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[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Little Man\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1507\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone whose luck is running out." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In South Louisiana, fishing is more than a pastime, it’s a time-honored tradition, and way of life. It’s core to many a Cajun's existence. Cajuns set out in their bateaus and pirogues and traverse the swamps, marshes, and bayous incessantly. Their purpose, to harvest fish and other aquatic yummies, such as crawfish, crabs, and shrimp—this stands as many Cajun’s income. Pierre, a local Cajun fisherman, spent his life participating in this beloved Cajun tradition, through the week he earned his wages as a deckhand on a shrimping boat hauling in the daily catch south of Morgan City. On weekends he would escape to the Atchafalaya in an attempt to bring in his own bounty of catfish and sometimes sac-a-lait, a local fish, and a Cajun delight. Not only was it fun, the sale of some fish made a nice supplement to his income. His wife, Claire, cursed him because he always found excuses to escape her and make his way back to the swamp. But Claire, not being one to be sidelined, found other ways to spend her free time.\nLate one Saturday evening, after a long day of fishing, Pierre came upon a stranded traveler deep in the swamp. Even from afar he could see that the man had no height, a shirt that looked as though it was hiding a pumpkin underneath, and suspenders that were a cough away from breaking free from his pants—all of this shaded by a straw hat that had a notch in it that coincidentally mirrored a bite from a gator’s mouth. Pierre drew within a few feet of the man and asked, “You catchin’ anything?” The traveler responded with a thick Cajun accent, “No sir, me, I ain’t caught nuthin’, You see my bateau motor give out about tree-or-so hours ago, and I was gettin’ scared no one would pass by an’ help me, an’ I was gonna have to spend da night here in the swamp an’ get carried off the maringouins.”\nPierre paused for a moment to assess the situation. It did appear dire. He noticed that the man standing before him couldn’t be more than three and a half feet tall and he started to giggle.\nThe little man, growing more frustrated, inquired, “Why you laughin’ mon cher, Me, I dun’ told you my plight, an’ it ain’t funny, no. Would you be a kind one an’ give me a tow back to da dock? Me, I would be forever grateful. From der, you can tie me loose, an’ I’ll be good. Now, allons, before you give me dat red ass.”\nNow, as he laughed uncontrollably, Pierre replied back, “No can do little man. You see, I got me a boatload of fish here and forgot to get ice this morning, me. It would take near ‘bout three hours to 'tow you to dock and my fish would spoil, but sorry pad-nuh, I gotta roll. And on top dat, my old lady Claire will come at me with a broom a-swingin’-she’s saucy you know. And then, when I get pa-ya’d like always, she’ll whack me again for drinkin’. It’s a cycle you know. She’s the cruelest kind—she’s cute but cruel, you know man?”, and chuckled lightly.\nThe little man glared devilishly, and in a low-toned, gravelly voice further explained to Pierre, “You, you know the etiquette here in da swamp!” His face reddened and spit leapt off of his lips. “You know you can’t never, I mean never, leave nobody like dis. You Pierre, ain’t no kind of a man an’ I curse you. I curse you, an’ from this day on you will never catch another fish, an’ your wife, if you got one even, will leave you for a much better kind of man. Now, me, I said my piece, now go you tee-croûte.”\nPierre polled away back to the dock in his pirogue, leaving the little man cursing in the distance. All the while, Pierre couldn’t stop laughing and saying to himself, “Ain't nobody gonna believe this. Now, me, I done seen it all.”\nHaving made his way home from the dock and strolling back up the drive to his little mobile home, he noticed that the porch light was off. Panicked, and thinking to himself that something was amiss, he burst through the door and yelled out, “Claire, mon cher, where you at?” There was no answer nor any sound, only crickets filled the outside air and silence filled his home. He found himself there and in total darkness, alone. Knowing he still had fish to clean, Pierre took it to task and finished his day to retire for the night. Outside of the disgust of her usual absence, he had begrudgingly grown accustomed to her late returns, but in his mind it was usually dismissed and converted to a couple more hours on the water.\nPierre woke. Sunday came and went. There was still no sign of Claire. Knowing Claire would sometimes visit her momma without telling Pierre was an ordinary event, but never for long. He called Sheriff Broussard and explained. He told the Sheriff that Claire was missing and there must be something wrong. And the Sheriff just sighed. Knowing this day would come, Sheriff Broussard explained, “Pierre, my dearest of friends, I saw Claire just yesterday. We were right out front the Piggly Wiggly, and she had the better part of a month’s worth of groceries. She told me that she was done with you. Sorry buddy, she said she’s moving back to the trailer over in Amelia with her momma, and wants nothing more to do with you.” Torn apart, Pierre sobbed to the Sheriff and thanked him for the information. For Pierre, the only way to drown his sorrow was to go visit his only true and faithful love, the swamp.\nMonth’s passed and Pierre returned to the swamp weekend after weekend, never catching a fish. Tormented by his bad luck, he gave up fishing entirely. The curse had taken over his life. It was now devoid of any pleasure. And although she always cursed at him and hounded him to do his chores, he continued to miss the excitement that Claire brought to his life, and without fishing, his weekends were spent toiling away with the previously disregarded chores Claire had requested of him for years. The year passed and Pierre’s place was immaculate. Not a crack creaked, nor a drip dropped, and he found himself without a thing to do but wallow in sorrow, all the while thinking of the light that Claire brought to his life. But she was gone and he thought to himself, “The hell with it, me, I’m goin' fishing, come hell or high water, we gonna pass good time!” And yet another day of fishing passed, and his stringer remained empty.\n Having drunk all the beer he carried for his day’s excursion, he stopped off at the cleverly named Bayou Bait convenience store en route to his modest little home. As he exited the store and headed back to his truck, he heard a garbled voice and familiar accent. He peered past the gas pumps and eyed the little man whom he had left stranded more than one year ago. Pierre hurriedly approached the little man and in a panic offered, “Dear little man, I’m so sorry I left you dat day in the swamp, I knew better and I really am sorry. Since then I haven’t caught a fish. And worst of all my Claire, mon cher, she left me for another man. Would you be so kind as to lift dis here curse you dun put on me, and let me be whole again?”\nThe little man squinted his eyes and then burst out into laughter. Hither and thither he bounced holding his belly as he continued to laugh incessantly. This included dusting off his bottom because he literally almost hit the ground with laughter. “You fool”, he says with little composure, “there ain’t no such thing as a curse, I was just mad at you for leaving me back there in the damned swamp. About ten minutes later another boat passed by and towed me back to the dock so I got nothing for you. You not catching no fish—ain’t nobody hardly caught nuthin’ in the last year on account of the water being so high from all that flooding up north.” With his shoulders shrugged and palms up, the little man scanned the group that collected as they bantered.\nWith his eyes milky from tears, Pierre responded, “Well, maybe so. What about the other half of the curse you put on me? You said my wife was gonna leave and dat part came true, explain dat to me?”\nThat devilish grin once again appeared. With piercing eyes the little man and that low, gravelly voice replied, “Your undoing is all your fault, everyone knows dat if you want to keep your wife around, you must always take care of the little man in da boat!”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: BELLINO, THE COLLECTOR\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1858\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an artist whose work has magical properties." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Ah, Venice, how I do miss you. Bellino laid his palette on the small table beside the canvas. His trusted twelve colors, waiting on the palette. Four brushes rested in a tin can. How many years has it been? How many decades? No gondolas here, I’m afraid.\n\nBellino turned and looked around his studio apartment. The walls peaked out in small slivers of beige between the many canvases which covered them. One portrait after another, the eyes of so many maidens looked back at him. Many more canvases lay in tall piles, one upon another, on the floor.\n\nSoon, my old friends. He looked down at his weathered hands. He folded his fingers into his palms, then stretched them out as far as he could. So eager you are to hold the baton once again in a symphony of color.\n\nBellino smiled at the prospect of the coming joy, the movement of brush upon canvas.\n\nHe picked up his smock and slid his arms into the sleeves. Once a pristine white, the smock now exuded color. Every color from his palette presented, some many years old and faded, some less than a month old. The white barely shown through the colors anymore. He lifted his long gray beard and looped the strings of his smock over its top buttons.\n\nGrasping his cane, he slowly walked across the room and flipped the switch which ignited his lamps. Filtered light shown from all three of them and rested softly on the pile in the corner. He walked over to the pile and gently removed the sheet which covered the large red pillows stacked there. The black curtain draped the walls behind them made the red seem deeper, stronger. Bellino trusted his eyes to see the strength in colors.\n\nHe crossed the small space to his counter and poured a glass of Malbec. As needed as the brush and color. He smiled. Bellino took in the aroma of the wine then filled his mouth. The most prominent flavors, blackberry, plum, and chocolate pleased his tongue.\n\nHearing a light knock at his door, he sat the glass on the counter.\n\n#\n\nErin waited at the door. Grand Boulevard isn’t the worse street in the South Bronx, but being here after dark isn’t great. She looked up at the dim, bare light bulb hanging from the rusty fixture on the wall. I’m glad tonight’s the last night. No one would believe I’ve been spending my Friday nights here.\n\nShe smiled and pulled her coat tighter. The frigid air blew her long, golden brown hair in all directions.\n\nNearly a month had gone by since she met Bellino, when he came into the deli. She remembered him saying, “You are such a lovely waif.” No one had ever called her that, she didn’t know what the word meant. He smiled a warm smile, when he said it.\n\nWhile the old man ate his pastrami sandwich, he made the offer. $5,000 to sit still. She laughed at first, but when it became clear that he was serious, she jumped on the deal. Two month’s pay for four night’s work. A no-brainer.\n\nShe knocked on the door again.\n\nThe door opened, and there stood Bellino. His long gray hair, and beard, falling over his colorful smock. He had a large glass of red wine in his hand which he handed to her as she entered. He closed the door, and followed her into his studio.\n\n“Well, my dear, we are nearly done. Tonight, I will complete the painting.”\n\nErin looked around the studio. Paintings on every wall. Eyes on every canvas, they all looked at her. That spooked her right from the start, and still did. She turned to face him.\n\n“What do you think?” she asked.\n\n“Oh, your make up is wonderful, but we must get a brush for your hair.”\n\nWhile he shuffled off to the counter, Erin took off her coat. Why is it so heavy? Why am I so weak? She had been feeling odd for some time; not sick, just weak, sort of disconnected.\n\nA small table with two chairs sat in front of the only window. She laid her coat on the table and took a long drink of her wine. Thick with tannins, it rested heavily on her tongue. She allowed the flavors of black cherry, vanilla, and plum to linger a moment in her mouth.\n\nBy the time she finished the glass of wine, Bellino had returned with a large brush in his hand. He softly touched her shoulder to turn her, and began to brush her hair.\n\n“Yes, you are a lovely little waif. Somewhat like an elf.”\n\nErin blushed. Of course, she had heard many comments about her size, being just under five feet tall and weighing eighty pounds. No one had spoken to her quite like Bellino.\n\n“There, my dear, you are perfect.”\n\nBellino laid the brush on the table. “Shall we get started?”\n\n“May I have another glass of wine? It warms me, takes the edge off.”\n\n“Of course, my dear.”\n\nAs he went to the counter with her glass in hand, she slowly walked around the studio. She was careful not to bump the stacks of canvases. So many paintings. Some were close ups, some were full body, all were nudes. All young women, but each one different; a heavy girl here, a voluptuous woman there. All of them looked back at her. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She was sure they were really looking at her. Some looked sad, others looked envious, and there were those who looked angry.\n\nWhen Bellino handed her the wine, she tilted it back, allowing multiple swallows to go down her throat.\n\n“There, my dear, now let’s get to work.”\n\nErin tilted the glass again and finished off her wine. She sat the glass on the little table, then took off her clothes.\n\nShe walked toward the corner. There, as it had been each session, was the big pile of red pillows. One stood upright in the corner, where she knew she was to rest her back.\n\nShe nearly fell when she leaned over the pile. That had been happening a lot lately. Weakness, dizziness, had grown in her steadily. She had no idea why.\n\nOnce she had crawled upon the pillows, and assumed her pose, she looked up at Bellino. He stood at his large canvas. She watched as he pulled the cover off of it. He smiled. He admired his work for a moment. She was sure he was pleased with how the painting was coming along. She hadn’t seen it.\n\nEach time she had asked, he had said, “Oh no, dear, you must wait until it is fully done.”\n\nBellino picked up his palette and hunted through his little can of brushes. When he found just the right one, he dabbed it into the paint, and went to work.\n\nThey never talked while he painted. Erin had to be completely still. Her arm, which was placed upon her knee in her pose, felt heavy. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, covering her small breasts. Her pose was perfect. She wanted to smile, but she knew she must hold the pout of her lips still. Her breathing was very shallow. For the pose, her eyes must be half closed. They were. But, for this last night’s pose, they were half closed from being very weak, tired.\n\nShe watched as Bellino became more and more animated. He swung his brush in broad strokes, sometimes far beyond the canvas, sending spatters of paint sailing into the air. He was joyous. There was no doubt in her mind that painting was Bellino’s favorite thing in life.\n\nErin got that strange vertigo feeling again. She felt so weak. She felt disconnected from the world. Afraid she may tip over, she wanted to move her arm to adjust her balance. But, Bellino had warned her before that she must remain entirely still. She couldn’t stop her eyes from blinking, and they did, again and again. Then they closed. She whirled in that dizzy feeling, so weak.\n\nShe felt as if she were floating like smoke from the tip of a cigar, wafting into the air of the studio.\n\nThen, all at once, she felt very solid. She couldn’t move. Fear instantly welled up in her and she wanted to scream. She couldn’t.\n\n#\n\n“Ah, my beauty. We are done.” Bellino smiled.\n\nHe gently laid his brush on the little table, and placed his palette next to it. He put his fists on his hips and admired his work.\n\n“Beautiful!” He exclaimed.\n\nThe black in the background brought out all the other colors. The deep reds of the pillows, now shaped into waves, flowed wonderfully across the canvas. The strokes of the brush, clear, strong, vibrantly depicting movement where there was none. The little waif riding on waves of blood, looking out through half-closed eyes.\n\n“So delicate. Surely, if one blew on the canvas, she would be scattered to the wind.” He whispered.\n\nBellino walked over to the counter and filled his glass with wine. His body was weary, but he had never felt so exhilarated. He felt he could dance, a bold waltz. He would sway and twirl with joy. He ignored the body which slumped on the red pillows. This was a time for celebration.\n\nIf his legs were a bit younger, he would have skipped back to his canvas. He slowly shuffled back to it. He took a long drink of his Malbec, and gleamed at the painting.\n\n“What is this? There is something there that I did not paint.”\n\nHe sat down his glass and leaned in close to the painting. Tears. Little tears from the half-shut eyes, rolled slowly down the cheeks of the face in the painting.\n\n“Why does this happen? Stop that! At least wait for the paint to dry.”\n\nHe grasped a cloth and very softly dabbed at the tears, being careful not to smudge the paint. He gulped the last of his wine.\n\n“What do you cry for, little waif? You are beautiful, and now you will be forever. You will never age. Your skin will never blemish or wrinkle. Your eyes will never dull with age. You are immortal my dear.”\n\nHe walked across the room and removed a portrait which was on a canvas of like size.\n\n“Don’t fret, Matilda, you will always have a place in my heart.”\n\nHe softly laid the portrait on one of the piles on the floor. Walking slowly, he came back to the painting, and lifted it from the easel. He took it to the wall and hung it where Matilda had been.\n\n“There, my lovely waif, rest, find peace, find joy, my immortal love.”\n\n#\n\nErin looked out around the studio. She watched Bellino go to his bed and lie down. She looked across the room and stared into the eyes of the girl in the painting directly across from her. She asked the question in her thoughts, but she was sure the other girl could hear her.\n\n“Are you like me?”\n\n(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: Luther Whitehorse\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2950\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a casino." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Tony Mercelli was flanked by his brothers Alphonse and Marcus as they filed off the private Lear hey at Sky Harbor Airport In Phoenix. Dressed in pin striped suits and sunglasses, the trio appeared like high rollers, movers and shakers ready to seize the town by a haboob. Baboons were sand storms that were more frequent during the monsoons. \nKnown as Tony Mercy by his brothers and close associates, Tony was here to check out the Fort McDowell Casino out near Fountain Hills that was located on the Pima Indian Reservation. With an army of business lawyers, Tony was here to powwow with the owner of the casino for a possible merger with the Mercelli Family back on Long Island. None of the brothers had been to Arizona before. Tony stepped outside the terminal to have a quick smoke. The oppressive triple digit temperature outside the terminal nearly knocked him out, but he endured the smoke break before meeting his limousine. Alphonse joined him.\n\"It is hot.\" He grumbled as he took a puff.\n\"You ain't kidding.\" Alphonse affirmed his brother’s dissatisfaction with a low grumble.\n\"Can't wait to sign the papers and get out of this frying pan of a city, eh?\" Tony adjusted his sunglasses as he felt the sweat drip down his face. \n\"Wanna a paper?\" Alphonse asked, standing by a dispenser.\n\"No need. As soon as we sign on the bottom line, the sooner we can be on our way.\" He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it with his Italian leather shoes. \n\"Is this the limo, Tone?\" Alphonse asked, sniffing his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.\n\"Getcha ya brother.\" Tony demanded. Alphonse obeyed in an instant. Soon the three brothers were seated in the air conditioned limousine. Tony removed a bottle of Korbel Champagne from the mini-refrigerator and popped the cork. As he held the bottle tightly to keep the champagne from bubbling over the bottle rim, he poured two glasses full. Each brother took a glass as he poured a third glass for himself. After filling the third glass, Tony made a toast, \"To successful outcomes for the Mercy Brothers.”\nThis was their business iconic moniker since Tony used his iron fist tactics to build his empire. Known for his ruthless strong arm stratagem to achieve his personal and professional goals, his tactics were legendary in Atlantic City. Never afraid to employ his ruthless methods on his rivals, most potential investors found his indiscriminate use of muscle reassuring. No one seemed to object at least, even if some of the cogs disappeared in the agreements that took place in some out of the way Italian restaurant. Tony emphasized to his brothers that those in opposition must be disposed of or they will find a way to do it to you. It was all simple Machiavellian technique that had been successfully practiced faithfully since the Sixteenth Century. \nThe rest of the ride was uneventful as they finished the entire bottle. Marcus was only a year or so past legal drinking age. His face was bright red. He could not stop laughing as he felt the warm buzz of the champagne tickle his insides and the hilarity as big brother Tony continued gesturing wildly about some of the family's recent business dealings. \n\"One day, mark my words, we will rule the world just like Caesar.\" He raised his nearly empty glass and slapped his brothers on their backs.\nEarly that morning, at sunrise Luther Whitehorse was in the canyon near Roosevelt Lake with his brother Greg. The lake was A marvel of western engineering so that A place without water was able to collect enough to support A major population, but Luther and Greg were stalking wild horses that grazed on the steep canyon wall.\n\"That dappled one would fetch a good price.\" Greg pointed to the horse on the floor of the canyon, \"We have the nets staked out near there. It would be an easy snare.\"\n\"That horse is a yearling.\" Luther shook his head and Peered through his binoculars, \"I was hoping to get that mustang.