela lounged on the couch lazily after their study session while Matt called in the pizza order. Her long brown hair was tied up in a large messy bun, and she wore an oversized white sweatshirt with BU written on it. She was wearing oversized jeans, and fuzzy slippers. She flipped on the switch to the TV, and “The Holiday” was playing; her all-time favorite romantic movie. Matt plopped himself next to her and grazed his knee against hers as if by accident. Pamela was a little taken aback, but swore it must have been her mind playing tricks on her.\nMatt moved a piece of loose hair on her forehead to the side of her ear, and slowly leaned over towards her. Pamela could smell his cologne, and felt his warm breath on her cheek. She started to close her eyes as she felt Matt move in closer to kiss her but then she froze and pushed him away. She got scared. She never had a boyfriend, and Matt was her only friend in Boston. Thoughts raced through her mind and she feared that if she and Matt got involved, that she would ultimately lose him.\nMatt was a gentleman. He understood and moved back. “I am sorry.” he said softly. “I thought that we were getting really close, and I guess I misunderstood”.\nPamela did not have the courage to tell Matt that she had feelings for him as well. She softly responded,\n“I am sorry too. Maybe it is better that I go home.”\nMatt understood, and since it was late, he walked her to the subway station to make sure she got home safe. She hugged him goodbye, and asked softly, “can we still be friends?”\nMatt grinned, and said “Of course”\n“Can we still go buy a Christmas tree tomorrow for your apartment”, Pamela asked hesitantly.\n“Yeah” Matt said nonchalantly.\nThat night Pamela could not sleep. She kept thinking about Matt. She knew in her heart that she was falling hard for him. She wondered what would happen if they had that kiss. She was so scared to lose Matt, but she wondered if she was already pushing him away.\nThe next morning, Pamela woke up tired, but she went to Pilates, took a shower, and put on some make up because she was going to see Matt at the Christmas tree farm. She put on extra lipstick and mascara that day, and wore a cute burnt orange colored sweater dress with boots. She obviously could not deny that she cared about her appearance in front of Matt, and those oversized sweatshirts would not work at all today.\nPamela felt confused. She wanted Matt to want her, and she wanted to be with him, but she also was afraid to get too close. She grabbed her purse, and took a taxi to the Christmas tree farm where she saw Matt wearing a coat and a beanie, and she did not know why, but he looked different. Good different. She knew at that point that she and Matt were going to have to be more than friends because she could not stop her feelings for him from overflowing,\nShe walked over to Matt. He was a little distant and did not give his normal hug, but he did say hi.\nThey picked out a huge Christmas tree for Matt’s apartment and lugged it over to his truck. After they got to Matt’s place, they both gasped from carrying the tree over to his place. It was heavy. Pamela was about to put ornaments on the tree, but almost tripped over one of the decorations. Matt was quick to catch her. They gazed at each other and their eyes met. Pamela could see that Matt was distant. He was hurt by her yesterday. She did what she was afraid to do. She held his face and leaned in, and slowly kissed Matt. He kissed her back. They held their kiss and each other, and Pamela finally let go of her fears. She knew that things would change with Matt, but she was ready to embrace whatever came. Matt blushed, and looked confused.\n“But I Thought.” He slowly started.\n“I lied” Pamela admitted. “I was scared to admit that I have feelings for you because I don’t want to lose our friendship” she said softly.\nBefore she could say anything else, Matt grabbed her and kissed her like nobody ever had before. Pamela sunk into Matt’s arms and surrendered herself to him. She was in love for the first time and her first snow was the most memorable and surreal experience that she ever had."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: Because of the Storm\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2532\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character hates the holidays, and jets out of town every year — but a historic snow storm means that this time, they can’t make their escape."