\"\n\"Are you willing to make an open field dash, brother?\" Greg Raised the rifle stock to his cheek.\n“Sure.” He let the binoculars dangle around his neck.\n“He is a beaut.” Greg whistled. \n\"I'll get the ponies.\" Luther came to his feet and walked toward his Ford pick up truck with the trailer and a hitch. Luther had lived his entire life on the reservation. Graduating from the reservation mission school, life out here came natural to him. Capturing wild horses was something his father had taught him as a boy and he taught his brother. \nLuther took over training his brother Greg after his father’s car accident. The police report said he was intoxicated, but Luther had a hard time swallowing that story. All he knew was his father never got the chance to complete the lesson.\nHe opened the trailer gate and led the two saddled horses down the ramp. Grabbing the reins of the second horse, Luther got in the saddle of the first horse and rode them both up to where his brother was waiting. \nGreg mounted the horse mid-stride and together they rode into the box canyon. Two horses were spooked when they saw the brothers riding up over the rim of the canyon waving their hats and whooping like wild animals. The horses began to run, but they ran right into the nets becoming entangled in the ropes. Try as they might, they were unable to get free.\n\"Got 'em.\" Luther pointed. They rode up to where the two horses had given up fighting against the ropes. Using a harness Luther had draped over the neck of his horse, they slipped the harnesses over the horses' heads. The hard work was done. Greg would return his horse to the trailer and then bring his own Ford truck with a hitch and trailer that would be used for the captured horses.\n\"Don't you have a meeting with some big shots from New York City?\" Greg marched the wild horses into the trailer.\n\"In about an hour.\" He shrugged before dismounting. \n\"Cutting it close, aren't you?\" Greg latched the doors on the doors of his trailer.\n\"They are the ones interested in running the casino.\" He got into his truck behind the wheel.\n\" I can't believe you are dealing with the white folks again after their poor showing in recent history.\" Greg laughed as he got into his truck. \nMission accomplished. They roared through Superior a few minutes later. It took about fifty minutes to reach the casino on a nearly deserted two lane road.\nPulling into the Fort McDowell Casino parking lot, Luther saw the limousine was already in the park there. Luther paused for a moment, his Jeans and shirt smelled of horse and his boots were covered in various detritus that gave off a very musky scent. It was not the way he wished to present himself, but there was no time to clean up. \nHe was not even sure he'd take their deal. The casino provided funds to poor native families food and shelter. Selling the multibillion dollar gold mine seemed like a desperate move, but banking the money could offer a sizable return. He just wasn't keen on bringing their style of graft and crime from the opposite coast into the reservation proper.\nBut the fact that the casino was in danger of going belly up. His financial advisor, Vernon Gibbs showed Luther the board excel charts. Even though he was not computer savvy, he could clearly see the casino was headed on a spiraling downward slope to bankruptcy. Luther had also heard in the gossip wind that Mr. Gibbs was up to his neck in embezzled funds. It didn't make sense, but the more he sat in his office, the louder the rumors got.\n\"Greg, get Harmon to help you with the horses.\" Luther opened his office.\n\"Aye, aye.\" Greg gave his brother a quick, yet sarcastic salute.\nEntering his spacious office with the wall was decorated with authentic native art from dream catchers to fired clay pottery from Zuni style etchings. There were pictures in frames that spoke of better days next to professional certificates, some presented by the governor. \nAll of it was meaningless to him now. This was a good time to sell the casino before it became obvious the casino was losing revenue. Most of the other nations on the west coast were discovering what a boon it was to open a casino.\n\"Mr. Whitehorse, there are gentlemen here to talk to.\" The intercom buzzed with the voice of Tammy Manyfeathers, Luther's office manager. \n\"Send them in.\" He said as he pressed the \"speak\" button.\nReleasing the button, Luther reckoned the Rubicon had been crossed. The door opened as three impeccably dressed men entered his office. In the center of his spacious office, there was a table with four chairs. \nTony was the first to take a seat at the table. His brother Alphonse was next and finally Marcus took a seat as Luther removed the unsigned proposal from his file cabinet. He placed it in the middle of the table and then sat in the empty chair..\n\"Alright chief, let's get down to brass tacks\" Tony had a smirk etched In his face.\n\"I would appreciate it if you would not call me chief. I am not the chief, I am just a Pima. I would be grateful if you would refer to me as Luther.\" His voice was steady and firm, but there was not a hint of anger as he spoke. \nTony's smile began to fade. He glanced at his brothers who were already vigorously tapping on their cell phones. He fought the urge to slap the phones right out of their hands, but instead, he glared at Luther, searching for a clue of what he might be thinking. He was unable to find any clue.\nThe awkward silence continued for what seemed like an hour when actually it was just a few minutes.\n\"You came all this way to speak to me, but nothing is being said.\" Luther did not seem to be bothered by the silence in the least. \n\"What I have to say is in that contract.\" Tony waved his hand over the document.\n\"I see.\" Luther picked up the paper. \"I have read it many times and it reminds me of the treaties my ancestors signed. Seldom do the words in these treaties favor the interests of my people.\"\n\"What are ya talkin' about?\" Tony's agitation rose to the surface at that moment. \"The terms are quite equitable. The compensation we are offering is generous.\"\nAlphonse nodded, even though he did not look up as he continued to play with his phone.\n\"Fort McDowell has great meaning to our people.\" Luther leaned back in his chair, \"It was here they matched us across the arid desert without water or food. The children and elders were the first to die. If someone fell behind, the soldiers would bayonet them.\" He paused, but he could see Tony Mercy had none, \"We built that casino under congressional approval in 1967 when this land was put under sovereign jurisdiction of my people. We had many powwows and councils to decide what we were going to do. A few of our members spoke of the oasis in Nevada at A place called Las Vegas. The council leaders went to that place, my father included and saw for themselves. They talked about it for many months until they decided that we would build one of our own. And that's what they did. Right away the revenue fed, clothed, and sheltered our people.\"\n\"Great story, chief.\" Tony put some emphasis on his last word, \"But we want you to sign this and we will be on our way.\" \nAgain there was silence.\n\"I will not sign this.\" Luther shook his head slowly.\n\"Why not?\" Tony stood up, \"You said over the phone your casino was losing money. We can partner up and fix that. You said it was A good idea.\" \n\"I have changed my mind after many council meetings. Listening to my people and hearing the voices of my ancestors speak to me in the wind, I know that signing this would justify all the injustice done to my people.\" Luther did not let Tony's superior posture intimidate him.\n\"Listen to me, old man, we had a deal.\" He fumed, \"I've got lawyers ready to file A lawsuit.\"\n\"This is not a deal.” He shook his head.\n“Are you out of your mind, chief?” His real anger was now on display. This was the type of anger he exhibited just before he had someone killed. He pounded his fist on the table sending the unsigned contract airborne. “Now you listen to me, Chief. I did not come all the way to this godforsaken place just to have you flip me off. I will see this casino burn to the ground. I will teach you to disrespect me, Tony Mercelli.”\n“Before I call the authorities to have you removed from my land, reconsider what you are telling me.” Luther stood up to look Tony eye to eye. There was a slow burn in Luther’s eyes that made Tony turn his head. “Now get back in your car and go back to where you came from.” \n“This ain’t over, chief.” Tony was panting. \n“If war is what you want to make, so be it.” Luther smiled at him. His smile incensed Tony. \n“Al, Marcus, let’s go.” He panted. Alphonse and Marcus looked at each other, perplexed as to what had gone wrong. \"We are leaving.\" \n\"So soon?\" Alphonse shrugged. Luther opened the door.\n\"We are not welcome here.\" He said with a certain abruptness as he marched out the door followed by his confused brothers.\nTony was fuming when the elevator opened at the main gambling room where the bells and whistles signaled a winner at the rows of slot machines. \n\"Hey Tone, looks like the action is hot and heavy.\" Alphone rubbed his hands together. \"Whadda say we play a little black jack.\"\nTony stopped dead in his tracks. Nodding his head, he said, \"Sure.\"\nTony knew that his brother counted cards and his average take was A few thousand, but if they stayed and played extra, they could clean the place out. \n\"That will teach that stupid Injun who is boss.\" He snickered as the three of them made their way to the table. A woman dressed in a white shirt and black tie was dealing cards from a shoe. Marcus paid for a stack of chips on the company expense account. She put a new deck into the device as Marcus put the chips on the green felt.\nSomething about her bothered Tony, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He ran his fingers around his lips as he studied the young woman. She was definitely a member of the tribe with her dark olive skin and the long black hair she had tied in back. She wore several pieces of silver and turquoise jewelry. One of her pieces, a necklace, had something disturbing in the design. The design resembled eyes. The eyes seemed to be watching him and his brothers. The eyes moved. That was it. That is what made him uneasy as the shoe dealt each of the players a pair of cards.\n\"Check out that necklace she's wearing.\" Tony elbowed Alphonse.\n\"Pretty awesome, ain't it?\" He chuckled after looking at it.\n\"It's creepy.\" Tony sniffed.\n\"Suppose.\" He was counting cards and could not be bothered by Tony's obsessive suspicion of her accessories.\n\"Tony, it's me, Maury.\" The voice of his former associate echoed inside his head. \"Remember when you and the boys decided it was time for me to go?\"\n\"Tony, Margaret here.\"\nTony froze.\n\"What was it you put in my vodka that did me in so you could go off to Acapulco?\"\nSnow began to fall.\n\"I must be losing my marbles.\" He went to nudge Alphonse, but to his horror his brother was made of plastic. So was Marcus. So were the rest of the customers. The only ones still moving were the dealer and him. \n\"You thought you could threaten me into signing your contract, but my magic is more powerful than you can imagine.\" It was Luther's voice she was using. \"The world inside a snow globe can be quite tranquil and quite contained compared to the one you came from.\"\n\"What have you done to me?\" It would be the last words he would ever say.\nGreg put the plastic snow globe on his brother's desk. Delighted, Luther picked up the snow globe and gave it a vigorous shake. A smile came to his face as he watched the snow fall on the people at the black jack table. \n\"I don't know why this thing gives me so much pleasure.\" He shook it again.\n\"To each his own, I suppose.\" Greg shrugged as he walked out of his brother's office. \nHe watches to make sure his brother is gone before speaking directly to the snow globe with the frozen figures inside. \nThis Tony Mercelli was a fool to think that violence was stronger than a shaman’s magic that comes from the Great Spirit. \nLuther stands and looks out his window. The parking lot is full which means the casino is filled with customers hoping that luck is on their side today.\n\"I must pay Vernon Gibbs a visit later today.\" He gave the snow globe another hardy shake. ." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Strange Counsel\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1681\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a regular household item becomes sentient." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Strange Counsel\n\"You must kill him,\" whispered the voice in Sheila's ear, \"Before it's too late.\"\nSheila shut off the hairdryer. The warm, languid feeling of her just-completed bubble-bath was crazed like the windshield on a wrecked car by the shiver that crawled up her spine. \"What?\" She said to the empty bathroom.\nThere was, of course, no reply. She shivered, then resumed blow-drying her hair.\n\"He's cheating on you already,\" the windy whisper said. \"He's going to kill you if you don't act fast.\"\nSheila let the still-running hairdryer dangle from shaking hands. \"Who ... Who's saying this?\"\n\"I will help you.\" The voice was definitely coming from the hairdryer. \"I will show you how. Just listen to me. I'll keep you safe.\"\nSheila brought the \"talking,\" hairdryer up to eye level. \"This is ...\" crazy, she was too scared to say. Sure, things had been a little ... strange ... lately, but...\n\"You have to kill him before he hurts you. Before he kills you,\" the hairdryer whispered. A slow poison would be best. I can show you--\"\nSheila caught sight of her terrified green eyes in the steam-veiled mirror. She ignored her first instinct to hurl the hairdryer across the room, and very deliberately switched it off. \"I won't listen to this,\" she said, hearing the shrill quaver in her voice. \"I won't! Things will get back to normal. It'll get better! I won't listen to this!\"\nThat was three days ago. Three bubble-baths before bedtime ago. Three uses of the hairdryer ago. Things were getting worse, not better.\nEach night, she listened a little more. How did her hairdryer know all the intimate details? How did it know Louis was cheating on her, and with whom? How did it know how rocky her marriage had suddenly become? And yet ... it did know! Each night, the windy, whiny voice sighed truths she could not deny. Tonight, for the first time, she listened to its instructions. \"I will help you kill him ...\"\nThe front porch was dappled in cheery morning sunlight. Louis sat in his LazeeBoy, listening to the birds, the traffic rushing by, the children playing next door .. He felt awful. Spears of pain shot from his guts all the way to his backbone. The nausea was worse this morning than it had been the two mornings before. This wasn't the flu. Stress? He had so much to do at work--two reports due by the end of the day; two client conferences, a company-wide Zoom meeting later this morning .. and ... Janet would be there ...\nAnd even worse, something was very wrong with Sheila! Lately, she was too ... too cheery? Too attentive? Too ... false. Sheila was hiding something.\nHe rose and staggered into the house to get ready for work. He angrily shoved Sheila's hairdryer out of the way to plug in his electric shaver. In the mirror, he noticed how pale and haggard he looked, despite his immaculate grooming. \"What do I do about ... everything? About ... Sheila?\"\nThey had been so happily in love. \"You should just get it over with and get married,\" all their friends had said. \"You're insufferable together, just get married and make it official!\" So, they had. And it had been just like the guidebook for the American Dream said it should be--good new jobs, the perfect house, talk about babies and family and future--perfect! Until it wasn't anymore.\nLouis pulled himself together by an act of sheer willpower. He kissed Sheila goodbye--was she a little too affectionate? Yes, Louis thought she was ... He unlocked his Lexus, pulled out of the driveway and into traffic. His guts churned and coiled into knots. Another dagger of pain pierced him from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He almost swerved into oncoming traffic and made a non-issue of the whole problem, but got himself together. Two reports, a Zoom meeting ... and Janet would be there...\n\"It's not working! It's not working!\" Sheila whimpered. She was wrapped up in her fluffy blue towel, but the bubble bath offered no comfort anymore. \"He's not... you know ...\" dying. She couldn't say the word, even when talking to a hairdryer.\n\"It's okay,\" sighed the voice from her hairdryer as she fluffed up her long brown hair. \"Keep up the doses. Make them a little stronger. It will all be alright, but you must hurry...\"\nLouis heard the blow dryer stop. He imagined Sheila rising sinuously out of her mountain of pink bubbles. He saw her in his mind's eye, wrapping herself in the giant fluffy blue terry cloth towel and reaching for the annoying pink machine on the counter, fluffing up her hair before she brushed it out. She was so damned beautiful, he thought. How could she be so beautiful and so treacherous? He was sure she was hiding something from him--and it was something huge. Asteroid-hitting-Earth huge. An extinction event. A dinosaur-killer. So beautiful. Such a bad hider of secrets.\nBut, just what secrets were they? Was she really cheating on him? How much did he know about how she spent her time while he was at work? Could he possibly have misjudged her, been so wrong about his beautiful new wife?\nThe rumble in his guts, accompanied by a faint twinge of pain, seemed to lend more credence to these terrifying thoughts. Could she really be trying to kill him? Why? Sweet, beautiful Sheila...\nShe glided into the bedroom, still wrapped up in the blue towel. He smiled despite the crazy voices in his head. His nausea and cramps were forgotten as she dropped the towel and slid into bed. He rolled toward her, and she toward him. He could not detect any pretense in her, but deep down, he knew it was there...\nLouis lay on his back, hands locked behind his head, feigning sleep. He knew Sheila was also pretending to have dozed off. He didn't dare turn to her, as much as he desperately wanted to get this out in the open. Coward, he mentally lashed himself. Too scared of the train wreck? If you can't even talk to her, how are you ever going to ...\nTo kill her?\nHis mind raced around like a bug in a trap. That was the ugly truth, though, wasn't it? He was thinking about killing his sweet, beautiful new wife, before she ... Did what, exactly? Killed him? Was she poisoning him? Why? Once again, he had no answers for his mounting suspicions, but they would not rest.\nNothing in his life had prepared him to be a wife-murderer. Or, for that matter, a husband. From prep school to Ivy League college to upwardly mobile junior partner ... Which professor taught the class on how to kill your new bride? He hadn't seen that one in the course offerings...\nSo, where did you get advice on getting away with murder? Louis couldn't keep the twisted smile off his face, hidden in the darkened bedroom. \"Dear Abby: My wife may be cheating on me and might be trying to kill me. How can I kill her first before it's too late? Signed, Paranoid yuppie.\" Bad plan.\nHe watched the clock tick away the hours, while he asked the same questions, got no answers, and raced around and around in the trap. Finally, sleep sucked him down like an undertow.\nIn the morning, the pain from his guts had spread into his head. His face felt like it was being run through a blender. He still had no answers to his question. With a growl, he shoved Sheila's hairdryer out of the way (AGAIN!) and plugged in his electric shaver.\n She had ham and eggs ready on the table when Louis came into the dining room. Sunlight flooded the room. She was even more cheery than the birds singing in the trees outside, Louis thought. Before long, though, all he could think about was the chaos in his stomach. The nausea crashed over him, and razor blades seemed to be tearing him apart. He almost called in sick, but pride (and fear? Yes, just a little fear at being home when Sheila ... did whatever she was doing...) got him behind the wheel. And Janet was waiting...\nHe lay in wait, tense in the darkened bedroom. The nightlight sculpted hills and valleys of shadow. He couldn't relax his rigid posture ... \nHe could imagine her so clearly. Her dancer's body rising from the mountains of pink bubbles--a mermaid surfacing in a sea of coral, eyes still lost in the dreamy paradise world of the bath. Standing in the tub, droplets of pinkish water cascading like gentle rain. Lifting one leg to step ashore ...\nLouis bolted upright when he heard the thump from the bathroom. The short, sharp shriek that followed almost made him cry out as well. When the nightlight went out a second later, he got tangled in the sheets and sprawled to the floor in the now-totally dark bedroom. Heart pounding, he fumbled himself free and ran into the bathroom...\nSheila was still twitching slightly. Steam rose from the bathtub. An acrid smell filled the bathroom, making Louis gag and wretch. She was crumpled, not graceful. No mermaid; no dancer. A look of shock distorted the lines of her pretty face. The hairdryer lay half-submerged like an enemy submarine. It settled to the bottom of the tub with a small, polite thud as the water drained away, leaving the bubbles to collapse like a pink shroud.\nLouis turned to the steamy mirror. His pallor shocked him, even through the distorting ripples. \"Oh my god, oh my god!\" He said in a little girl's screamy voice. \"Oh my god--what do I do now!?\" He was powerless to keep his mind from completing the thought ... It worked. It worked! \n\"Don't touch anything,\" said the smooth, masculine voice of his electric razor. \"We'll get through this, I promise. Call 911 and tell them there's been a terrible accident.\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hand of Fate\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 3002\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone losing their lucky charm." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Fate parked outside the B&B, waiting for Georgia, though he knew he shouldn’t get involved. Even in this supernatural town, the name Noqoìlpi inspired fear. He-Who-Wins-Men. And this beautiful little human was hunting him.\nHer poker skills were impressive, but just because she’d cleared a table of amateurs at Chonky’s Bar last night didn’t mean she could take down a Navajo gambling god.\nHis orange and black cross fox, Mel, crawled into his lap. Fate scratched behind his ears and cooed, “That one’s trouble. Just like you.”\nGeorgia came out a few moments later and smiled when she spotted him.\n“Need a ride?” he asked.\nShe climbed into his truck and Mel promptly left Fate to curl in her lap. \n“Fine,” Fate said. “I’ll eat these by myself.”\nMel’s ears perked when Fate rattled the cup of multi-colored doughnut holes, but he still wouldn’t move, so Fate handed them to Georgia. She extracted a bright blue one and fed it to the fox.\n“Foxes eat doughnut holes,” she mused.\n“That fox eats everything. He has a reputation, and I always have a vet bill. There have been rings, coins, a lighter …” Fate shook his head. “Where are you headed?”\n“Chonky’s.”\nHe drove most of the way in silence, then said, “Are you going to tell me why you want to play Noqoìlpi?”\nShe studied him. “Why?”\n“Because I’m worried.”\n“You don’t know me,” she said. “We just met yesterday.”\n“So, I can’t worry about you?” he asked as he parked outside the bar.\n“No,” she said, holding Mel and reaching for the door handle. “You can’t.”\n“Georgia, wait!” he said. “I know what he is. You can’t beat him.”\n“I did once,” she said defensively. “He has my little brother, Fate. My father lost us in a game three years ago. Last month, I challenged Noqoìlpi to a game for our freedom, and I won. He got mad and let me go, but he kept Luke. And he wouldn’t play me again.”\n“Georgia—”\nShe shook her head. “He takes you to the shadow world. You don’t understand how awful it is. Luke can’t survive another four years. I’m going to get another game, and I’m going to free him. Don’t try to stop me.”\nShe stalked inside. He trailed in behind her just in time to hear her ask Larry for a Jack and Coke.\nFate nodded at Chonky, the cyclops who owned the bar, and held up two fingers to indicate he wanted the same. Larry grunted.\n“Don’t mind him,” Chonky said. “He’s grumpy because I’m making him do the charity Bachelor Auction.” \n“They’re not seeing eye-to-eye,” Leo the werewolf joked, and Chonky scowled before leaning to taunt Larry.\n“Think of the chil-dren, Larry,” he said, then snickered.\n“It’s your bar,” Larry groused. “You should do it, too.”\nFate and Leo both laughed. Chonky scowled.\n“What?” he demanded. “I’m sexier than either of you pretty boys.”\n“He’s the one eye adore,” Leo said, blowing Chonky a kiss.\nChonky frowned. “I’m not scared. I’m in. But you and Fate are, too.”\n“Eye, Captain.” Fate tapped off a salute and Georgia laughed.\nChonky took it all in stride. He told Georgia, “You should bid, darlin’. You could probably get all three of these for a dollar.”\nThe door blew open. The banter stopped and Mel’s hackles rose when a man in an expensive black suit and cowboy boots walked in.\nChonky stiffened and his smile looked forced as he said, “Noqoìlpi. Long time, no see.”\nThe gambling god didn’t answer. He was too busy scanning the room. Then his gaze lit on Georgia and his lip curled. He turned to Chonky. \n“I want a game. What do you have?”\n“I’ll play you,” Georgia said. “Right now.”\nHe ignored her, and Chonky made a show of wiping down his bar. “Ah, it’s a little slow right now. We don’t have any tables going.”\n“What’s this?” Noqoìlpi tapped a flier advertising tomorrow night’s poker game.\n“Nothing you’d be interested in. A charity event, with human players only. That’s really all that will be—”\n“I’m playing,\" Georgia interrupted. \"You could sponsor a human to play against me. That is, if you have someone who can play better than you. I’d like a real challenge.”\nChonky gasped and Fate jumped to his feet.\nEveryone started talking at once. Everyone except Noqoìlpi and Georgia. \nNoqoìlpi held up a hand and the room fell silent. He beckoned Georgia forward. \n“I want Luke’s freedom,” she said, facing him.\nNoqoìlpi smirked. “And if you lose?”\n“Then you get me back. Seven more years.”\nNoqoìlpi shook his head. “New game, new bet. If you lose, your brother will still go free, but you will belong to me forever.”\n“Deal!” Georgia said without hesitation, and the room erupted in protest.\nNoqoìlpi smiled. \nWhen Noqoìlpi left, Fate said,“I’m not going to let you do this. Maybe your brother’s tougher than you think. Maybe he can do four more.”\n“He can’t. I know he can’t.”\nChonky tried to reason with her, but she’d made up her mind. She punched a few numbers in the jukebox before walking back to Fate and taking his hand. \n“Dance with me,” she said.\n***\nWhen Fate took her back that night, he didn’t leave. He lay awake long after she’d fallen asleep in his arms. After Noqoìlpi had left, she’d acted so carefree, while each sip of his beer had made him want to throw up. He tried to tell himself that she’d be playing another human, not Noqoìlpi, but still, it would likely be another person playing for their life. He barely knew Georgia, but he already knew he couldn’t lose her.\nThey stayed in bed until noon, then he took her to lunch. She laughed and joked and cleaned her plate, while his food remained untouched. \n“Fate… ” She took his hand. “Don’t worry about me.”\nShe kissed him at the table, not caring who was watching.\n“Either way, if Luke is free, it’ll be okay.”\nShe wrapped up a biscuit for Mel, and Fate drove to Main Street, where vendors were set up for the Christmas Festival. Fate bought a red rose from a little boy. Turning to Georgia, he broke it off, removed the thorns and tucked it behind her ear. “The Chinese think red is a lucky color. Brides wear it to ward—”\nMel suddenly bounded from Georgia’s arms. Fate lost sight of him, then he heard someone yelling. He found Mel in Benny’s Donut’s booth, helping himself to a batch of freshly iced doughnut holes while Benny tried to shoo him away. Mel stood his ground and hissed, his mouth stained green from the icing.\n“I’m sorry!” Fate said, scooping up his pet. \nHe threw down some cash and a mollified Benny handed him the half-eaten cup of doughnut holes.\nFate chastised Mel as they walked away, but in baby talk, making Georgia laugh. \n“Now you know where the phrase ‘crazy like a fox’ comes from, but I’m not sure they’re as smart as people think.”\nMel gave him an offended look, which was comical because of the green and pink icing clinging to his whiskers. \n“Don’t look at me like that,” Fate purred. “I’m not the one who ate a tube of Krazy Glue once. That was bad. He couldn’t understand why he couldn’t open his mouth and he was scared. We were all chasing him around the Chonky Tonk.”\nToo soon, Georgia glanced at her watch and said, “I guess we’d better head that way.”\nWhen they walked in the bar, Chonky looked at Georgia and said, “How ya doing, sweetheart? It’s not too late to change your mind.”\n“I’m good. It’ll be okay.” She smiled, but when Fate took her hand, it was icy.\nMel made a keening sound and the bar quietened as Noqoìlpi walked in. Fate didn’t immediately notice the man trailing behind him, but Georgia did.\nA tear streaked down her cheek as she said, “Father.”\n***\nGeorgia’s father said, “Hey, Sweetpea.”\n“Is it not enough,” she demanded, “that you caused all of this in the first place? Did you come to finish destroying your own children?”\nHer father dropped his head. \n“Georgia, I didn’t have a choice. I tried to win you back, but I lost, and now I belong to Noqoìlpi.”\n“That’s what you’re playing for today? Your freedom versus mine? You’re such a great dad.”\nAcross the bar, Chonky announced, “Poker contestants, your seat numbers and positions were assigned randomly and our local coven has taken steps to ensure there will be no magical interference at the table.”\nGeorgia’s seat was directly across from her father. Noqoìlpi gazed at her as he rolled a smooth piece of turquoise through his fingers.\nSeven contestants had entered, and only one had been eliminated by first break, taken out by a careless all-in against Georgia’s father. \n“Let’s go outside,” she told Fate.\nWhen they were away from the crowd, Georgia snuggled against him . He cradled her close, careful not to crush Mel between them.\n“You’re doing great,” he said. “You are so crazy smart and intuitive.”\nBut so was her father. At the table, he was all business. He hadn’t even made eye contact. \nThe second round went faster. Three more players folded by the next break, leaving only Georgia, her father and a young man hidden behind a hoodie that covered most of his face as he attempted not to betray any signs. But Georgia didn’t need his face.\n“He has a nervous knee,” she whispered to Fate during the next break. “I think I’m getting a tell that my father can’t.”\n Georgia got her chance to test her theory a few hands later. Her father folded after the flop. The river gave Georgia four-of-a-kind, and apparently gave nervous knee something as well. Knowing only two hands could beat her, she said, “All-in,” and the guy called, sealing his elimination.\nFor the first time, Georgia had the chip lead. She asked her father, “Have you even checked on Luke? Do you feel any remorse from sending a fifteen-year-old boy to the shadow land?”\nHe glanced at her as he checked on the flop. “I never thought I’d lose. I’d lost my money. I’d lost my house. I really thought I’d figured him out and was going to win. I never …”\nHe trailed off, and she said, “Raise 400. You never what … gave a damn? That I believe. I remember after Mom left, how you’d leave us in a motel room with some cheap pizza for the weekend while you went to the casino. We were just little kids.”\nHe called, then looked at the turn card. “It was hard for me, too. I didn’t know how to take care of you, or hold down a real job. Cards and the game are all I know.”\nFate peeked at her cards over her shoulder. She had middle pair but was it good enough? She looked shaken. \nThen her father blurted, “Remember your Uncle Frank? I’ll never forget that wild game in Boise when you were learning to play. He was so impressed when you took me out.”\nGeorgia stared at him. \nGeorgia’s father stared back, his dark eyes boring into hers. The look on his face pleaded, Trust me.\nGeorgia hesitated, and her father said softly,“Come on, Georgia Ann. Whatcha gonna do?”\nFate watched something unspoken pass between them, then she pushed her chips her chips forward and said, “All-in.”\nHer father gave a triumphant grin and Georgia blanched.\n“You bastard,” she whispered.\n“Call!” he crowed, and flipped up queens.\nShe barely had enough to ante up for the next round, but her father took that pot, too. \nIt was over.\nShe belonged to Noqoìlpi .\n“Can I at least see him?” she asked. “When you bring Luke back, can I see him for a moment?”\nNoqoìlpi gave a slight nod.\n“Wait!” Fate cried. “Play me, double or nothing. One hundred years labor, my freedom for hers.”\nNoqoìlpi shook his head. “Demons are a dime a dozen. I don’t need another pet demon.”\n“I’m not a demon,” Fate said. “I’m nephilim. I bet you don’t have a pet one of those.”\nShocked, Georgia stared at Fate as his eyes began to glow a brilliant, icy blue. The room erupted in a chorus of surprised muttering.\nNoqoìlpi leaned forward, interested. \n“No!” Georgia shouted. “I won’t let you do this.”\n“Deal,” Noqoìlpi said. “Choose your game, Nephilim.”\nFate handed Mel to Georgia and said, “Billiards.” \nGeorgia dragged Fate to the corner and said, “You can’t do this! You barely know me.”\n“It’s only a hundred years,” he said, and kissed her forehead. “My father may not have given me anything else, but I’ve inherited his immortality.”\nWhat he didn’t say, and what he saw on her face, was that in a hundred years, she’d be gone. If he lost, they would never see each other again.\n“I’m pretty good. A lifetime of misspent youth.” He scratched Mel’s head. “You have to take care of him, though. He doesn’t like anyone else.”\n“Fate—”\n“Shh!” He kissed her. “I have no regrets, win or lose.”\nNoqoìlpi stood at the table, rolling the turquoise stone between his fingers. Georgia’s father had already slipped away.\n Chonky glanced at Fate and said,“Nine-ball, best three of five. Flip to see who breaks?”\nNoqoìlpi waved dismissively. “He can break first. We’ll alternate each game.”\nFate made three balls on the break, then circled the table, making shot after shot. He ran the table, then called his 8-ball shot. The crowd erupted when he made it. Noqoìlpi’s face remained inscrutable . \nNoqoìlpi took the next two games, allowing Fate only two shots, and both of those were trying to shoot around a safety.\nFate noticed Georgia whispering something to Chonky, and then Chonky went to consult with the witches. \nIt was Fate’s shot and once again, Noqoìlpi laid the piece of turquoise on the rail. This time, however, when he turned to search for a chalk cube, Mel lunged from Georgia’s arms, darted across the table and gulped down the turquoise stone that undoubtedly reminded him of the doughnut holes he adored.\n“No!” Noqoìlpi yelled, and grabbed for him. Mel scampered down the rail and up Fate’s arm to sit on his shoulder, where he promptly hissed at Noqoìlpi.\n“That’s my lucky talisman!” Noqoìlpi shouted, looking panicked. “I want it back!”\nFate sighed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s going to happen for a day or two. You can have it back then. ”\nNoqoìlpi removed a knife from his pocket. “We can cut it out right now.”\n“You most certainly will not,” one of the witches said. \n“Magic is against the rules,” Georgia said. “I’ve noticed how you hold that stone with each shot, even if it makes it cumbersome. But when it’s Fate’s turn, you lay it on the table. When you do that, Fate misses. Surely a god such as yourself would have no need to cheat, so I assume it’s just a harmless charm. Guess we’ll see now, huh?”\nNoqoìlpi shot her a malicious glare and Fate knew she was right. The powerful gambling god was nothing but a cheat, and he was stuck now, because admitting it would forfeit the game and destroy his reputation.\nMel, he thought, stay right where you’re at.\nFate didn’t allow Noqoìlpi another shot for the rest of the game, making a beautiful, nearly impossible eight-ball shot.\nThey entered their last game tied. Fate made five balls on the break, but scratched, so Noqoìlpi got a shot. He clumsily missed a wide open ball in the corner. Fate looked at Noqoìlpi and purposely missed a bank shot. Noqoìlpi scowled, because he knew what Fate was doing. Noqoìlpi missed his next shot as well, and people whispered behind their hands. \nGeorgia caught Fate’s gaze and said, “Finish him.”\nFate ran the rest of his balls, but lucky charm or not, Georgia could tell he didn’t like his chances of scratching on the eight and giving Noqoìlpi an automatic win, so he did a safety, tucking the eight in a cluster by the side pocket.\nNoqoìlpi tried to make his five-ball in the corner, but he sent the eight-ball shooting down the rail to sink in the pocket. \nHe had lost. \nThe room erupted in cheers and Georgia darted around the table to hurl herself into Fate’s arms. \nNoqoìlpi snapped his fingers, filling the spot where he was standing with a cloud of dust. For a moment, Fate couldn’t see anything. But then the dust settled, and a thin, pale boy stood where Noqoìlpi had stood. He looked around, bewildered.\n“Luke!” Georgia screamed.\n“Georgia!” he gasped. “Is this real? Am I free?”\nFate grinned at them. He could've sworn Mel was grinning, too.\n***\nThe party was in full swing at Chonky’s when Georgia pulled Fate outside. Luke sat at the bar with Leo, devouring a plate of wings while Mel snatched up the discarded bones. Fate picked Georgia up and spun her around and she laughed before kissing him passionately. \n“That dirty cheat,” she said .“Thank goodness for that hungry-eyed bottomless pit rascal of yours.”\nFate laughed. “Yeah, I guess we need to find a vet, just to be safe, but he’s eaten worse.”\nHe opened his arms and Georgia snuggled against him.\n“Nephilim, huh?” she said. “Good angel or bad?”\nFate winced. “You don’t really want to know.”\n“It doesn’t matter. We’re not like our fathers.”\nHe cleared his throat. “I am going to ask you a favor. That auction thing tomorrow … please bid on me. Chonky’s sister was saying something about a reverse harem and I’m scared.”\nGeorgia giggled. “She better keep her eye off my man.”\n“Your man, huh?” Fate asked, pleased.\n“Oh, yeah. I bet all I have on you, Fate. I’m all in.”\n“I am, too,” he said, and kissed her as the snow began to fall." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Indifference\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1807\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that hinges on the outcome of a coin flip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Eduardo and I sat on the bluff, overlooking the factory complex in the valley below. The gritty sand beneath us was a dusty buff color, matching our sweat-encrusted camouflage clothing. The air was warm from the day-long bright sun, now moving behind the Lliama Volcano in the southern Andes, and particles of dust swirled in the air. As the sun descended, the vents and air conditioning units on the rooftops of the Chilean weapons complex flashed in the copper sunlight.\nI pointed into the valley. “See how they don’t open one gate until another has been closed.” A truck was exiting through a series of gates on its way to resupply government forces. The complex was surrounded by layers of high wire fences, each topped with razor-edged concertina wire. According to the signs, the inner-most fence was electrified. On the four corners of the outer fences, concrete guard towers loomed into the sky, and in front of them, gantries of anti-aircraft missiles bristled skyward.\nEduardo beside me is my agent, and I take my orders from Lima. Eduardo’s sister leads the resistance inside the plant. She and Eduardo, and the entire village of Viracocha, were forcedly displaced to build this plant. Just three years ago, the generous waters of the Harabancha River flowed from the mountains to water the villagers’ potatoes and quinoa. Now the water is thirstily sucked up by the sprawling community of factories, offices, and barracks below. Most of the displaced Amayara Indians are forced to live in the slums of Callachao, an hour away. Dozens are bused back daily to load explosives into shells and powder into cartridges for the Chilean army to use against their own dispossessed native people, and my people, the Peruvians.\nThe war had been grinding on for over a year. After months of politicians’ chest-thumping, Peru had struck first, catching half of the Chilean Air Force on the ground. However, we never followed up on our advantage, and the fighting became a protracted struggle across the narrow border. Unfortunately, the longer the war winds on, the greater the likelihood Chile will win. Chile has more people, a much bigger economy, and unlike Peru, is self-supporting in the production of munitions, using her extensive copper, steel, and phosphate resources.\nEduardo, like so many of his townspeople, was of a mixed mind about the factories. He had been unable to gain security clearance to work in the plant; something about some minor indiscretions in his youth. The factories provided jobs for over a hundred, who in turn kept food on the table for the entire former populace of the village. But this was their land; they believed it had been granted to them by the gods thousands of years ago. For centuries, the lands from Lima in the far north to the Callachao district here in the south had constituted the kingdom of the Amayaras.\nEduardo’s sister wasn’t driven by hatred of Chile, or a love of Peru, but a deep burning resentment over the destruction of her village, her people, their religion, and their way of life. These wrongs fueled her hatred, but she would not light the first fuse without the approval of her older brother.\nIt had taken us most of the day to reach the bluff, climbing by a circuitous route so as not to be observed. We sat on the exposed mountain top two miles away and watched the complex through shielded binoculars. Eduardo began as we recovered our breath from the climb. “We are prepared, Ricardo,” for that was the name he knew me by.\nWhat was in readiness was the complete and utter destruction of the entire complex, blown sky high by its own explosives. Many people would certainly die, including soldiers, officers, civilians, and many of the former townspeople of Viracocha.\nTwo weeks ago, the workers had learned the current commandant of the complex was to be replaced because of the increasing numbers of “dud” shells and misfiring cartridges coming from the assembly lines. The new commandant was to be none other than Colonel Philippe Benitez, the “Terror of Chacalluta.” It was in Chacalluta one of the worst atrocities of the war had been committed; two hundred Amayara Indians had been executed in reprisal for the death of a single Chilean soldier.\nThe appointment of Colonel Benitez struck terror within Chile’s most-vital munitions factory. The officers at the complex had used the threat of the coming of Colonel Benitez to terrify the workers to new heights of productivity, and Eduardo’s sister and her supporters were forced to reduce the level of sabotage. The Chilean officers were, in turn, terrified upon receiving a memo from Colonel Benitez notifying them that as soon as he had completed his round of meetings in Santiago, he would be coming to the plant for a thorough inspection. Not only could such an inspection uncover punishable errors on the part of the soldiers and officers, but it could also reveal the elaborate preparations of the townspeople to strike a retaliatory blow.\nWith Colonel Benitez’ expected arrival next week, the timetable for Eduardo’s sister and her supporters inside the plants had moved up. I communicated the urgency to Eduardo, Eduardo talked with his sister, and she prepared her supporters within the factories.\n “Does she have everything she needs?” I enquired unnecessarily, for I had provided Eduardo with primer cord, fuses, and igniters months ago. I simply wished to engage Eduardo after the long hike, undertaken mostly in silence.\nEduardo was a big man for an Amayara Indian; over six feet and weighing more than two hundred pounds. Prior to the coming of the plant, he had been a blacksmith in Viracocha, but now he was forced to rely on his sister’s generosity and my employ to keep food on his table to feed his wife and three children. And now there was a fourth on the way. Since the coming of the plant, work for him in Callachao had been sparse, with only occasional day laboring and field work. How his family would subsist after the death of the plant, and that of his sister, was unclear. Eduardo’s only source of income would be reduced to the five one-thousand-peso banknotes I paid him monthly. In Santiago, it would barely buy a man one good meal, but here in the south, it could purchase a little more. I hoped I would be able to get Eduardo a bonus should the attack succeed; however, my employers are notoriously tight-fisted for deeds that have already transpired.