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "George Salter came upon his eighth empty bus shelter, and sighed. The bench inside the Plexiglas enclosure looked so inviting, but he knew he’d never get up again if he sat down now, and the app on his phone told him the same thing it had told him at the other seven stops: “Bus delayed.”\nHe huffed, wiped hoarfrost from his brow, and trudged around the next snowdrift – his baggage trundling ever behind him. Every step was half-jerk and half-stumble.\nThe only things that kept him going were thoughts of the Riviera Maya, of the all-inclusive stay at the Grand Ocean Dreams resort. Of finally arriving and grabbing himself a tall, refreshing mojito, donning a pair of shorts, and letting the hot climate swaddle him.\nAnd of course, of seeing Dolores again.\nThen a fat, lazy, beautiful snowflake settled upon his nose, and when he looked up, he saw that snow had started falling again.\nAnother grumble. This was the worst start to a vacation, ever.\nIt was bad enough when his cab cancelled on him, at four in the morning – and “cancelled” was George being generous, because the ass ghosted him. It took half an hour to get through to their call centre, and the jerk on the other end told him that cab service was horribly backed up across the whole city.\n“Because of the storm.”\nGeorge swore in response, demanded to speak to a manager, and then hung up before the guy had a chance to respond. Instead of wasting more time with the city’s worst cab company, George called another one. And another. And even that other other one, that kept getting into the papers for all the wrong reasons. But they all gave him the same response. Cabs were either delayed or not running at all.\n“Because of the storm.”\nGeorge broke his rule about new-fangled technology and even tried those rideshare apps. The idea of getting into a random local serial killer’s personal car made his skin crawl, but he was running out of options. But of course, the lazy idiots gave him the same runaround as the taxis.\n“Because of the–”\n“–Shut up!”\nBy five AM, after his fifth coffee, he made an executive decision. If he was going to catch his flight he needed to get moving, and if he couldn’t count on other people – and really, when could you? – he’d do it himself. He’d drive himself to the airport and eat the exorbitant airport parking fee.\nAnd later that evening, he’d eat fresh coconut on the beach. And he’d meet sexy people who liked adventures and life and fun and who didn’t waste their lives talking about the weather, “Because of the storm.”\nJust like Nathalie and Craig from last year, those two wild honeymooners he’d kept in touch with, and made plans to meet up again with this year. Or Ben and Wallace and Megan and that other one – the British scuba aficionados that convinced George to dive. Worth it! And of course Dolores – this was the year he’d tell her how he felt.\nYou didn’t get that at home. At home, everyone just complained the stores put up the Christmas decorations earlier each year, and then having complained, did nothing about it.\nPathetic.\nNo! thought George. Not pathetic. In keeping with the season, Bah humbug!\nWhen he opened his door, snow spilled into his house. He could have sworn he saw his lawn the day before, but now everything was covered in smooth dunes of knee-high trash weather. With a grumble, George shoveled towards his driveway, only to find his Ford Focus had turned into an even bigger mound of snow.\nHe ground his teeth and got to work. It took till seven AM to unearth both his car and enough of the driveway to get to the street. That the street was covered in featureless drifts taller than his car’s wheels was its own issue, and one he’d been purposely ignoring. But he could only kick that can so far down the road, and he just hoped his Focus could plow through the mess. After all, that’s what you did with snow, right? You plowed it.\nUnless you were the city, of course. Then you left your constituents holding the bag.\nBut the streets didn’t end up being a problem, because it turned out George could always count on his quality-built, expertly engineered car, to let him down.\nThe damn thing wouldn’t start. The battery, dead. Frozen, probably, or whatever batteries did when you were counting on them. He couldn’t get so much as a fart out of his starter. Couldn’t even get the annoying seatbelt dinging to nag him.\nAnother waste of time. Like he never took a vacation at all, and was still at work. With a hand-shaking, tooth-rattling, face-reddening shriek, he decided on the next best mode of transport: buses.