\nEduardo didn’t answer my question. He briefly nodded his large head, and asked softly, “Are you sure this is necessary?” This question had many levels of significance, not the least of which related to this uneducated man’s trust in my college-schooled intelligence and comprehension. What he really wanted to know was if it was necessary for hundreds to die, including his sister? Was it necessary for so many poor Indians, who seemed to have so little choice in the modern world, to die? Would it be necessary for Chile to “die” if she lost the war? I had no answers to any of these questions. I simply followed the orders of the little gray men who worked in the office building just behind Lima’s Plaza Major.\n“No, I am not sure at all. I don’t know it will end the war, or even change its course for long. It will not bring Viracocha back to the way it was, and the explosions will kill a lot of innocent people.” It seemed unnecessary to add that his sister would be a casualty, no matter how this affair ended.\n“I, myself, am indifferent,” Eduardo continued. “I no longer have illusions.” The aftermath of the coming of the plant, the exile of the former residents, and the ongoing war, weighed on us both.\nI thought of my illusions now lost. Fortune had decided I would never know the love of a family. I was the son of a dead whore from Lima and an unknown sailor from Santiago. My love for Peru was counterbalanced by my divided parentage and the fact I now “resided” with the enemy in Chile. As far as the righteousness of our cause and honor, having seen too many battles featuring both unbearable cruelty and the cowardice of men, I was now agnostic on that point as well.\nIt was simply my job to hurt the enemy, to destroy the weapons manufacturing complex. It was also my job to exploit the fissures of the enemy’s society and to ferment rebellion. If a Chilean intelligence agent now sat overlooking a Peruvian weapons factory, as I do now, would he hesitate as I do?\nYet I hesitated. I used to have ready answers. Now, I cannot even come up with the right questions.\nIn my heart, I was indifferent to the coming destruction, too, but given my training and profession, I could not bring myself to say so. I had a job to do.\n“I would not have you do anything you did not wish,” I responded, hoping Eduardo would support the conclusion I sought, albeit without much enthusiasm.\n“No, Ricardo, I have eaten your bread, and my sister has sworn to blow up the factories that destroyed our way of life. I just wish so many did not have to die.”\n“Me, too, mi amigo.”\nI felt the weariness of unending war; pain seeped through my body.\n“We must go soon,” said Eduardo. “A passing helicopter may see us, and all would be lost.”\nI took a coin from my pocket, my lucky five-sol piece, and balanced it between my index finger and thumb.\n“We could let the Gods decide,” I said with resignation. “Maybe men such as you and I are not fit to make decisions of this magnitude. Heads, we go ahead with the blast tomorrow. Tails, we wait to see if other options develop.”\nI handed the coin to Eduardo. He looked slowly at each side of the coin. The copper center set in the nickel surround glinted in the last rays of the sun. Eduardo put the coin on his thick square thumbnail and flipped it high in the air. Anyone looking up at the bluff at that moment from the plant below would surely have seen the flash as it rotated. It fell a few yards from our feet, and we ambled over to where it lay in the glooming. Eduardo bent down to study it. I glanced quickly at the result, then picked it up and handed it to Eduardo.\n“So that is it, eh, compadre,” Eduardo sighed, as he pocketed my coin. I put my hand on his shoulder in comradeship as we started to walk back down the path, away from the complex.\n“It is decided,” I agreed." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Just Deserts\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2966\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where your character is travelling a road that has no end." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It is impossible to resist a hitchhiker on a road to nowhere. And that was exactly what my cousin Shane’s wedding to Raven the following morning was going to be.\n\nIt was strange that we all gathered to wish them well when none of us would be there in two years when the ineluctable breach of the sacrament was ratified by the divorce judge after Shane’s degenerate, pathological gambling resulted in the foreclosure of Raven’s overpriced Bungalow-style home in Boulder City, which she would naively agree to mortgage to the hilt to bail him out, setting up the bad beat betrayal she’d been waiting for from the day they met.\n\nThat is the thing about El Sombrerón. He ties his four mules to his inamorato’s post, while he woos from the threshold with sweet songs strummed on a silver guitar, plucking notes of promise, woven in plaited spirals, like Guatemalan braids. But once the affair begins, he leaves the stomach empty. “Madre de Dios!” At length, his black dogs howl their dismal mourning at the Snow Moon, which searches in vain like a celestial spotlight for what is left of the shriveled cicisbeo. Still, it is said that the old man never forgets the ones he has loved. I must apologize, my mind is prone to wandering. It is part of my condition.\n\nI wonder how often Pablo Tac felt the same way, baptizing savages in the frontier who were more than likely bent for a hell of their own making.\n\nHow many does El Sombrerón visit to pay them their wages?\n\nSabrina, the Jamaican flight attendant, with the perfectly symmetrical face and the caramel complexion scolded Carl, who sat right next to me, saying, “Stay seated while the seat belt sign is illuminated. Don’t make me tell you again.” The seat belt light had been illuminated since the plane touched off and Tropical Storm Tomas caught us in its clutches, sending us in an interminable loop between Tortilla Flats and Scottsdale. Carl muttered something under his whiskey-smelling breath. Sitting down, Carl released a low, rumbling cough that rattled in his chest like a cracked carburetor. We were off to a famous start.\n\nI didn’t know how long I’d had a demon, but El Sombrerón was in the back row with his broad-brimmed, high-crowned black hat angled down while he napped. I was safe for now. I could hear him whispering: Stefan… you can’t hide in your books forever… sooner or later you will have to face me… face your undoing… you will have to face what you have done.\n\nWhile I wondered when El Sombrerón would make his move, I stroked my necklace with the coat of arms pendant, striped blue and red with an eagle at the crest. I kept reading from Alta California, a book of essays about Spanish and Mexican Settlers in the Spanish Borderlands. I was reading about the life of Pablo Tac, a Luiseno Indian, who despite dying at age nineteen, was a prolific writer and missionary whose extensive writings were the only surviving accounts of the Luiseno language and culture and one of the most studied reports of missionary life on the frontier. I had a second book in my bag, Memories of Life at a Mission, a biographical account written by Pablo Tac himself.\n\nCarl had to get up so he could get something out of his bag in the overheads. When he sat back down, he had a stack of medical reports in hand. The header of his papers read: “Dr. Carl Kellog, M.D., Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center,” and I spotted a reference to someone named Sal—. Carl said, “I have an appointment to keep. I’ll be damned if I am going to miss it. The next thing they’re going to tell us is the flight is diverted to Goddamn Phoenix.”\n\nOn cue, the pilot came back over the PA to inform us that the flight was, indeed, being grounded in Phoenix for the night and that the airline would arrange for replacement transportation, but given the lateness of the hour, it would have to be the following day—those that did not wish to sleep in the airport would have a room comped nearby.\n\nI was relieved when they first told me about the glioblastoma. I’d gone directly to Saint Peter’s Episcopal Church and entered the confessional. And I’d told Father Darby how I’d been driving home from the History Conference in Ithaca a few years back, after too many celebratory toasts, and quite a few tequila shooters from the mini bar to boot. I’d only wanted to sleep in my bed that night. I’d told Father Darby how I’d heard a thud and a crack of my windshield. The blue-jeaned body of a teenage girl hung in the rearview, perfectly cradled in the refracted lamplight. How I’d kept on driving. How many Hail Marys to fix that one?\n\nSabrina offered me a beverage, which I sternly declined, and I asked her softly, “Do you see a man about six rows back with a black-brimmed hat.”\n\nShe turned, dutifully, and then looked down at me with wide eyes. “No. No, I do not, sir,” she said. “Is everything okay?” I nodded. I was safe for now.\n\nAs we began our descent into Phoenix, Carl became apoplectic. He stowed his hands in a rigid set position on his knees and trained his eyes forward at Sabrina like she was his jailer and he stood wrongly accused.\n\n“I have an important appointment in the morning in San Diego. I can’t be late. I just can’t.” Carl said all of this more to himself than anything.\n\nSabrina paid no attention.\n\nI put my hand on Carl’s shoulder and said, “We will figure this out, together. We are going to the same place.”\n\n* * *\n\n“So, you are proposing we drive around the storm, through the night to San Diego? Are you nuts?”\n\n“You want to make that appointment or not?” I asked.\n\nAnd so, we tossed our luggage in the back of a silver Toyota Tacoma 4-door and hit the road.\n\n“I saw your paperwork. So, you are a doctor?”\n\n“A Surgeon,” Carl said. “What about you?”\n\n“I am a history teacher, college level, up at Cornell. My research relates to sojourners and missionaries—all manner of settlers and vagabonds—anyone uprooted from their home and stranded in a foreign land. Aren’t they fascinating?”\n\n“I suppose. That book you were reading—it was about one of those?”\n\n“Pablo Tac.”\n\n“Who?”\n\n“A young missionary boy who grew up in the Mission San Luis Rey.”\n\n“And what makes him so special?”\n\n“Pablo Tac? Well, for one, he had a motto: Siempre adelante y nunca para atrás. It was more than a saying—it became his epitaph. He died young.” I don’t know it for a certainty, but I imagine Pablo Tac didn’t live long enough to make a mistake he’d regret for the rest of his life.\n\n“Sounds foolish—he’s lucky he made it that long—out on the frontier.” Carl’s mind seemed trained to detect pathology in everything.\n\n“You know, Pablo made it to Rome to study for the priesthood. Then returned to the frontier. He left behind quite a body of work. Made a record of nearly his whole life. Day-by-day. Imagine covering that much ground by age nineteen?”\n\n“And how did he die, if I might ask?”\n\n“Smallpox.”\n\n“There you go. The boy devotes himself to God, and boom—[clapping his hands for effectI]—he’s snuffed out like a match in between God’s bloodthirsty fingers.”\n\n“I think it was a gift, that God allowed him to finish his mission early. Besides, if Pablo Tac could get that far by nineteen—then there’s hope for a couple of middle-aged codgers like us, don’t you think?” I said things like this. Hope. As if I still dared to wish for an unearned pardon. I wondered if all sojourners are really on the run. Each sure, in their own way, that redemption could only be granted, if at all, a long way off from the place where the crime happened. I guess fugitives are always prisoners of the truth.\n\n“All I see is a promising man stomped under heel by a dictator.”\n\n“So, there’s no point to suffering?”\n\n“I’m an oncologist.”\n\n“You cure the sick!”\n\n“Cure? Oh, no. I specialize in Pancreatic Cancer. The five-year survival rate is twelve percent. My nickname among my colleagues is the ‘Grim Reaper.’ So, no, I wouldn’t exactly say that I ‘cure the sick.’ More like I chaperone them to death’s doorstep. I’m a butcher with dull blades—just an order taker at a meat counter—my patients’ diagnoses are like those number dispenser tags in a Supermarket—you know those red machines with the Garvey pull-off tags—I call their numbers and deliver the meat to the morgue.”\n\n“Remind me to never call you for a consult,” I said—and we both laughed.\n\n“What is that pendant you were playing with on the plane?”\n\n“Oh, this. It is the De Santis Family Crest. A gift from my father. I was raised out by the Mission San Luis Rey by my foster family. I consider myself a De Santis, but my birthname is Stefan Daskalov.”\n\n“That is a foreign-sounding name if I ever heard one. Where are you from, originally?”\n\n“I was born in Bulgaria, in the year of the Jubilee.”\n\n“And what was that like, growing up in Eastern Europe?”\n\n“I wouldn’t know. My mother and I left when I was eight.”\n\n“Was there something going on there you had to get away from?”\n\n“You could say that. We were Turks, which is not such a good thing if you were living in Bulgaria. There was a national campaign to rename all Turks and erase our ethnicity. My father was an enthusiast for the resistance and the Communist jackboots came and pulled him from our home and took him to a labor camp on the island of Belene on the Danube. He died there that same year—but we never even learned how.”\n\n“And what happened to your mother?” \n\n“After that, my mother and I emigrated to Turkey to escape persecution. She put me on a boat headed to California. Promising she’d follow after. She couldn’t ever save up enough for her ticket, and I never saw her again. Some years ago, I traveled back to Turkey and found the town where she was buried. It is strange—it seems like another world—one that I barely knew.” That reminded me that I had another thing to say Hail Marys for.”\n\n“Jesus! That is one hell of a way to start out in life.”\n\n“You know, there was nothing written on her tombstone. Out behind the old house. A real road to nowhere.”\n\n* * *\n\nTraveling west along I-8, we drank tall coffees and looked out on the vast desert, like two teens taking a road trip, rather than two terminally ill hypocrites.\n\nThe massive orange dunes propagated to infinity hugging dappled purple shadows for warmth, their peaks glistening in the penetrating spears of mulish moonlight smuggled past the veil. Great towering thunderheads bellowed and filled the sky like totipotent corpuscles injected with black-gray swirls of ink and mercury. \n\nStefan took a wrong turn before Yuma. We finally stopped at a rickety bridge. The McPhaul Bridge. The bridge cut a path over the Gila River toward the coastal mountains. The GPS glitched and told us to cross, but the sign read “BRIDGE CLOSED.” Graffiti on the guard rails read, “BRIDGE TO NOWHERE.”\n\n“We’ll have to backtrack and find another way through,” I said.\n\n“I guess we’ve come to the end of the road,” Carl said, belting out an uncharacteristic laugh. Then resuming his rumbling coughs. The gasps and chokes of a stalling engine.\n\n“For your sake, I hope not. Look up there,” I said, pointing at two figures walking across the McPhaul Bridge toward us carrying canvas sacks. They emerged from the hazy expanse, blown in with the petrichor which flavored the charged and static air.\n\nThe purple thunderheads pulsed with bursts of voltage, branching like the paradoxical immix of reaching tree limbs and searing flares. The bushes and cactuses accented the barren landscape with the resilient whit of life persisting on vapors, ruffled in a fanning and pitiless wind, trending to death.\n\nThere was a sudden knock. They were two young boys.\n\nI rolled down my window. \n\n“I’m Bobo and this is my friend Amix. We are headed to California. It’s been a long journey, and the storm is coming in fast.”\n\n“Oh, shame,” said Carl. \n\n“Do you think we could tag along until you get to Yuma? We can help you navigate in the desert. We know the way.”\n\nI looked over at Carl, who nodded his approval.\n\n“Jump in,” I said.\n\n“The safest way is to backtrack to I-8 and take that all the way down.”\n\n“We are in a hurry—is there a faster route,” Carl asked.\n\n“Well, you could take the Camino Del Diablo, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”\n\n“What is that in English? The Devil’s Highway?”\n\nBobo nodded.\n\nCarl let out another hearty laugh.\n\nHe turned to me and said, “How could we refuse?”\n\nAnd that was when I knew that Carl wasn’t long for this world and guessed that his appointment was not for a special case but for palliative care. Over my shoulder, I saw that El Sombrerón was sitting between the boys, his head hung expectantly over his silver guitar.\n\nDeath was alive in the cadaverous pallor of Carl’s complexion.\n\nThe color ran out of him. Like a rich, milky cheddar cheese, that starts a bright orange but whitens and hardens so quickly when left out on the cutting board.\n\nCarl had already begun to decompose.\n\nI wondered if Carl had cats.\n\nIf you die alone, a dog won’t eat you.\n\nA hungry cat is another thing altogether.\n\n* * *\n\nBobo was a skeletal man, not more than 5’3”. His khaki anuks shirt hugged his body, making him appear in the dark like a human shadow.\n\n“I see you are reading Pablo Tac, Memories of Life at a Mission.”\n\n“Yes, I am,” I said surprised, “Have you read it?”\n\n“Ahhh, yes. What a heartbreaker. Wait until you get to the last chapter where he is called back to Rome for ordination.” Bobo tossed his sack over his shoulder and began walking back down the Devil’s Highway.\n\n“I thought he died awaiting ordination,” I called after. \n\nBut Bobo was already gone.\n\nI had one of the last collector editions sold at auction at San Luis Rey.\n\nThe thing is—as I watched Bobo and Amix disappear into the dust of the desert—it occurred to me that this book had been out of print for decades, since before these boys were born.\n\nNow it was just Carl, me, and El Sombrerón. On the Camino Del Diablo. In the dead of night.\n\nOn our way to separate destinations.\n\nBut sharing one fate.\n\n* * *\n\nAfter driving for hours, in what must have been circles, the warning light for refilling the gas tank came on, squeaking over and over at regular intervals, like a diseased heart incapable of variation, and we only had one reserve gas can left in the trunk.\n\n“Carl,” I said, “Let’s camp out here for the night, and save our last fuel can for the daylight. I don’t want to get lost.”\n\nCarl was looking ghastly and pallid.\n\n“I have smores ingredients. I was saving them for the night after the wedding, but I say we build a proper fire and enjoy them tonight.”\n\nWe gathered sticks, and I used liter fluid, charcoal, and pieces of paper to help get the fire going. Even with all of that, I was barely successful, out there in the dark. How did men build fires like these for thousands of years in the hard-hearted blackness?\n\nI pulled the sleeping bags out of the trunk. Grabbed little baggies with graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate squares.\n\nCarl livened up and the two of us chatted late into the night, before falling asleep in our sleeping bags, at the edge of the fire, fingers sticky and bellies full.\n\nThe night grew cold.\n\n* * *\n\nBefore the first rays of efflorescent dawn emerged from the undercroft of Gehenna, I arose, a diaphanous shroud.\n\nCarl rose with me.\n\nWe both looked at the smoldering fire.\n\nThe fulgent crackling embers.\n\nThe hoary thinning smoke.\n\nTwo bodies in sleeping bags, cold and stiff in the first light.\n\nLooking at one another, then at the horizon, I noticed that the cool desert morning felt warm and radiant on my skin. It shimmered as it touched my arms, like the glint of light off a lizard’s scales.\n\n“Are we almost to the Mission?” I asked Carl.\n\nCarl barely had time to shrug his shoulders before we were interrupted.\n\nEl Sombrerón strutted in a waddling gate down the road ahead, leading his train of mules into our camp. His spurs jingled and each rock gave its distinct harmony to the singing rowels. The mules whuffled and snorted the bass line. And El Sombrerón whistled, while chewing on a stick of straw, plucked from the breaching rays of the new sun. The brim of his broad-rimmed black Sombrero forever hid his visage. And he came to a stop just before us.\n\n“Do you see him?” I asked.\n\nCarl nodded.\n\n“But when his strength failed him at length…” El Sombrerón said.\n\nAnd I instinctively continued, “He met a pilgrim shadow.”\n\nWith that El Sombrerón gave a little bow, and continued, “O’er his heart a shadow fell…”\n\n“But which way is the Mission?” I asked.\n\n“Ride boldly ride the shade replied…”\n\n“To where?”\n\n“Over the mountains of the moon… Down the valley of the shadow…”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dawn-lit, Forever\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1176\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a kiss at midnight." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Like a camphor box closed with a cracked lid. That’s how I feel right now. An amorphous lump at the core.\nThere are strangers in the living room. They have not stopped coming since morning. Brother is dealing with them. All I care about is our baby in my arms.\n“Men from the plains are nothing but trouble,” Ma had warned me while she combed my hair.\n“Even the ones in uniform, like Brother?” I had countered.\n“Especially the ones in uniform,” she had pulled my hair tight and tied it into a bun.\nIt didn’t stop me from offering you red tea when my brother brought you home. He said you were posted to Daporijo with him. I knew you were classmates at school and coursemates at the academy.\nYou looked nothing like trouble.\nMa and Pa will not be able to make it. Your parents are long gone. Thank God.\nMy brother comes in. Your commanding officer’s wife who is sitting next to me moves out. Kind lady. But I don’t need kindness now. All I need are answers.\n“It’s time,” he says. His eyes are red-rimmed; His shoulders a downward arc.\nI pick up our three-month-old girl, swaddled like a bunny, too young to ask questions. I should be brave, for her sake, I tell myself, again.\nI come to the living room of this 2-bedroom captain’s quarters. From the corner of my swollen eyes, I can see it is packed with people. My other senses have stopped working.\nIt was not a bullet. It was a motor bike.\nA single blow of fate that sends me back to the hills.\nI came to the plains in your arms with our daughter in my womb. I return with our daughter in my arms with you in my spirit.\n***\nThere are grounds sheltered by bamboo near my village. That is where my ancestors lie. Their life energies, once walking on this soil are the ones that feed the bountiful crops now.\nI work in the paddy fields with our daughter tied to my jig-jiro. I sing lullabies to her as the streams gurgle through the irrigation canal.\nShe grows, with the milk from me and my sisters. She has your eyes and smile. Her feet toddle along the length and breadth of the beaten bamboo floor; In a zig-zag, like the patterns my mother weaves into her shawls.\nAnd soon, she runs with the strong lungs of my people and the long stride of yours. The hills have everything to give, but they challenge the ones taking without giving. Too many from the plains don’t know that. I wonder if our daughter knows.\nBrother comes home during holidays. Without his city wife. Thin air doesn’t suit her. Ma and Pa say both their children have lost their way. They rue the day they sent him to boarding school. I don’t.\nOur daughter plays at his knees and laughs. He looks into her eyes and cries.\n“She needs more than hills,” he says as I fetch him a mugful of rice beer. The sun bleeds down on Kile Pakho.\n“She grows up where I stay,” I rebut.\n“Have you found no one yet?”\n“She is all I need.”\nHe looks into my eyes, dreading the tears. There are none. Why should there be? It may be my ancestors’ energies that keep the food on the table, but it is yours that keep me alive.\nMy brother takes me and our daughter to his cantonment quarters. He enrolls her in a playschool and me in a baking school.\nI wish Ma and Pa made an effort to meet their daughter-in-law. She adores the weaves I wear, puts them on the designs she makes, and speaks a smattering of tani that makes my brother blush.\nThe way you made me blush when you went down on your knee, took my hand, and asked, “Will you make me a hungry man?”\n***\nDawn-Lit has made a name for itself in this part of the town. It took me years to make this patisserie what it is today. The years that threw me in a whirlwind of peoples, languages, failures, and betrayals.\nYou will be happy to know we made it. Our daughter will be home on her winter break from college today.\nI leave the shop early to my young assistants. They hand me a chocolate-orange stollen on my way out. Her favourite. See, I have learned to pick my people well.\nPopcorn runs to the porch even before the car reaches the kerb. Brother doesn’t come in; he has to go someplace. She gets down and lets out a peal of laughter as Popcorn jumps at her. Do you hear that?\nThroughout the years she has brought you alive in a million ways. But her laughter is the one that used to be mine, so loved by you. I could never laugh the same way after that day.\nShe polishes off the stollen after a hearty dinner of bamboo rice and fish with a dash of tapyo. Brother says she got the best of both of us. I couldn’t agree more.\nHowever, I find her slipping through my fingers; not alarmingly, but in the most natural way. She is at least ten times smarter than I was at her age and twice as charming as you were. Well, I just said that to make you sit up. No one can be as charming as you.\nAfter watching our favourite rerun of Tom and Jerry, she doesn’t stay back on the couch to browse through the old albums. She thumbs through her cell instead. Her eyes twinkle and the corners of her mouth spread in a smile.\nI fear she has met her trouble.\nShe kisses me goodnight early and goes into her room.\nI try to watch television for some more time, then turn it off.\nI reach for the light switch, stop and pull out an album. I flip through it backward and stop at the first picture. My favourite one, shot by Brother on the day of Myko. My cheeks look redder than my skirt and your eyes hold the sky reflected by my blue beads. I close my eyes.\nMy mind throws up images held together like slats of a freshly woven cane basket. Me leaving Ma and Pa seething behind to be with you- You making me feel like a queen when I carried our baby in me- Our little fights when our girl kept us up at nights-and me crying over the news you gave me on the night of our first anniversary.\nYou had to go to the hills the next day. Not to my parents’ home. But to the outpost close to the border.\nIt was nearly midnight. You said it will be all right. You will be back soon. Your palms cupped my face as you looked into my watery eyes.\nI was upset. I don’t remember the kiss.\nI wish I did. It was our first anniversary." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: THERE WILL NEVER BE A RAINBOW\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2434\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where your character is travelling a road that has no end." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She screamed. With all the air in her lungs, with all the strength she had left, she screamed. Her wet hair, sprawled in all directions, draped across her face, in her eyes and her mouth. Water mixed with her tears and ran down her cheeks. Janine had no more fight left in her.\n\nThe man used his middle finger to drag the wet hair from her eyes. His face contorted, his eyes black in the night rain, ebbed in confusion. He stood. He raised his hands to his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Streams of water cascaded to his shoulders. Rain continued to pour from the black sky. The man looked one way, then another. He turned, and ran down the alley.\n\nJanine laid there in the puddles of water where untold filth swirled around her body. Her dress clung to her. The light fabric felt as though it were made of lead, holding her, pressing her to the ground. The pelting rain had soaked her.\n\nHer body shivered feverishly in the frigid night air.\n\nI must go. I’ve got to keep going. She rolled over, and coughed, as the putrid water beneath her entered her mouth. She pushed her body up. On all fours, she lifted her eyes. The dark alley revealed little to her, but showed her there was no one near her. She climbed to her feet.\n\nThe soft light of the moon couldn’t show through the thick, rolling, black clouds. Only tiny silver edges showed the movement of the sky. Torrential rain continued falling. Janine could see small lights sporadically placed in the alley in front of her; the distance between them indiscernible. The black shapes of buildings on either side of the alley blended into the black at the center of the view.\n\nThere seems to be no end to this alley. Should I turn back? She laughed. Oh sure, lets revisit the friends we have met so far. Desperation had built up in her to an unbearable level. She would give anything to simply step out onto a busy street. Her tired limbs allowed her to walk forward at a slow pace. The weight of her soaked hair and dress made her slower. Will I ever get out of here?\n\nThe visage of the alley never changed. There were no markers of any kind for her to tell how far she had travelled, how far she had left to go.\n\nSmall trickles of blood joined with the rain to run down her arms and legs. Her elbows and knees had many scrapes, as did her shoulder blades. Her thighs were bruised, and her fingers ached from scratching at the men she had encountered. Every step brought pain from her feet, blisters had formed on both of them. Her sneakers, like the rest of her, were soaking wet.\n\nI don’t want to die in such a place. I must keep moving. I must –\n\nShe heard a low growl.\n\nThe rain splashed on wood and metal, every sort of debris. It plopped into many puddles and streams that had formed. The noise from it all was loud. But, she did hear the sound just ahead of her, to her left.\n\nA dog! There’s no way I can outrun a dog in my condition. I’m going to die! She held her breath as she stepped as far to the right as she could. Her shoulder scraped against a cold, brick wall. She couldn’t see the animal, but it growled again. A deep sound that surely came from a very large dog.\n\nIt sprang forward. Large teeth and wild eyes charged directly at her. The dog barked savagely, and shook its head side to side, as it bolted toward her. Janine had no option, no escape, she closed her eyes. The pain she was about to feel flooded her mind, she bit down hard and held her breath.\n\nThe dog yelped loudly, and Janine opened her eyes to see that only a few feet in front of her stood the huge black animal. It took a moment for her to see the thick chain that held the dog.\n\nThe furious animal shook in all directions, snarling and barking, pulling against the chain. She wanted to run. Still holding her breath, she watched the long sharp teeth that tried desperately to reach her. She couldn’t move. Will the chain hold? Will I survive this?\n\nShe looked left, then right, seeking a weapon. A pipe, even a 2x4, something. There was nothing in sight that could be used as a weapon.\n\nShoulder muscles bulged as the dog lunged forward. Its paws slipped a little on the wet ground, but they found a foothold. The black beast bore down and applied all its strength to the pull. Through the sounds from the rain and the deep growl of the dog, Janine heard the slight creak of strained metal.\n\nI have got to move! She lifted her right foot and stepped forward, her shoulder still pressed hard against the wall. Her left foot followed. The dog didn’t look up, its eyes were closed as it pulled against the chain.\n\nJanine stumbled forward. She had no strength to run. She walked as quickly as she could. The dog howled a mournful sound and barked again. This last bark, less violent, an acceptance that his dinner had gotten away. It was a distant sound. Janine had no idea how long she had walked or how far she had gone.\n\nOne brick wall after another passed. A trash can here, a box there, bottles and cans scattered across the alley. Her feet drug across the gravel and dirt as she continued walking.\n\nThe rain slowed, then stopped. The sky remained unyielding darkness. Head bowed, shoulders drooping, eyes half shut, Janine walked.\n\n“Well, hello there.”\n\nWhile it was soft, it was the voice of a man. Oh no, not another man. Please, not again. Overcome with anguish, Janine fell to her knees.\n\n“Come now. Talk with me.”\n\nHearing the man again, she looked up and peered ahead through the darkness. She saw the silhouette of a large dumpster. She was sure the sound came from there.\n\n“Who are you? What do you want?” she asked.\n\n“Willard B. Grumple, at your service. I want you to sit and talk with me.”\n\nThe light of a candle flickered beside the dumpster. In the dim illumination, she could just make out a face. It was an old face, covered with gray. His long beard seemed to cover all but his eyes and nose. Deep wrinkles covered the small amount of his flesh that she could see.\n\n“A friendly chat is a rare thing in this dismal place. A chat. Yes. That is what I ask. Simply a chat.”\n\nHe reached toward her with the hand not holding the candle and beckoned her to move toward him.\n\n“Come. I’ll share my wine and cheese.” He smiled at her. “I’ll not harm you. Only a chat.”\n\nIn this night, if one night it be, she had learned to trust nothing, no one. Exhaustion enwrapped her so powerfully, she knew she couldn’t fight or run. With much effort, she stood, then meandered toward the dumpster. She flopped to the ground, against a wall, as near to him as she dared be.\n\nHe raised a bottle and handed it out for her. “Here child, you need this even more than I do.”\n\nJanine cautiously reached and took the bottle. How long has it been since I had a drink of anything? She remembered the taste of the puddle she had laid in. Oh, that was so terrible. The bottle was a little more than half full of a deep red liquid. She took a cautious drink. The blueberry, plum and chocolate flavors of the Syrah danced on her tongue. She tilted her head back and took multiple swallows. She handed the bottle back to the old man.\n\nHe smiled. “Willard B. Grumple. Yep, that’s me. What’s your name?”\n\n“Janine.”\n\nShe tilted her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. Feeling the warmth of the wine, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly.\n\n“Very nice to meet you, Janine. Two things are very hard to find here, food, and friends.” He took a long drink of the wine. “I hope you and –”\n\nJanine didn’t know which was more tired, her body or her mind, but exhaustion took her away.\n\nWhen she awoke, she found that her head rested on a folded pair of jeans. They smelt old and musty. She was covered with a heavy coat. Even laying on the cold ground, she felt warmed by the coat.\n\nShe sat up and looked at the sky. The black clouds still rolled and tumbled across it with only the tiny slivers of silver on their edges giving any light. I feel like I slept a good while. Where is the sun? Will it ever come up? She looked toward the dumpster and saw Willard B. Grumple sitting there looking at her. He looked as if he would fall asleep any moment. Had he stayed up and watched over me?\n\n“Did I sleep long?”\n\n“I guess so. It’s hard to say. Time is a very hard thing to measure here.”\n\nThe old man reached into a bag that sat beside him. He rummaged about for a moment, then produced a half-round of cheese. He fumbled with what looked like a butter knife, cutting off two large pieces. He handed one over to her. She hesitantly took a bite. Cheddar. And it’s good. Biting into the cheese again, she realized how hungry she was. The thought of food hasn’t crossed my mind since…\n\nWillard handed her the bottle. “There are few pleasures here, but these are two of the best.”\n\n“Thank you.” She looked around the dark alley. “How long have you been here?”\n\nHe stroked his beard and ate a bite of cheese before responding, “I don’t know. I was fifteen when I first arrived.” He stroked his beard again, and scratched his cheek. “I’m betting I’m older than that now.”\n\nWide eyed, she stared at the man. He’s got to be in his seventies, eighties.\n\n“It is good to have a friend to talk to. This alley is a very lonely place.” He leaned forward and smiled at her. “Will you stay with me?”\n\nJanine was shocked by his question. The thought of staying in the dark, dismal alley sent shivers down her spine. She spoke softly, not wanting to offend him.\n\n“No sir, I can’t stay. I have to get out of here. I want to go home.”\n\nSo strange. Home. What is home? I can’t seem to remember. How long have I been in this terrible place? She handed the bottle back to the old man, then folded the coat neatly.\n\n“I think this alley goes on forever, girl.” He spoke softly, solemnly.\n\n“It does feel like it, but everything has an end. There is a whole city around us.” Janine stood. Her limbs were still sore but no longer weary. There was strength in her legs. The rest, the food, the wine did me good. She smiled at Willard. “Come with me. We can keep each other company and leave here together.”\n\nWillard leaned back against the dumpster and closed his eyes. He spoke very softly. “Don’t you think I’ve tried?”\n\n“Well, thank you again. The food and rest really helped.”\n\nThe old man opened his eyes and leaned forward. “Stay here with me. The loneliness is hell.” He pointed his finger at her. “You’ll see. You’ll learn. Who knows how far you will go before you do. We would never see each other again, and both of us would be so lonely.”\n\n“I’m sorry, Willard. I really am. But I can’t stay.”\n\n“And where do you think you’re going? Where did you come from, eh? Where were you before you came into this alley?”\n\nAt first, Janine smiled at his silly questions. But, she realized, she couldn’t remember. Oh God, I don’t know where I’m from, where I belong. Her pulse raced with the realization.\n\n“What’s the last thing you remember that wasn’t here?”\n\n“I don’t know.”\n\nJanine searched her mind desperately. She remembered the frightening dog. She remembered the men and the rain. She remembered running, then walking, staggering with exhaustion. The whole while, darkness surrounded her. I must remember! She rubbed her forehead and concentrated.\n\n“I was driving!” She yelled. She looked at the old man, her eyes pleading with him to help her remember. “I was driving, and looking up at the sky. There was a beautiful rainbow. The colors were so vibrant against the deep blue sky. It was beautiful.”\n\n“A rainbow.” Willard said. “It stops raining here from time to time, but the sun doesn’t come up. No rainbows.”\n\nSurprised by his melancholy statement, she took a few steps away from him. It’s been a very long night. Yes. But the sun will come up, eventually. It must. She tried to remember more, to at least remember how long she’d been in the alley. Nothing more came to her mind. Blank. Darkness.\n\n“Well, Willard, you have been very kind. Thank you for the rest, the wine, and the cheese. But, I’ll be going now.”\n\nA tear fell from the old man’s eye as he pleaded, “Stay here with me.”\n\nJanine knew she couldn’t take the sadness within him any longer. It was too much. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she didn’t want to live out the rest of her life sitting in a dark alley next to a dumpster either.\n\n“I can’t stay.”\n\nShe began walking up the alley. Her steps were slow, but determined. This damned alley ends! It opens up to a busy street that is full of people, cars, and sunshine. It does. It must.\n\n“Child, the sun doesn’t come up. There are no rainbows.” The old man called after her.\n\nJanine quickened her step. She had to move on before the old man soiled her heart with loneliness and despair.\n\nShe stopped for a moment, feeling raindrops tapping on her shoulders. Oh no, not more. She sighed.\n\nIn the distance, she heard Willard B Grumple yell, “Come back! There is no tomorrow, child!”\n\nShe began to run.\n\nIt must have taken all of the old man’s strength to scream so loudly, sending a cold, eerie chill down Janine’s back. The last thing she ever heard from him…\n\n“There will never be a rainbow!”\n\n(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: Moccasins with blue and red beads\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2369\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional holiday tradition." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Forced by her Mother to wear a dress and rain boots, Nina was miserable. The line outside the glass doors of the big building was long and full of adults dressed in pants and dresses and nice shoes. Nina, waist high to most of the people standing, focused on their shoes, some red, some blue, mostly white and black. \n\nNina did not understand why anyone would wear the high-heeled, pointy shoes or the sandals with only thin straps holding them on. How could they run in them? And the thick leather shoes some of the men wore looked heavy, they would only slow them down when they were playing a game of tag. She liked the white or blue trainers best. She knew the people wearing them could run fast if they were being chased or wanted to climb a play structure. She did not want to be wearing the black rain boots her Mother put on her this morning. \n\n“Mom, I am hungry!“ Nina cried but got no response. She kicked the wall, liking how her thick socks in her rain boots protected her feet and softened the blow. She did it again and again until her toes finally did hurt. She looked down the long line of legs and pants of people just standing. \n\nOn this cold day just before Christmas Nina did not understand why she had to be stuck going on this boring trip instead of at the park or riding her bike. She looked at her brother who was being good and holding a fold of their Father’s pants. She narrowed her eyes and quickly nudged her brother with her shoulder. Manny was two years younger, but he would not stop growing and annoyingly was her same height. Outraged, he turned and pushed her one handed, hard. Happy to have this new game she pushed him back. Being a baby, only five, he lost his balance, fell on his butt and cried. Her father leaned down and easily picked him up. She wanted to get picked up too, but she knew she wouldn't. \n\n“Nina!” Her Mother said, loud and sharp. “Nina, please don't cause a scene. We are almost inside.” \n“But he pushed me first!” Nina said, discounting the first nudge.\n“You are the older sister, now seven years old. You need to act like it and be on your best behavior for your Great-Grandmother.” \n\n“I don’t belong to this family.” Nina repeated a phrase she had come upon last week which she found upset her Mother. She had recently recognized she was several shades darker than even her Mother’s brown skin and seemed unrelated entirely to her fair skinned, blue-eyed father and blond, blue-eyed brother. She wanted to be a part of the family, but how could she if she looked so different?\n\n“Nina, you are my daughter. I don’t know why you say that-” Her Mother frowned in fake sadness as she knelt down. “Please be good, we will be inside soon.”\n\nNina folded her arms in protest and moved against the wall the line was queued up against. She peeked up at her brother. His blond hair and blue eyes glittered, all smiles in their Fathers’ arms. Fiery rage at the injustice of her being left standing on her own burned through her. She did not understand what was going on. She knew she had a Grandmother alive, her Father’s mother Grandma Sarah, and one dead, her Mother’s mother. She knew enough to look up to heaven, cross herself and say ‘Rest In Peace’ like all the rest of her Mother’s family did when they spoke of Abuela Munez. But who was this Great grandmother? What was a Great Grandmother, a better-than-regular Grandmother?\n\nThe line started moving and her Mother waved to her. “Come on Nina! All your Tia and Tios will be here soon!”\n\n“Can you carry me? My legs hurt Mama.” Nina asked, still mad.\n\n“No, you are a big girl and I have this bag. You can walk.” Her Mother said as she walked with her family. Nina, in protest, just stood there, watching her Mother go on. Waiting to see if she would come back for her. She lost sight of her dark hair with the two long thick braids, and then got nervous. Did her Mother really leave her?\n\n“Nina!” She heard her name and felt her arm being pulled at the same time. The urgency in her Mother’s voice scared her into submission. Her Mother hadn't been this mad since Nina pulled down the orange blanket with the elaborate patterns hung on their living room wall. Nina did not really understand why the blanket her mother called Ohlone was on the wall, but has since stayed across the room from it.\n\n“This is our family's Christmas tradition, don’t you remember?” Her Mother said as she walked toward the front doors of the building. “This is very important to me, and for you. All my family is coming.”\n\n“Even Sara and Maria?” Nina asked, hopeful. Sara, nine years old, and Maria ten, were Nina’s cousins and everything they did was cool and fun. This trip would be better if they came.\n“Yes,” her Mother said, “the whole family.” They were at the door, her Father fumbling with tickets to get inside. \n\n“We have not been in two years now, with the Covid.” Her Father said, still holding her brother. “Nina would have only been five, and too young to remember-”\n“-I am not too young- I remember!” Nina stomped her foot to emphasize she was not a baby like her brother even if she did not remember.\n\n“Ok.\" Her Mother said. “Now follow close, it is crowded and busy, but we will be inside the room soon.”\n\nNina had a vague recollection of the big building, and a time when she stood around these imposing gray stone walls. Her memories were mixed up with other trips with her cousins and the fun games they invented like hide and seek, or tag.