\nWhat was the point of having a car if you still had to bus? Well, he supposed he could chat to the other passengers and brag about how he spent a load of money only to end up with a lazy, shiftless paperweight with wheels, that did nothing but sit around his house, taking up space. Could be an ice breaker for people with kids.\nBut no, who was he kidding? The bus people were sad drab lumps themselves, and if you could stir a conversation out of them it would probably be about snow.\nNot like the buses in Mexico. Not like six years ago, when he signed up for a day trip to Chichén Itzá and met that hilarious elderly Turkish couple. Career historians full of amazing tales, they also loved hearing all about George’s winter exploits. And never once did they chat about weather.\nBut the first bus stop was deserted, and snowed in. George watched a trio of municipal snow plows rumble down the street – not his street, but at least something was getting plowed – scraping the road and depositing a jagged new winrow on the bike lane. That, at least, gave him a smile.\nBy the time the bus was fifteen minutes late – still early in bus-time – George checked the bus app on his phone and learned the entire bus service was delayed across the city. Naturally. Why pay taxes to subsidize something and actually expect it to work, right? At least if you assume it will fail, it can’t disappoint you.\nThings would be different if he was in power, that much he knew. For one, he’d abolish the travesty of public transit. He’d trust in the wheels of commerce and a private service would unerringly fix the whole situation–\n“Oh,” George said, recalling the taxi debacle. “Right.”\nHe had a choice. Sit here and wait interminably, or do something about it himself. Never one to wait for others to fix his problems, George decided to walk – well, wade through the snow – to the next stop. He grinned, thinking he’d race the bus, seeing how far he could get before it finally caught up to him.\nFixing things himself had always worked out. One, it was how he dodged this horrible holiday season every year. Two, it was how he first met Dolores, twenty years ago.\nAs a bright-eyed young tourist, he signed up for pretty much whatever stupid trip the reps put in front of him – within his meagre price range. That first year he had stayed in a half-star dive in Cancún, and the only thing he could afford was a shopping trip to Playa del Carmen, which didn’t make much sense since he hadn’t come to shop, and if he had, there were stores in Cancún. But he didn’t want to sit around all week.\nThere was supposed to be an included lunch, but the guy running the tour got the runs and had to duck out for a while, and when he said “I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere,” George accepted the challenge and went exploring.\nA dingy little hole in the wall first caught his eye, where some gruff customers sat outside drinking tequila by glass instead of by shot. Then it caught his ear, when he heard the strum of an unplugged guitar from within, and then the most alluring voice he’d ever heard. And then, it caught him by the heart, when he went inside and saw Dolores on stage.\nTime did a weird thing in that bar. He entered in the morning but a minute later it was dark out, and somehow Dolores’ entire set was over. But he caught it all, and she caught him catching it – maybe it was hard to miss the one guy in the bar who stood up to clap. She sat down with him and they chatted and laughed long into the night. She told him she did a lot of bar gigs, but she was hoping to be a famous singer one day. He told her he hoped so too.\nShe gave him her schedule and he went to every show she played. He even continued going when he learned about Jorge, her boyfriend. What an idiotic name for an idiotic face, George thought, but he stuck around with them anyway, because any time close to Dolores was better than away.\nAnd he found her again a year later – with Paulo, this time – and again another year later – with Antonio – and every year after that. When she left the Cancún circuit and went up and down the Riviera, he moved base camp. When he learned she married Francisco, he grit his teeth and congratulated her. When she divorced him, he congratulated himself. And when she later married Javier, George consoled himself knowing it was temporary. Knowing that next year, or the year after that, was his.\nAnd all through those years they remained close. Her star grew, though it never quite rose – that would certainly happen next year too, or the year after – and tracking her down for a reunion always felt like coming home. Indeed, Dolores and Javier had invited him to their home a number of times, and their little six-year old Alejandra even remembered him, and called him Tío Georgie.