\n\nThe pant legs were all around her, some tan, some blue-jeaned, and some black like her Mother’s pants. She saw her Mother right ahead of her, her long braids swinging and the large multicolored bag under her arm. Nina began looking through the crowd for Sara and Maria. I wonder what game they will play today. \n“I hope we play tag.” Nina said to herself. “That is the best game ever.” Nina was good at tag, small and quick she was usually the last one free at recess at he school. She followed the crowd, moving along with the black pant legs next to her not realizing until too late that these pant legs belonged to a stranger. \n\n*******\nNina found herself alone and her skin tingled with fear. She was by herself and there was room after room filled with people. Each room had pictures on the walls, while in the middle statues and little tables with more objects crowded the space. Nina began running faster into one room then another looking for her Mother, her Father, anyone familiar. Recognizing a picture she had seen know three times, she stopped, confused at the circling layout of this strange building. \nA tall man wearing a blue suit carrying a phone walked up to her. He had heavy black leather shoes. \n“Are you lost, little one? I can help-”\n\nNina wanted nothing to do with the strange man and took off in the opposite direction, dodging through legs and strollers and an old man with a walker. Another man in the same blue suit was at the far end of the crowded room. She saw him looking at her and she started walking backwards. She felt a soft thick rope touch the top of her head and then she backed into something behind her. The small table gave slightly before she stopped herself.\n\nA loud voice shouted, “Hey you- don’t touch that!” \n\nNina looked up to see the tall vase above her tilt slowly, it began to fall and she closed her eyes, putting her arms over her head in fear. When nothing happened she opened her eyes and saw a woman’s arms holding the vase and the two men in blue jackets getting closer. \n\n“You need to be careful child-” Nina bolted at the sound of the woman’s sharp voice, diving around the man in the blue jacket and into a small room filled with statues. A tall figure in the shape of a man made out of bundled sticks, reached out toward her, threatening. \n She left that room quickly, and at a darker hallway ran down it, going all the way to the end and turning the corner.\n\nAnother room full of more pictures and art on the walls and small tables. But these were familiar somehow, welcoming, although she did not know why. With the room was empty of people however, she was able to relax. Looking through the room she saw a familiar blanket hanging on a wall. It looked just like the orange one at her home, a similar elaborate pattern, the same thick material, but this one was blue. Drawn toward the blanket, she walked by tables with displays of small leather shoes, woven baskets, and beaded jewelry. She had to know. Ducking under the thick rope in front she felt it. The blanket was the same fabric as the one on her wall at home. \n\nThinking of her home she remembered she had lost her family. Did they even care they would never see her again? Her parents had her brother, they liked him better, maybe he was enough for them. Her legs suddenly gave out and she sat down against the wall. Nina felt hot tears rolling down her cheeks.\n\nBrown, soft leather shoes with blue and red beads appeared in front of her. The shoes looked fast, good to run in, or climb with. She looked up to see they were being worn by a small, gray haired woman standing in front of her. The woman wore a hand woven blue shirt with brown designs down the arms over a beaded skirt. \n\n“Nina, Nina, don't cry.” The woman said. She was old, older than anyone Nina had ever seen, with brown sparkling eyes behind dark-skinned high cheekbones, her skin wrinkled and dry. The woman reached her hand down to Nina’s and then held it. Nina felt the warmth in her soft and gentle hand.\n“You are going to be OK. Your family will be here soon.” The old woman smiled and Nina felt a comforting warmth flow through her. She saw the long, thick gray braids against her shoulders. Her wrists were full of beaded bracelets and she had colorful bone and beaded earrings in her stretched ears.\n“Your family loves you very much.” Her hand squeezed Nina’s and then let go. \n“My name is Na'ura. Thank you for coming to visit me.”\n\n“You are my Great Grandmother-” Nina said, her eyes blurry with tears. This was a better-than-regular Grandmother!\n Na’ura smiled. “I look forward to seeing how much you have grown when you come next year. Here take this.” Na’ura took off a thin blue and white beaded bracelet and slipped it on Nina’s wrist. \n“Remember me and come back. I love you.” The old woman leaned forward and brushed her lips against Nina’s forehead and Nina closed her eyes at the soft touch.\n\nMoments later Nina heard noises and opened her eyes. Her Mother was sitting in front of her. “Wake up Nina!” Her Mother’s eyes were red. “You scared us so much! We have been looking for you all afternoon. We searched the entire museum!” \n\nNina looked past her Mother for Na’ura but instead saw her Father, her cousins Sara and Maria all looking scared.\n\n “She must have remembered,” Her father said. “because she came right here!” Her brother ran up to her and for once Nina was glad to see his familiar face. \n\n“I can’t believe you found this room.” Her Mother gave her a hug. “They make it harder and harder to get to the Native Lands exhibit, making the other displays more prominent. But you did remember our family tradition.” Her Mother’s smile warmed her down to her toes. “Come, let us say hello to Great Grandma.”\n\nHer Mother picked her up and turned her around to face the painting above her head. It was a scene of a mountain river, with a man crossing on a horse and pulling another. A young, beautiful dark-skinned woman was riding a horse in the background. Her black hair was in two thick braids and she wore a hand woven blue shirt with brown designs down the arms. She was looking forward, with an orange blanket on the horse, the elaborate pattern as familiar to Nina as her Mother’s face.\n\n“Na’ura.” Nina pointed at the woman.\n\n“How did you know her name?” Her Mother turned to face Nina.\n\n“-You must have told her.”’ Her father said. “I wish they would change the name. ‘Mountain Man and Squaw’ is so disrespectful.” He gestured at the nameplate next to the painting. \n\n“Great Grandma said you would find me and I should come back next year.” Nina said softly. \n\n“She is more like your great, great, great, Great Grandma, but yes.” Her Mother said, facing the painting. “She is our family, Ohlone like us. People come to this museum and think they are just looking at a painting, but this is our history, our family. We come every Christmas to remember her.”\n\n “I met her, I met her!” Nina looked around at her family gathered around her. “She said to say thank you for always coming.”\n\n“Ok, little one.” Her father said, smiling. “Whatever you say. Let’s head out and get some cookies.”\n\n“Can I have shoes like Great Grandma, with the red and blue beads?” Nina asked, pointing at the painting.\n\n“Those are called moccasins. We’ll see.” Her Mother said smiling as she put Nina down. She paused, and looked at the painting, closely.” “Red and blue beads…?” \n\nNina fingered the thin beaded bracelet on her wrist.\n”I will see you next year, Great Grandma Na’ura.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 army gathers\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2410\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where the laws of time and space begin to dissolve." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They were on the last leg of the journey from Johannesburg when Martin remarked on how many twin-cabs were barrelling past them.\n“And they all have a couple of bicycles lashed to the back, d’you see that? Every one of them.”\n“Families on their way to the sea,” Leonie said, just as another vehicle sped by.\n“Right on the bloody double line, that one.” Martin squinted into the sun. “Someone coming at them they wouldn’t have a hope in hell of seeing them.” He blinked. “And see that? Two big bikes and a little one. Bloody hell.”\n“I wouldn’t get my knickers in a twist. Mum, dad and kid. Nothing odd about it at all.”\nMartin brooded quietly for a few minutes. Of course, half of Johannesburg was decamping to the coast. But that wasn’t his point at all. It was the number of twin-cabs. He’d never seen so many.\n“And they’re all white,” he burst out.\n“Cooler, I expect,” Leonie said at once. Sometimes he thought that Leonie’s rejoinders were just a little too quick off the mark. As though she already had them up her sleeve and was just waiting for his cue.\n“Our car…” For a second he couldn’t recall what make of car they possessed. But then he remembered it was a rental. “Our car…” he repeated, “isn’t white.”\n“Which is why we have the air con on all the time. Waste of petrol.”\nYeah, yeah.\n“Most of the cars on the road aren’t white either.” Put that in your pipe and…\n“That one is,” Leonie said, as a little Toyota whizzed past going north.\nAnother twin-cab overtook them on what he thought was a dangerous curve, its slip-stream buffeting them. Arseholes. But he focused on the case in hand.\n“See? White twin-cab. Three bicycles on the back. Two big, one small.”\nLeonie twisted slightly in her seat to catch his eye. “You’re good at calculating probabilities, aren’t you?”\n“Go on.” He felt a little suspicious, scenting a trap.\n“Well, tell me how many families from up-country are likely to have one child of bike-riding age.”\n“I have absofuckinglutely no idea.”\n“Come on, Martin, you’re the guy who said he could work out how many piano tuners there were in Cape Town.”\nHe was sometimes astonished by Leonie’s feats of memory. He’d last performed his piano tuner parlour trick, what, it must have been twelve or fifteen years ago. But her ploy had succeeded. He was trapped.\n“Okay,” he said.\nHe worked through the calculations silently. Possible one and a half million married couples in Jo’burg, of which, say, one sixth were in the right age bracket to have a kid of the right size, which made two fifty thousand of whom, what? roughly one fiftieth were likely to trek to the Cape Coast for Christmas…\n“Five thousand,” he said, cautiously.\n“Five thousand,” she said, triumphant. “And of those, how many have passed us? A couple of dozen, tops.”\nHe didn’t bother to argue his case any further. It was clear to him that even if there were five thousand Jo’burg couples with a kid of the right age heading for the Cape Coast, only a tiny percentage of them were likely to own twin-cabs, and even fewer, white twin-cabs.\nAnother twin-cab hastened past. White. Three bikes strapped to the back, two large, one small.\nSomething about the small bike caught his eye. Something purple, a ribbon perhaps, tied to the handle-bars.\nHe dozed.\n***\nHe woke with a start when Leonie shook his knee. He’d been dreaming about a beach filled with identical seals who’d been gazing at him with imploring seal faces and those huge seal eyes.\nTheir car was parked in a lay-by. A concrete picnic table with cracked concrete benches on either side baked in the late afternoon sun.\n“Your turn, buster,” Leonie said.\nThey opened their doors and circled the car: he went round the front, Leonie round the back.\n“Where are we?” He scanned the landscape on either side of the road: rounded hills covered with small boulders, straggly desert plants filling all the spaces between them.\n“Not far from Willowmore. A hundred and something to go.”\nHe slipped in behind the wheel and closed the door. Leonie was settling in, rearranging the cables feeding their cell phones. He turned the ignition, checked his rear-view mirror and nosed his way onto the tarmac.\nHe was still adjusting his shoulders and settling his hands comfortably on the steering wheel when the first twin-cab whisked by.\n“See,” he said, “another bloody…” He felt the words die in his throat. “Oh my god,” he whispered.\n“What is it, Martin?”\n“That twin-cab…”\n“Jesus, Martin, can’t you leave it now? It’s boring.”\n“Did you see the kid’s bike?”\n“No, I did not see the kid’s bike because I will not encourage your obsession.”\nHe ploughed on regardless: “It had a bit of purple something tied to the handlebars.” He realised that he hadn’t mentioned the ribbon before – although now it seemed to him less like a ribbon than a length of twine or something similar. He added quickly: “I saw the same bike with the same purple thingy half an hour ago.”\n“Martin, just listen to yourself,” Leonie said, her voice tight and precise. She only used his name when she was cross with him. This was the third or fourth time she’d used it over the last hour of their journey. He thought he’d be able to draw up an index which would match the severity of Leonie’s fury with the number of times she used his name. Like the hurricane scale, or the earthquake index.\n“But it’s the same vehicle,” he said.\n“Just think rationally for a moment, as you’re constantly telling all of us to do. What is the most obvious explanation for this… this…”\n“Phenomenon?”\n“… this bullshit.”\n“Leonie…”\nShe interrupted him at once. “No, Martin, think, just for a second.”\nHe took a deep breath. His fingers, he realised, were tight on the steering wheel. He consciously relaxed them. Even though he knew there wasn’t any point to the exercise, he considered the problem.\nHalf an hour ago, before he’d had his nap, a white twin-cab with a distinctive kid’s bike strapped to its back, had passed them. Five minutes ago, no, less, two minutes ago, an identical twin-cab with the same kid's bicycle, had passed them again. What possible…\n“Oh,” he said, flat. Fucking hell.\n“Exactly,” Leonie said. “You got it. Finally.”\n“It must have stopped somewhere…”\n“At one of those farm stalls we keep passing, probably.”\n“Sorry,” he said. How something so obvious could have eluded him was beyond him. The twin-cabs had become an obsession. Leonie was right.\n“I don’t really mind,” she said, “as long as you shut the fuck up about it until we get to De Rust.”\nHe drove in silence then for the next ten kilometres. Three twin-cabs, white, of course, passed at speed during this period. He said nothing. He tried to imagine what conjunction of market trends and pressures could explain the sudden overwhelming popularity of white twin-cabs among the class of people who habitually drove to the coast for Christmas.\nBut the answer or answers were of no consequence. Rather keep these idle speculations to himself than risk re-igniting Leonie’s anger.\nHe turned off the N9 onto the R341. “Just 35 kays or so to go. We should be there before sunset.”\n“Watch your speed. It’s a 100 km zone,” Leonie said. But her voice had softened a degree. She was, he knew, preparing to forgive him his trespasses.\n“God knows why.”\nA moment later a twin-cab whooshed by.\n“That’s probably doing at least one twenty, probably…”\nAnd then the screen-capture function of his retina kicked in. He’d always been curious about this feature of the human sensorium. How it was possible to dial back a few seconds and re-examine a fleeting image in forensic detail.\nThe kid’s bike on the back of the twin-cab that was even now disappearing over the crest of the next hill had a length of purple twine whirling about the handlebars, driven by the vortex whipped up in the wake of the vehicle.\nHe thought about this for a moment or two. They’d passed no farm stalls or laybys since he’d last seen the tell-tale purple thingamajig.\n“Leonie,” he began in what he hoped came across as an eminently reasonable tone, but she was waiting for this and pounced. Tautness had returned to her voice.\n“Don’t say it, Martin, I’m warning you.”\n“But, sweetheart…”\n“Don’t sweetheart me. I saw it.”\nWhat had she seen? The twin-cab? The bicycle? Something he did?\n“You saw what?”\n“The purple string or whatever it was.”\n“Tied to the handlebars?” She didn’t reply to that. “So then you must admit that… I mean, how is it even possible?”\n“Fuck off, Martin, it’s just a coincidence, okay? What else could it be?”\nGood question. Indeed, what else could it be?\n***\n“David said we’d spot the entrance to the driveway by a date palm… There! Just up from the corner.”\n“Gate’s closed,” he said, bringing the car to a stop and yanking on the handbrake. Roux Road was steep, making the turn into the driveway an awkward one.\n“I’ll get it.” Leonie opened her door, got out and let gravity slam the door shut.\nHe opened his window and peered up through the gloom of early evening at the house. Even in the ambiguous light, it was clear that David and Jeremy’d done a great job. Of course, he’d admired the pictures they’d WhatsApped as the restoration of the old ostrich feather baron’s mansion had proceeded, but there was no substitute for the real thing.\nLeonie tugged the gate open and he drove the car up the sharp slope from the road into the property. He parked below a fine sweep of stairs leading up to the porch. By the time he’d turned the engine off, alighted and stretched his shoulders, she’d closed the gate and was trudging up over the gravel to join him.\n“Looks amazing,” she said.\n“Doesn’t look like anyone’s at home, though,” he said. “No lights.” Dusk had fallen swiftly as it does in the Karoo and already the first stars were gleaming overhead.\n“They’re bound to be inside. Probably making supper for us.” He hesitated. “Come on,” she said with a hint of impatience, “let’s find out where they are.”\nShe put a hand on his arm and made as if to mount the steps. But he was unaccountably reluctant. He didn’t know what it was that made him hesitate. He was, he knew, as eager to see David and Jeremy as Leonie was. It had been months since they’d last spent any time together. And yet…\n“I’ll get the luggage out. You go ahead.”\nShe made a small click of irritation and climbed quickly up the stairs.\nHe opened the trunk, set their two suitcases on the ground, closed the trunk, took a suitcase in each hand and prepared to climb the stairs. Leonie had evidently let herself in. The front door stood open. Slowly, Martin climbed the stairway.\nA figure emerged from the shadows. It was a child.\n“Hello, Martin,” the child – a boy – said.\n“Hello,” he responded automatically. “Do you live here?”\nHe was trying to work out what possible reason there might be for a child to be present in David and Jeremy’s house. A relative? A nephew, perhaps? A neighbour?\n“Of course,” said the boy. “Where else would I live?”\n“Oh. It’s just that I didn’t expect…”\nHe set the suitcases down. He felt confused, as if he’d downed a very large whisky too quickly.\n“What’s your name?” he asked at last.\n“Martin.”\n“Martin?” Was the boy teasing him? Of course, Martin wasn’t the most unusual name in the world, but… “Really, Martin?”\n“Yes, of course, really Martin. Just like yours.”\nAnd then, quite suddenly, a light went on above them and Martin felt himself momentarily blinded. When his eyes recovered, there was someone else standing in the doorway beside the boy, beside Martin.\n“David?” he said. It didn’t look like David. Ohmigod, it looked like… Martin blinked, he felt as if he was tumbling through space. He shook his head, and his eyes fell on the boy’s feet, encased in a pair of white sneakers, tied with purple laces.\n“Hello, Martin,” the man said, in a voice so familiar it gave Martin an instant migraine.\n“I like your car,” the boy, Martin, said. “It’s just like ours.”\nMartin turned blindly. Below him in the driveway, illuminated now by the light on the porch, in place of his and Leonie’s rental, stood a white twin-cab. He could just see the bicycles lashed to the back.\nHe turned again. Martin stretched out a hand to him and grasped him by his elbow.\n“You look a little poorly, old friend. Come in. We’ll fix you something to drink.”\nHe led Martin into the house. They turned into the first room on the left.\n“It’s all Martin’s design, of course,” his guide said. “We thought, a photograph of all of us above the woodstove, what do you think?”\n“I did that drawing,” the boy said, pointing at a sketch of the house hanging behind the sofa\n“Come meet Martin, he’s busy with supper.”\nHis hand still cupping Martin’s elbow, he guided him towards the room on the right of the central corridor, a large open-plan kitchen/dining room. A figure was standing at the island, his back towards them.\n“You remember Martin, don’t you?” said his guide.\nThe man at the stove turned. He was wearing an apron.\n“Hello, Martin,” he said, extending a hand to Martin. “I hope you had a pleasant journey. It’s a little hot, I know, but the forecast’s for cooler days this coming week.”\nMartin found his voice at last.\n“You’re all… you’re all called Martin,” he said, hoarsely.\n“Well, of course,” the two adult Martins said in chorus, smiling. “Everyone’s called Martin.”\n“I don’t understand…” he said, weakly.\nHe was distracted by the sound of deliberate footsteps coming down the corridor.\n“We’re all called Martin because we all are Martin,” the Martin at the stove said.\n“But tell me, where’s Leonie?” he said, frightened.\nA man turned into the kitchen from the corridor. He, too, was wearing a gentle smile.\n“Leonie?” he said. “Who’s Leonie?”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Tale of Two Mountains\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1860\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is slowly forgetting their mother tongue or losing their language." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The beach was ash, a loose volcanic dust that slid treacherously under combat boots already filled with sweat, when suddenly the verdant dimpled butter pat that was Mount Suribachi disappeared. Instead, Ashkii was digging his bare heels into the fine loamy sand spread against the cliffs and riverbeds of Shiprock, New Mexico. The peaks of Tsé Bitʼaʼí towered over all in distant benediction. Junipers clustered like sheep in the folds of rocky hills. Smooth stones radiated heat in the sun; in the shadows cast by striped rock formations they sent cold aches from his soles all the way through to the nerve endings of his teeth. All Kee had to watch for were the wapiti and the mounds of pricklypear lying in wait for his feet. \n\n“Holy Mother of God!” \n\nWith a shock of guilt, Kee wrenched himself back to the present. A bombardment of shells fell around him and the other members of the 28th Regiment. From his left came the death shriek of a private, younger even than Kee. He was no longer a boy of the Navajo Nation but a man, a Marine, wading through the still-warm bodies of dead soldiers.\n\nKee held his head down and gritted his teeth. He pushed forward blindly, helmet colliding with the rifle laid on his shoulder. Artillery continued to rain from the base of the mountain and the mouths of secret caves barely larger than a man’s body. The entire island of Iwo Jima crawled with a hidden tunnel system.\n\nReach the coast. Secure Suribachi. Reach the coast. Secure Suribachi… The rhythm of the mantra regulated Kee’s breath. His jackrabbit heart began to slow. Reach... Secure... Secure...\n\nIt happened again. The air became sluggish and hazy. Kee was paralyzed in a strange calm, while the scenes of his past life presented themselves before him without his permission. Perhaps it was fear that slowed him, but there had been other times, other places he had been more afraid: Bougainville, Kwajalein, the Marianas, Guam. Even these memories had faded like bad dreams. Kee did not think about the machine guns or the death peering from the gangrenous caverns hanging above them. What was real was the desert, the plateau, the perfectly round and shallow caves carved into Tsé Bitʼaʼí like the houses of so many malevolent spirits.\n\n“Houses of the dead.” Bitsie Chee, Red Mule’s woman, paused her weaving to spit over her shoulder. “It is a filthy thing to disturb the dead.” Bitsie did not speak of “sin” the way the missionary’s wife Mrs. Harris spoke of sin, but of “filth,” something that to Kee sounded deeper and more evil. “They are punished who climb the sacred rock”– she meant the Societies and Associations, the Anglo tourists who could not quite believe a mountain might be anything other than an obstacle to be quickly and neatly overcome. Tsé Bitʼaʼí – Shiprock – The Rock With Wings. “It is a filthy thing to climb the rock.” Kee did not need to be told. He had always known. It was like knowing the existence of the sun. Having Bitsie Chee tell him so was itself a sort of sacrilege: an embarrassing admission of the depths to which man was capable of sinking, the same as Mrs. Harris teaching them at the Indian School, “Thou shalt not kill.” Those scenes from childhood he remembered with almost frightening clarity: the tall Anglo woman in low heels, her blonde perfumed presence, his secret shameful erections, and over it all the soft clipped voice saying as though it were something possible not to believe, “Thou shalt not kill.”\n\nAnd yet here he was, armed, advancing against the mountain of a people who until a few short years ago had been to him only a myth.\n\nBut of course the commandment was more complex than it seemed. His family slaughtered lambs and cattle for every meal, so surely they did not count; Red Mule had stabbed a man in self-defense and gotten off without punishment; the Diné had fought and killed their enemies, the Utes and the Kiowa, for hundreds of years. The fine distinctions danced and blurred until Kee felt dizzy and had to rub his palms into his eyes to wash them away. When a code talker came to recruit at the Indian School, a man of his own race dressed in dignified Marine blues, Kee reasoned that this war was like a raid against the Apache. Or maybe self-defense. It didn’t seem to matter, so much, when he volunteered that same afternoon.\n\nKee did not realize he had survived the beach until he found himself thrown unceremoniously into a foxhole.\n\n“Screw your head on, Yazzie,” growled the big-jawed corporal commonly called Beefsteak by the regiment. “Don’t pass out on us before you’re killed. It’s gonna take a lot of blood to get to the top of that hill.” Hill– Kee supposed that, even compared to Tsé Bitʼaʼí, Mount Suribachi wasn’t much more than that. It smoked now with explosives rather than lava, its brilliant green foliage steaming with rain and sickness even in February. The Marines around him breathed heavily. Their dirty faces closed with exhaustion in the brief respite afforded by the narrow trench. Kee closed his eyes and tried to count backwards from ten in Navajo and for the first time found he could not. \n\nIt was as if his mind were a ceramic dish that had been dropped. All the words had seeped through the cracks, running in rivers down the slope of rock too hard for absorption, leaving only the outlines of bright shapes in their place. Kee supposed he had no reason to be surprised. He’d barely spoken his native language in years. He had not been chosen to be a code talker, but a regular Marine. His family was completely illiterate: they did not read English, and Navajo had no written form, not until the code talkers invented one, so they did not write. It was strange to think the tongue that tied him to his past was gone. Kee let his mind stall and opened his eyes to stare upwards at the gray sky.\n\nThis was not a life any of his ancestors could have imagined for him. Three years ago heʼd seen a train for the first time in his life, the one that took him from the Navajo Nation to San Diego and from there to Camp Pendleton. Trains and planes, palm trees and harbors had seemed so wonderful to Kee until at last he saw the real monsters: warships, the endless ocean, the jungle islands of the Pacific. The infinite and unknown– that was real fear. \n\nSo Kee was not afraid but weary when the order came to move south.\n\nThe abandoned island felt lonely as the regiment resumed their creep. Kee was told there was a small civilian population, which had been forcibly evacuated the year prior. His reluctance to climb Mount Suribachi grew to repugnance. Japanese fire forced the Marines out of their route, circling the squat mountain with some semblance of organization. With painful delay the clouds changed from the intensity of midday to the dark suggestion of evening. They dug into the northeast face and numbed the urge to name and number the dead.\n\nHouses of the dead: these foxholes, these pillboxes, these lined faces. He would always be haunted, no matter how many healing ceremonies his family held for him. There was nothing that could protect him from that coming wrath. Not even Asdza – Kee’s heart made the familiar contortion seen sometimes in the mortal agony of animals, slow, mesmerizing, exposing finally the pale underbelly to an unforgiving sun. The pain was no longer emotional but only physical; it was a comforting routine he could recall when all else had spiraled out of control. Asdza must be married to another man by now. Diné women married so young – Kee’s mother at age twelve – Asdza was eighteen this year. Kee did not remember her exact birthday, or the features of her face, just the fall of her long dark hair in the twilight. Long, dark hair. Smooth. Flowing. Long and dark.\n\nKee lifted himself from the trench and inched forward on his belly. It was night and the Japanese had ceased firing. He was not seen. For the first time that day he allowed himself to stretch to his full standing height of five foot four. It felt good. The threat of discovery seemed very far away, like a rumor about something that had happened to a friend of a friend. A line of short trees gave him a sense of protection more closely resembling companionship than any actual security against death. He walked among them and regretted that he could not give them names. In Shiprock he knew them well: aspen and mahogany, yucca and pine, chollas and Mormon-tea. He walked slowly, not trying to arrive or escape, only to walk. Soon even the names of the plants left him beyond recall. He had lost Navajo; he was losing English as well. The words deserted him as he deserted the foxhole. Kee thought he could see their backs as they slunk away. He no longer thought in words but colors and shapes. Dark, long. Long and dark.\n\nA war dog began barking close by. The treeline rustled softly and a camouflaged helmet appeared above a white, trembling face. A rifle shook in hands webbed with tense blue veins. Kee recognized him immediately as a member of the 147th Infantry. He’d heard stories of these young men mistaking the dark, round-faced Navajo for Japanese soldiers, capturing or killing them in fear. If he could only speak – but he could not – and he was, without having consciously chosen such a path, a deserter. Instinctively Kee raised his own rifle to take aim.\n\nFor a split second, or perhaps an hour, the men stood barely a few yards apart, motionless besides the cold shiver of the one and the rise of Kee’s khaki shirt torn open in the heat. Then Kee lowered his weapon. He looked intently into the eyes of the soldier. He had probably never seen combat. He was almost certainly from the Ohio River Basin, as much of or more of a stranger than Kee to this dormant volcano, this bloodbath. His pinprick pupils drowned in irises of icy blue, perfect reflections of Lake Eerie. Kee knew his own eyes were bottomlessly black, the pupils drowning the irises, images of thick shadow swarming the rock face. He was the natural son of the houses of the dead.\n\nSuddenly Kee felt a surge of great, wordless love for this poor boy who had likely lied about his age for the privilege of dying for his country and who had come face to face with someone as foreign to him as the enemy. If killing was self-defense, if it had to be one or the other, Kee did not want to be the one who lived. The last words Kee ever managed to remember were echoes from his childhood: “Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not kill.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Would you like to see your future?\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1971\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where your character is travelling a road that has no end." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Would you like to see your future? I warn you; it is never what one expects!” I had never put much faith in the sideshow attractions at the county fair. This was new to me. Our Podunk town never ever would have allowed a fortune teller to have any access to us good ol people. Us good God-fearing folk. Never. I was amused. Never believed that any of this could ever be what it is cracked up to be. However, here I am, and I’ve just been given the warning of all warnings. Is she for real? Part of me laughed, another was scared shitless. In a tent right out of every movie that leaned on the old clichés of Gypsie! Crystal ball welding, scarf wearing rotund! Mysterious, women in bad lighting. It was right here. No way that this could possibly be what the movies foretold. No way. This was a production, with props. This was a caricature of a movie fortune teller. This was laughable! My skeptical side won out. I chuckled and responded. “I’ll play along!” I expected a crystal ball, on a table, uncovered theatrically by a quick snatching away of some cloth over it. Instead, she looked deeply into my eyes, and asked” are you sure? “Her, hand was held out, open palm, as she asked this. She managed to pierce my recently found bravado, and I wavered. I wasn’t so sure after all. Pride is the bastard son of Satan. I would never admit to being afraid of anything, but I was. The battle was now my admitting my fear, and changing course, or pride, standing up, and inviting whatever dreadful thing that my fear could imagine. I of course chose pride. Backed with false bravado. “My future, is what I asked for, my future is what I shall have!” I hoped to sound brave, nonchalant. A little boastful British air about my words. It all was betrayed by my knees knocking under the table, and a slight quiver of voice. Very slight. I quelled it so fast, I believed that it was impossible to register to anyone. Her look told me elsewise.\n“I will paint, and you will watch.” she said, menacingly, and of fact. Shook me to my very being. What? No crystal balls. No séance? No rigged shaking of table and chair? A painting? My confidence rose again at this juncture. How could I be afraid of someone painting? Visions of the Afro guy, and happy trees and birds filled my head. They clouded my rightfully placed foreboding. “So, to be clear, you are going to paint, I am going to watch, and by this, you’ll tell my future?” “Not at all.” She spoke. “I will paint, and fate will speak your future, I am but a vessel.” I often find myself wishing that I had just gotten up and walked out. My hackles were raised, my dander was up, my intuition was at red alert. My most quiet inner voice, was shouting. Leave! Did I not mention that pride is Satan’s spawn? “Come with me!” she said, as she got up from the table. She deftly threw aside a curtain and revealed another room. “Sit here she said, gesturing to a wooden chair that looked ancient, knotty wood. Rough. Right out of Hansel and Gretel, or the album cover for Tea for the tillerman. I sat. I looked up, and before me was a canvas stretched, ready for paint. A stool and a painter’s pallet, sat between me and the canvas. The gypsy women took up a brush and peered at me as she sat on the stool. “Last chance.” I couldn’t speak but nodded, as proudly and defiantly as I could muster.\n“I am the painter to the canvas, a vessel channeling, the canvas is your medium, it will speak to you and only you!” She spoke grandly, without theatrics. I wish that she had been theatrical. Perhaps I’d feel less foreboding. “What you see is for you to see, I will see swirls of colors, without form or face. You will see things.” “Among them, your future your future, not all, but enough.” My palms were so very sweaty, my forehead, cold and clammy. Fear lies just below the surface of everything. My bravado, a poor, and very thin veil. A nervous chuckle escaped my lips, its sound surprising me. “Tell her no” By the zombies, wafted through my mind. Too late. The gypsy women didn’t speak another word, she applied paint to canvas. My eyes widened, as I began to see snippets of my childhood, whirling up from the brush, in technicolor. Swirls, I am at the Philadelphia Zoo, holding my mother’s hand, as we examined the elephants. Swirls, my 10th birthday party, beaming at the military action figure, popular at the time. Swirls 13 sneaking behind the shed with my neighbor Princess, sharing my first French kiss, as our hands fumbled with each other’s clothing, previously unseen body parts and unknown erogenous zones, being found. Swirl, 17, losing my virginity in the backseat of my brother’s mustang. It continued this way. Memory after memory swirling up from the brush, as the gypsy continued to dab and apply paint to canvas. I hadn’t noticed, but my fear had been replaced by wonder, with intermittent pangs of guilt, regret and sadness. It was at once thrilling, and mystical. I was quickly catching up to my current life, and I felt fear making its reentrance into my consciousness.\n“That’s my wife.” Not sure if I said this aloud, or that I spoke so very loud in my consciousness that I couldn’t tell the difference. Its what I thought, when I first saw her, at a party, 3rd year Virgina state university. Id transferred there after 2 years at Stevens university. She was first year. That day was on canvas, soon after our meeting, later making out and later still, marriage. Our first-born David, our second Joy. Fear gripped me, as the events of yesterday were up now. Dropping David off at Virginia state as a first-year student. I’m not so sure I want to see anymore. I tried to scream out, STOP, nothing came out. I sensed that she knew that I wanted her to stop, doubt was completely removed, when she spoke without stopping her work, or turning around. “I warned you! it is too late, I cannot stop, once started, it must paint to the end!” There I am at the outside of the tent, looking smug with a skeptic’s sneer. There I am entering the tent. I tried to get up, to run. The knotty, and knurled chair suddenly became animate. It wrapped me with newly formed branches sprouted from the knots and strapped me down. I tried to close my eyes when the next swirl showed me seated as I was. Fresh horror filled me when I could not perform this simple act. My choices were narrowed to one, to watch my future unfurl, good, bad, and not indifferent. I’m, indeed, very vested.\n“Why were you so afraid to see the ending of this future painting?” Wait! Where am I? How did I get here? These and many other questions raced through my mind. I looked around. Hey, I recognize this place! It’s my therapist office! It all must have been a horrible dream! The relief was palpable. I felt the underpinnings, of my old pride welling to the surface. I knew that stuff was a bunch of crap! I almost chuckled, it was stifled by the nagging question, how did I get here? “What is the last thing that you can remember?” “I was in the Gypsy’s tent at the carnival.” “What was the last thing that you remember seeing in your painting of your past?” I was about to enter the tent, no, I was seated in a rough chair, strapped in by the chair itself.” “Let’s have more details. What were you wearing?” “Jeans, a white tee, and sneakers.” Do you remember when you dressed in this attire?” “Yes, I do, Saturday morning before breakfast.” “What else can you tell me about that day?’ My son and I were preparing to take the Drive to Virginia, for his freshmen year at Virginia state.” “Recount the day for me please. As much as you recall.” “Like I said, I got up, took the dog out, made breakfast for me and my son. We packed up the last of his things and left the house at about 11am. We unpacked. I took him out to dinner and headed home.” “What else do you recall?” “I got in the car and started driving…Doc, how did I get here?” “We have been trying to help you. You haven’t accepted our help.” Hey, what’s going on! Give me a straight answer to my question!” We tried that the last several times.” “What do you mean the last several? How did I get here?” “Tell me again, what were you wearing that day?” “I’ve already told you! jeans, a white tee, and sneakers, why are you asking again?” “I’m asking again, so that you may see what you are wearing now!” I looked down at myself, my tee shirt was hanging wide open, as if cut by scissors, my jeans in shreds. There was blood on them and my sneakers, I reached up to feel my face, and felt a mangled mess, my fingers gaining entrance, where my right eye should have been. How is this possible? “Is this some kind of trick? “Are you playing some type of sick game?” “I assure you that this is no game.” “Tell me about the gypsy lady in the tent, how did she look? What did you see when she held out her hand for payment?” I suddenly remembered, her palm and fingers were skeletal, they had no skin. “What about her eyes?” I recalled her eyes, I thought that they were reflecting the candles light, but in fact each iris was flames of themselves.\n“What about me, you called me Doc, you know me yet, when was the last time you saw this office?” “I don’t know I don’t remember.” “You do remember!” You remember reading the newspaper that morning!” It hit me, Id read in the paper, some 20 years ago, that my therapist, had committed suicide, with a shotgun, his daughter found him in the front yard, laying over a tree stump. “Look at me!” “NO”! I tried to get up, this chair held me as the last, with long metal loops this time, that stretched from its arms and legs. “You will see this time, and you will know” “I DON’T WANT TO KNOW! IT CAN’T BE!” My therapist turned toward me; the entire left side of his face was gone from the chin up. I screamed! “No! I can’t be!” “Yes, you are quite dead.” As dead as I am, as dead as the gypsy women, as dead as everyone who has tried to get you to see. You will live in an endless loop, each more graphic, each more terrifying, because you know the outcome. You just will not see. Until you accept your fate, and by it, accept your afterlife, you are damned to an outer innocence, with an inner knowing from the start, that you are dead!” This time a gypsy, and a doctor, next time …. “Nonoooo!” BOOM! Suddenly! A loud crash, tires screeching the dashboard is in my face in seconds, glass is flying, lights turning, over, and over, and over. It is so very dark, and I so very cold…\nHurry son! let’s get moving! I am proud of you! Move in day at my alma mater! Let’s get a move on! I’d like to be back home before dark......" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Diorama\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1368\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an artist whose work has magical properties." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The cars meet in a crumpled mess in the middle of the intersection. The passenger side of the white Audi has caved in completely, and broken glass litters the pavement like scattered diamonds on velvet. A burly firefighter, call him Travis, drags the driver out, negotiating his limp body through jagged metal and the tiny explosion of the airbag. There’s very little blood.\nThings are very different on the other side of the car. Blood polka-dots what’s left of the windshield and dashboard, smears the leather seats, and soaks the clothes of the little girl, her name’s Megan, who lies smashed and broken against the concave door. A second firefighter approaches her while another heads toward the other vehicle, a peanut-colored Porsche that has been scrunched nearly in half. It was clear that the driver had careened into the victims at a velocity no one should be able to reach on 94th Street. The car is empty now, and minute flecks of blood on the road indicate the direction of his flight. They will soon learn that the vehicle was stolen and that the perp (as he will be called) wore gloves to conceal his identity. \nThe detail of the diorama is exquisite: the Duane Reade on one corner adjacent to the blue awning of a Crystal Dry Cleaners, the scaffolding along the sidewalk across the street, the signpost for Columbus Avenue just a block away from Columbia Prep. A bike messenger zipping past, craning his neck to see the carnage. A lone pigeon, ash-grey with a handsome splotch of green and purple on its breast, perched on a lamppost above the fray.\nCharles sat back and reviewed his work with a critical eye, then placed another fireman in front of a woman who was gawking at the accident, her mouth an exquisitely painted O. The model was almost finished, and it was his best one yet. He had just one more piece to add. Knees scuffling on the carpet, he scrabbled around to pick up a house he had positioned at the very edge of the diorama. He opened the tiny shutters of the second-story window and squeezed a little boy through and into the bedroom. He pressed down until the figure was firmly in place, then bent him forward at the hips so he was looking out the window at the commotion. Satisfied, Charles draped a sheet over the project and slipped into his bed.\nHe awoke the next morning to his mother’s urgent call to breakfast.\n“Honestly, one of these days I’m going to put your little models away during weeknights,” she said when he appeared ten minutes later, dressed but disheveled. “You never go to sleep when you’re supposed to.”\n“Sorry, Mum,” he mumbled, accepting a fried egg and reaching for the baked beans.\n“Well that’s just it, isn’t it, Charles? You’re not sorry at all.”\nThe sound of the morning news interrupted her. It was a segment on last night’s accident, which had taken place just a few blocks away. She watched a somber fire chief recap the events, his face occasionally glowing red in the reflection of the sirens.