\nGeorge smiled. The memories, and the anticipation of seeing Dolores again – of maybe this year being his year – kept him going past bus stop fifteen.\nAt stop sixteen, he finally did see a bus, though it was going the opposite direction. Its brakes groaned as it glided along the icy road, gradually turning one-eighty, and with the delicate grace of a ballerina it gently fishtailed into a snowbank, sending up a white puff of applause, before snuggling down to sleep.\nIts hazards turned on, and its destination changed to “Not in service.”\n“Because of the storm,” George muttered.\nWith no other buses in sight – no traffic at all – he resigned himself to walking the rest of the way to the airport. By four PM he arrived at the terminal, nearly-but-not-quite-dead tired. His arms would have hurt after dragging his luggage across town, if he could still feel them.\nHe missed his flight. He knew that. Maybe he could get a refund, but that was secondary. More important, he’d have to find another flight out to Mexico, and probably pay an excruciating fee for it.\nAnything to get out of this horrid city, this horrid season. Anything to get back to where he belonged, to Dolores.\nThere were no lines at the check-in desks, so that was a small blessing. Actually, there weren’t really any people at all, save for a single security guy at the doors, a mop guy near the bathrooms, and a lone check-in lady at the lone check-in desk that showed any signs of life. And they all looked like people who picked the wrong day to go to work.\n“Hi!” said George, dragging his baggage. The woman startled, as though she’d never seen a customer before. “I need a flight to Mexico. Riviera Maya. ASAP.”\nShe blinked. “You want… a flight to Mexico?”\n“Yes!”\n“Now?”\n“Yes!”\nShe looked off into the distance, and George followed her gaze, through the giant terminal windows, where the world was obscured by drifting flurries and twisting winds.\n“Sir,” she said, “I appreciate wanting to be in Mexico right now – believe me, I do – but every single plane is grounded.”\n“What?”\nShe directed his attention to a screen showing all the flights, and every single one of them had a red “Cancelled / Annulé” status. Even his eight AM flight was on there, red and dead.\n“Because of the storm,” she said.\n“Oh,” he said. “Right.”\n“Sir? Was there anything else I could do for you? Because I’m about to finish my shift.”\n“No, thanks. That’s all.”\nHe watched her log off, leave the desk, and head to the small food court. Maybe she fiddled around with her phone, maybe she realized she couldn’t get a ride home because the roads were crap and she was stuck here – George didn’t know. But he did see her bury her face in her hands, which was how he felt.\nA winter without Dolores. And it was meant to be his year! The year he finally told her how he felt, and she’d fall into his arms, and their passion would be wild and hot and…\nOnly, he realized he didn’t exactly feel it. Every one of the past twenty years felt like the year, except they never were. And if he was honest, he liked Javier too, and little Alejandra was very much a niece to him. They made a good family. A great family.\nMuch as Dolores meant to him, he didn’t want to break that beautiful family apart. And if he was really honest – that cold, brutal kind – he doubted he could. Dolores had always been a friend, a great friend, and never more than that.\nGeorge sighed. So, his vacation was ruined. He tromped halfway across the city and wore out his knees for nothing, and worse, was now stuck in a bland grey town during a bland grey season. And even worse, he was actually stuck in a bland grey airport terminal, because it was really starting to come down outside and there was no way in hell he was going to march home again. Stuck, just like the poor, miserable check-in lady, with her head on a cafeteria table.\nAnd to top it off, George’s stomach rumbled.\nBecause of the storm.\nSo what was he going to do about it all? Stand around, enjoying some well-deserved ruing, waiting until the blizzard died down and they were dug out?\nBah, thought George, humbug to that.\nHe went to the one fast food place that was open, ordered a couple of sandwiches and coffees – and left a ten as a tip – and then made his way to the table the check-in lady was moping on.\n“You look like you could use a coffee,” he said.\nAnd she smiled up at him."
}
]
|
[
{
"role": "system",
"content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative."
},
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Story Title: The selfie of Dorian Gray\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1434\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin or end your story with a character taking a selfie."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "[Content note: substance misuse, suicide, transphobia]\n\nPicture this: Dorian Gray, 25, gorgeous bachelor of the Brighton gay scene #handsomeAF #queen #slay. Picture his blazing blue eyes set above aquiline nose and a rosebud pout of a mouth. Cheeks ready to blush under the lick of glitter from a make-up brush. Deep gold locks styled to perfection. Forehead wide and empty as a summer sky #beautynotbrains #imageiseverything #skindeep.\n\nPicture this: Dorian perched on the sleek leather and chrome of a barstool in the Poison Ivy, margarita in one hand and phone in the other – twin totems of the god of the gay bar. Picture his thumb hitting the camera app (muscle memory leads him there always) and hovering, now, over the shutter button. Picture him pausing for a fragment of time to check the image on the phone screen: it is, as always, empty perfection.\n\nClick!\n\nThere it is: the button is pressed, the shutter closes, the selfie is taken.\n\nAnd all around him life continues in the Poison Ivy: the disco-ball spins, Lady Gaga roars through overamplified speakers, a drag queen at the bar wipes lipstick and white wine from a red twist of a mouth.\n\nBut for Dorian Gray, life has stopped. Here. Now. In this moment – the moment the selfie was taken #liveinthemoment #lookgoodfeelgood #selflove. Because, as he licks the salt rim of his margarita glass from perfectly glossed lips, Dorian realises that he has taken the best selfie ever.\n\nWhat is it about this selfie that makes it so exquisite? Is it the background of dancers blurring to hot whorls of colour? Is it the shards of light from the disco-ball falling like a shower of diamonds across the face? No, it is the face itself, caught at the very moment of its blooming, like a young rose, beautiful.\n\nDorian knows, the instant he sees the selfie, that there, right there in front of him, swimming in a million pixels, is the great truth he’s searched for his whole life: beauty.\n\n‘What would you like?’ the barman asks, plucking an olive from a discarded martini glass and popping it into his lipsticked mouth.\n\n‘I’d like – ’ says Dorian, ‘I’d like it if this selfie aged instead of me…’\n\n‘You what?’ the barman hollers over Gaga’s jagged vocals.\n\n‘I’d like another margarita,’ Dorian says.\n\n*\n\nBut Dorian’s wish came true. Picture this: years later, Dorian is flicking through his phone when up pops the selfie #throwback #memories #tenyearchallenge. Picture Dorian, 35 and still on the cusp of blooming like a young rose, locking eyes with the image of his 25-year-old self.\n\nBut not the image as he left it, 10 years previously. No. For etched into the selfie, right there in front of him, are the tidelines of age – wrinkles beginning to show on the forehead, the skin wilting around the aquiline nose, twin creases either side of the rosebud pout of a mouth.\n\nDorian sees too a certain sneer, a certain curl of the lip, not present in the original selfie #bitchface #meangirl #judgingyou. Was it the many times he’d put others down on the basis of their looks, the many ugly comments he’d made on another’s “ugliness”, that had written that sneer into the selfie? Did the curl of the lip evidence a life lived in selfishness, selfie stick in hand and judgement in mind?\n\nDorian swipes off the selfie, a cold sweat of horror breaking out on his preternaturally youthful brow. He tries putting a softening filter on the selfie, hoping to erase those harsh lines. But the app glitches and increases the contrast on the image, only etching those lines deeper into brow and cheek. Like a Narcissus staring into troubled waters, Dorian recoils in disgust from the sight of his own image #uggo #notfeelingcute #badhairday.\n\nHe clicks off the app, fingers barely shaking, and runs to the bathroom. Looking into the perfect circle of the stylish chrome-rimmed mirror #homedecor #interiordesign #trendsetter, Dorian scours his face for wrinkles, blemishes, imperfections. But he finds, as always, the same strange youth, the same pure beauty, that is synonymous with his reputation in gay-bars from the pier to the marina.\n\nHands clammy on the cold porcelain of the sink, Dorian exhales and spits from his perfect mouth the salivation that warns him he will vomit.\n\nLeaning over the toilet, he pukes onto the perfect white porcelain, loops of saliva falling from his face like hot tears of shame and disgrace.\n\n*\n\nDorian commits himself to a life of velvety pleasures and empty aesthetics. He progresses his modelling career at the London fashion shows #strikeapose #modellife #catwalk. In his spare time, he buys designer handbags in the Lanes and showcases his latest outfits in the bars of Kemptown. At night, the selfie haunts his dreams, mouth twisted in hideous grin, cheek disgraced by defects, brow wrecked by wrinkles – a face defaced by imperfections.\n\nThe years pass in a blur of nights spent knocking back shots in Bulldog #cheers #downit #happyhour. But still Dorian’s face stays young.\n\nHe courts a beautiful drag queen, name of Sybil, dreams of the lavish wedding they’ll have. In bars they sip sex on the beach together and rate the other twinks on their looks in loud whispers #roastme #2outof10 #fugly. In dark bedrooms with drawn curtains they smoke Tina with hookers and dropouts. At the nudist beach they work on their tans.\n\nBut soon Dorian and Sybil are fighting, conversation withering to ridicule and cheap digs. Picture this: the couple at 2am on St James street roaring insults and comebacks at each other with beer-soaked breath like baying stags.\n\n‘You’re a right bitch!’ Dorian screams, ‘a nasty cheap tranny whore!’\n\nHe flings his pint glass to the gutter and struts off into the night.\n\n*\n\nPicture this: Dorian is 45 and as his age has increased so too has his reputation for youthful good looks. He launches his own line of face cream #skincare #antiaging #results. He proposes to Sybil, they break it off, they get back together, they break it off again.\n\nThe night they call off the engagement for the second time, Dorian sits sombre at the dressing table in his bedroom. He stares into the vanity mirror, his face flawless even in the bright white light of the bare bulbs, searching for flaws, any clue as to why Sybil left him. But he finds, as always, perfection.\n\nThe selfie haunts his thoughts like an unwelcome ghost. He pulls out his phone and clicks on the photo app. He pulls up the selfie and finds it more hideous than ever – crow’s feet at the corners of the eyes, scoops of black shadow underneath them, a complex network of wrinkles deep-cut into the face. And still that hideous exaggerated sneer like the face of a horrible puppet.\n\n‘It’s just a selfie,’ he says, ‘it doesn’t look like me! I – I cannot look that bad, surely?’\n\nReassuring himself, Dorian decides to take action. Why let a selfie ruin your night? Why let a photo curb your self-esteem?\n\nQuickly, before he changes his mind, Dorian clicks on the bin icon.\n\nA message flashes up on the screen: Delete photo?\n\nHe pauses for just a fraction of a second, shaking finger hovering over the button, and presses it.\n\n*\n\nPicture this: Sybil, the next day, hungover and contrite and missing her boyfriend, mounting the stairs to Dorian’s flat in her stilettos, heel-clicks echoing in the otherwise silent stairwell. She knocks on the door. Silence. She fumbles in her rhinestoned handbag for the spare key and lets herself in.\n\nInside the flat, everything is in its usual perfect order. Dorian’s designer coats hang in the entranceway, a half-drunk bottle of Chablis sits on the marble worktop illuminated like a yellow jewel in the beam of a kitchen spotlight. The Dyson tower fan blasts out cool air in the lounge #2000watts #700cubicmetersperhour #ultimatecoolingtechnology. It blasts a jet of cold across Sybil’s fishnetted legs like an icy river or a ghost passing through her.\n\n‘Dorian?’\n\nSilence still.\n\nShe checks everywhere and, letting herself into the last room, the bedroom, she finds it empty. She pulls back the bedsheets. Nothing. But seeing the door of the walk-in wardrobe ajar, she opens it to find – picture this: Dorian hanging by his neck from the rail.\n\nAt first she doesn’t recognise him. For the swollen purple face of the dead man is ugly, carved with deep wrinkles, pocked with blemishes, the lip curled up in a final expression of disdain.\n\nBy his side, there lies his phone."
}
]
|
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.