\nCharles was watching, too. His mother jumped when out of nowhere he yelled, “I forgot the ambulance!”\n“What?”\n“Oh, nothing, just a game I was playing,” he said quickly, turning his attention to his egg. On-screen, the story continued to unfold, with a family photo appearing behind the news anchor.\n“My God,” his mother exclaimed, “it’s the Tildens! Gus and little Megan, your friend from school!”\n“She’s not my friend,” Charles said.\nHis mother stiffened. “This is a terrible tragedy, Charles, how could you say such a thing? I have to call Ivanya later, the poor thing must be going to pieces. And then, young man, I'm going to have a talk with your father about you,” she said in her most stern voice. “This hobby of yours has become an obsession. It’s been nothing but Styrofoam and wood glue and heaven knows what else. You’re ten years old now. Time to grow up and try something else, don’t you think? Maybe a sport, for a change.”\n“Mum, no!” Charles’s eyes stretched wide in alarm.\n“It’s for your own good. Cooped up in the house all day, making those ridiculous dioramas. It’s unhealthy.”\nFear prickled Charles’s skin. He needed to return to his room. “Mum, I don’t feel—”\n“Stop right there. You’re fine, and you jolly well know it. Now clean yourself up, you look like you got attacked by an egg. Chop-chop.”\nIn the car, Charles fidgeted and chewed his nails. He stared out the window as they drove past 94th Street. Broken glass glinted in the sunlight, as if the asphalt was sweating.\nThey pulled up at the school, and Charles glanced at the clock. Seven minutes to spare. “You be good, okay?” his mother said. He nodded, grabbed his lunchbox and schoolbag, and clambered out.\n“Gosh, the poor Tildens. I must call William,” he heard her mutter to herself in a shaky voice before the car pulled away. \nAssembly was a tedious affair. Principal Heim, a withered man who was younger than he looked, led the school in lamenting the death of yet another child. As he spoke, Charles tapped a thumb against four fingers as he counted them off.\n“So many have left us this year,” Mr. Heim whispered as the room dripped with sobs and sniffles. “Megan was a bright, precocious, and beloved child. She would have changed the world, I just know it. But the Lord must have needed her in heaven.”\nAs Charles headed to recess, he was shocked to spot his father standing in front of the school, talking to the headmaster. Seeing his son, William Tapper gave a quick, decisive wave. Charles shuffled over.\n“Dad, what are you doing here?”\n“Car. Now.”\n“But school—”\n“I said go to the car, Charles. Don’t make me tell you again.”\nHe settled into the front seat, and his father leaned across to lock his door. The drive home was tense and silent, the knot of fear in his belly tightening at every intersection. Since that morning’s conversation with his mother, Charles had felt a growing sense of inevitability and dread. His father stared straight ahead, as if looking at his son would mark a point of no return. Charles watched the grit-covered city rush by and prayed for a miracle.\nAs soon as they reached home, his father pushed him into the house with a single word. “Upstairs.”\nTrembling all over, Charles stumbled up, his father close on his heels, a firm hand fastened to his shoulder.\n“It hurts,” Charles said, but his father only squeezed harder.\nWhen he walked into his room and saw his mother, Charles’s blood froze.\nShe was sitting in his usual spot, surrounded by his dioramas. The bedsheets he had placed over each of them had been removed, and Charles felt a surge of rage. She had agreed not to disturb them.\n“They’re really fragile, Mum,” he had told her. “And they take ages to make. Please promise you won’t touch anything.”\nAnd his mother, smiling, had replied, “You’re quite the artist, aren’t you dear? All right, I promise.”\nBut there she was, holding the mangled Porsche he had made last night. To her left was a model of a bedroom, assembled with meticulous care. A boy was lying on the bed, bare-chested, his torso painted a vivid red and a silver sliver of cardboard protruding from his chest.\nTo her right was a burning building, outside which a boy lay melted on the ground while a terrified woman was hauled past him, slung over a fireman’s shoulder. Witnesses, frozen in midstride, watched spears of autumn-colored tissue paper in awe.\nThere was one more, still covered, a total of four perfect replicas of recent tragedies from around the neighborhood. In each one, a child had died.\nHis mother sat stricken, her eyes hollow with horror. It was his father who looked directly at him and asked, “Son, could you possibly be responsible for all this?”\nCharles hung his head and clenched his tiny fists as hot, angry tears spilled from his eyes." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Letter From Mosby\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1172\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story told from the point of view of an animal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "To Whom It May Concern,\n\n\nMy name is Mosby and I’m a dog—or more specifically—I am a miniature schnauzer and I need your help. I’ve never written a letter before. In fact, I don’t know if any dog has ever written a letter before, but you see, this is very important so I hope you'll understand.\n\nBefore I go into specifics, I guess I should tell you a little about myself. I was born in 2011, two days before Halloween, on a farm in central Virginia. I don’t remember much about the farm because that was a long time ago and I was really young at the time. What I do remember is I was part of a litter of three. I have a brother who is salt and pepper. He was adopted after me so I don't know much about what happened to him. I also have a sister who is pure white, and she never lets me forget it. Then there's me. I’m what they call “black and silver,\" and as far as miniature schnauzers go, I'm the most regal.\n\nWhen I was little, though, I was kind of rambunctious. \n\nI don’t know how much you know about adopting people, but there are a lot of rules you are supposed to follow. You have to wait until your eyes are open, your socialization skills have matured a bit, and—most of all—you have to be at least eight weeks old. Now I know all that stuff is important, but when the right human comes along—you cant dilly dally. You have to act quickly. \n\nThat’s what happened when I met my dad. \n\nI was just over seven weeks old at the time, so I wasn’t really expecting to find my person. But when he walked in, I could tell he needed a friend. \n\nHe had just lost his dog, another miniature schnauzer named Pepper, but he had come to see my sister—you remember her? She was white as snow, but to him she looked just like Salt. I understood the connection, and I was all for bringing my sister along with me, but I needed to make sure this man knew he was supposed to be my dad. \n\nWhen he finally sat down to play with my sister, I kept jumping in his lap. When he stood back up again, I followed him around the pen. When I thought I had lost his attention, I barked and barked and barked until he reached down and picked me up. \n\nNow it’s not something that happens every time between a human and a dog, but if the connection is right, when you look at each other, right in the eyes, you know when you’ve found the one and this was my dad. Apparently he knew he had found his dog also, so he wrote out a check, took me out to the car, and brought me to my new home. \n\nOh by the way, my sister came along too. \n\nThe thing about humans is, no matter how many times they have been adopted, they still have to be trained. They need to know that cleaning up pee and poop isn’t a chore—it’s a bonding experience. Most people don’t realize that the time you really fall in love with your new dog happens in the middle of the night. The two of you have been in and out almost every hour since bedtime, and just when your human is about to lose it, you poop in the grass. I don’t know if there is a more special time for a human, but I’m here to tell you when you see the smile on your dad’s face and hear him call you a good boy, it means the world to a dog. It’s why we lick faces—we want to show you in the best way we know how that there is not a purer love than the one between a dog and his human. It’s why a man is called a dog’s best friend.\n\nThe next seven years went by like a blur. Salt acted like the queen of the house but I know that my dad and I had a special bond. Most mornings he would pet me on the head and go off to a place he called work. I don’t think he liked that place. I’m not sure how I knew. Let’s just call it doggie’s intuition, but each night when he came home, I would run to meet him and jump into his arms. He might have had a bad day, but I wanted him to know I had been waiting all day for him to come home so I could lick his face. He pretended he didn’t like it, but he would always laugh. By the time he put me down, he was smiling. I love to see my dad smile.\n\nWell, this brings me to the point of my letter. About five months ago I started to notice a change. I was thirsty all the time and I couldn’t see quite as well as I had when I was a pup. My dad noticed this also, and he took me to the veterinarian to see what was wrong. I didn’t really understand what it meant when the doctor told him I had diabetes. I just know when we got back in the car he cried a little. When we got home, he fed me and then he gave me a shot. He kept telling me how sorry he was, but the only thing I was sorry about was that I couldn’t tell him it was okay. I knew he was doing those things to help me. He was doing them because he loved me. I licked his face when he was done, and I hope he understood why.\n\nA few days ago, for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel well enough to eat my food. I know this scared him because I had to eat so he could give me my shot. He took me to the vet who told him I had pancreatitis. I knew it was serious because I felt so sick and because he rushed me to the hospital. I’ve been here for the last four days, and I hurt all the time. I don’t want to leave him alone, but I don’t think I can take the pain much longer. I need his help. He loves me so much he won’t let me suffer. \n\nThat’s the favor I'm asking for. I need you to tell him I said it’s okay, and I don’t blame him, I love him. Tell him I wouldn’t have changed a thing about our time together. He made every day perfect, from that first day on the farm to today—my last day. Also please tell him it’s okay for a new dog to adopt him. I won’t be jealous—I just want him to be happy. \n\nPlease do this for me because I can’t talk.\n\nThanks so much,\n\nMosby" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Purse\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2274\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a character receiving a deeply meaningful gift they weren’t expecting." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "So here’s the thing, I want to tell you a story about a time capsule.\n\nWait, that’s not entirely true. It’s really a story about two people and a time capsule. Oh, and by the way, this time capsule is also a purse.\n\nDon't worry, it will all make sense at the end. I promise.\n\nKathleen, or Kathy for short, was so unique that even peculiar people called her quirky. She was proud of her name, although she wanted everyone to know that not all Kathys were alike. She was fond of saying that Cathys with a C were wimps. She always said this with a smile because Kathy loved everyone—even Cathys.\n\nI know what you're thinking, she couldn't have been that unique. Well, I'm here to tell you she was. I'll give you an example. Whereas most people go out and buy an ugly sweater before a Christmas party, Kathy’s closet was full of them year-round. When she did attend the aforementioned gatherings, the prize would always go to the second ugliest sweater at the party. It was the only way to keep Kathy from winning every year. \n\nHere's another example. Kathy bought hundreds of magnetic multi-colored polka dots to place strategically all over her car so she could always find it in a parking lot. Her husband, Pete, would tell you, however, it had nothing to do with the fear of losing the car—it was just Kathy being Kathy.\n\nThat brings us to the reason for this story: the time capsule. I told you it was also a purse, right? Good. Well, Kathy started carrying the purse her first year in high school, but—just like everything else she did—it was bigger and louder than any other girl's in town. The monstrosity was large enough to fit a medium-sized dog comfortably. I'm not entirely sure why someone would want to carry a medium sized dog in a purse, but you get the idea. In addition, it had an extra-long strap. It had to. It was the only way she could carry it on the opposite side of her body. This was critical because the purse was unbelievably heavy when it was full, and it was often full of the strangest things.\n\nOnce at a baby shower, the host—as part of an ice breaker—offered five dollars to the attendee who could produce the oddest item from her purse. One woman had a pair of dirty pantyhose. Another produced a box of condoms. A third, the remaining bit of a partially eaten egg salad sandwich. But Kathy, in her last year of nursing school, simply reached into her purse and retrieved a stool specimen. She had collected it earlier that day and, needless to say, she won the contest in a unanimous vote. \n\nKathy also had another special use for this purse. In an instant it could be transformed into, you guessed it, a time capsule. Don't act shocked—I’ve told you about that at least three times.\n\nThe important thing to understand is it’s not easy being different, especially when you are young. Most teenagers do everything they can to fit in, as it’s much easier to be part of a crowd than to stand out from one. \n\nKathy, on the other hand, always wanted to be true to herself. As a result, she, like many teenagers who march to their own drums, was misunderstood, ostracized, and bullied. Kathy, never one to let circumstance control her, came up with an ingenious idea. Whenever anything was going badly or she was dealing with something that seemed like the end of the world, she would activate her purse’s secret super-power. \n\nThe first thing she would do was to find a small piece of paper and a pen. She would then write out the current trauma on said paper, ball it up as tightly as she could, and throw it in her purse. It was her way of setting the problem aside while not letting it change who she was or her happy outlook on life. \n\nThis trick was great for temporary relief, but the real reason for the practice came from its long-term benefits. This is when our hero, Kathy, would take her ordinary purse and transform it into a time capsule.\n\n(I know. I know. The purse wasn't ordinary, but neither was Kathy. Stop interrupting. I don't want to lose my train of thought.)\n\nThe thing about having a purse so large is one can go for long periods of time without emptying it. There were times where it would be years between cleanings, but each time she did, Kathy would find those small balls of paper, open them up and read them.\n\nI’m failing math.\n\nBobby says he doesn’t love me anymore.\n\nI got into a fender bender in mom’s car.\n\nI’m pregnant. Dad’s going to kill me.\n\nThose notes were little time machines that would take Kathy back to the days each earth-changing event had happened. Invariably things had worked themselves out. To say the least, they were no longer the end of time issues. In fact, often she'd have forgotten about the problem all together.\n\nKathy had spent extra time studying and passed math with a “B”. \n\nBobby was kind of a bad guy anyway, and she knew that now. \n\nMom was so happy Kathy was alright that she just hugged her and forgot to be mad about the accident. \n\nYep, it turned out these life-changing events weren’t life-changing at all, except for that last one. That last one is what this story is all about. \n\n(Stop complaining, I’m getting to the point as fast as I can.)\n\nWhere was I? Oh, that’s right, this part of the story starts after high school. Kathy had gone to college on a math scholarship. Okay, she didn’t really go on a math scholarship. I was just making sure you were paying attention. She did, however, go to college and it was there she met Charles. \n\nCharles was everything Kathy wasn’t. He wore Oxford button-down shirts and loafers. (I know, loafers, who does that?) He came from money and had a slight English accent. This was unusual because no one in his family had been to England since before the Revolutionary War. He wasn’t particularly smart or funny, even by accident. He was nothing like Kathy and that attracted her. \n\nIt’s also important that you know that despite all of Kathy’s quirks, she had grown into quite the handsome young woman. She had long curly auburn hair and piercing brown eyes. The purse wasn't a magnet for the fellas, but the rest of her attracted them like flies. For some reason, Kathy settled on Charles. \n\nTheir relationship came and went more quickly than the Edsel; however, there was one lasting reminder—Kathy’s unborn child. \n\nThis was problematic to say the least. You see Kathy’s parents weren’t particularly religious, but they were practicing Catholics. It goes without saying there are few surprises less welcome in a Catholic household than an unexpected pregnancy out of wedlock. Marriage, on the other hand, was not an option. \"Good old\" Charles left school and stopped answering the phone as soon as he found out he was a father-to-be. Kathy was alone and unsure if, for the first time in her life, the time capsule purse would let her down. \n\nAs good luck would have it, she would be home for Christmas before she started to show her \"predicament.\" This would allow her to surprise her mom and dad with the news. \n\n(In case it’s not obvious, I’m being sarcastic there.)\n\nShe was dreading that conversation and that’s what precipitated that last note. She quickly scribbled her concern down and, after wadding the paper up as tightly as she could, threw it in her purse just before climbing onto the bus home.\n\nChristmases at Kathy’s home had always been special. The family, which consisted of Mom, Dad, Kathy, and her five siblings, would always start preparing for Christmas the Friday morning after Thanksgiving.\n\n(Yes, I know, I said five siblings. Remember these are practicing Catholics we are talking about, but I digress.)\n\nAfter hours of decorating, her childhood home would be transformed from an average suburban two-story into a Christmas wonderland. There was the manger on the coffee table, a tree in the center of the family room, and mistletoe over most of the doorways. In the back of the room, where the fireplace warmed the home and their hearts, were stockings, hung by the chimney with care. \n\nKathy's family, always partial to music, played Christmas carols on a loop. Kathy's dad loved the old favorites like “O Come All Ye Faithful,” and “Silent Night,\" but while he was at work mom let the kids play \"Jingle Bell Rock\" and \"Rocking Around the Christmas Tree\" to their heart's content. \n\nAnd the smells! The fantastic Christmas smells. Cookies cooking, eggnog nogging, and wassail simmering made the whole house smell holiday delicious. \n\nI am telling you all of this so you can see, in your mind's eye, what Kathy was walking into. She knew she could skip the Christmas trip and wait until spring break when her over-sized belly could do the talking or just bring home a little surprise during summer break, but she was no coward. To Kathy, who loved her parents deeply, those ideas were cruel. She, likewise, could choose to end the pregnancy but that idea left her mind faster than Charles had left town. Kathy was less than two months pregnant and yet, she already loved her child. She was keeping it, even if it meant disappointing her family.\n\nThe good thing was Kathy had a plan. As a young girl, Kathy had learned when breaking bad news there were only two ways to soften the blow for her dad. The first was with food and the second involved her mom. Kathy knew she had to win over her mom first before approaching her dad. When the time was right and they were alone, Kathy confided the news to her mom. The revelation set off a familiar response. Her mother paused, sat down for a second, and then stood back up and started to cook pasta. Kathy's mom, you see, knew the two tricks as well, and this surprise would most assuredly take both. \n\nNow I wasn’t there for the conversation with Kathy’s dad, but I’ve spoken to people who were and by that I mean, Kathy, her mom, and—yes—her dad, too. The consensus was there was no consensus. \n\nKathy’s dad said he took the news like a man, and after pausing and sitting down (Are you noticing a pattern here?) hugged his daughter, said he loved her and promised everything would be alright. \n\nKathy’s mom said her father screamed “What!” and turned bright red. He even stopped breathing for a minute. He then paused, sat down, and hugged Kathy. \n\nKathy said, well, she said she wasn’t quite sure what happened. She had run out of the room as soon as the words came out of her mouth. She missed everything that happened after the reveal and before the hug. \n\nYou see it turned out the time capsule had worked after all. Kathy’s dad was shocked and a little disappointed, but he was going to be a Poppy. That’s what the little girl ended up calling him, and what dad doesn't want to be a Poppy? The bottom line is he loved Kathy and he couldn’t wait to meet his first grandchild. \n\nIt’s been years since that day and Kathy never gave up on her purse. Her time capsule worked that Christmas so long ago, and it’s worked every time since. It has a perfect record.\n\nI'm happy to report, unlike Bobby and Charles, Kathy found a keeper in Pete. He was a loving husband to Kathy and devoted father to her baby girl. You see there were a whole lot fewer opportunities to use the time capsule because Kathy found true happiness.\n\nSo I guess you’re sitting there wondering why I’m telling you this. Well, you see I have a small part to play in this, too. If you look back you'll see I said this story was about two people. Well, the other one was me. I was the little girl Kathy decided to keep. Kathy is my mom and today we laid her to rest. \n\nShe had some very specific requests for her funeral. The first was very difficult, I’m not going to lie. She insisted her coffin be covered in multi-colored polka dots. \n\nHave you ever tried to put polka dots on a coffin? Of course, you haven’t. No one has. That was a stupid question. I will say this, it looked ridiculous, but that was Mom at her best, being quirky from beyond the grave. \n\nThe second request was for laughter. Anyone could give a eulogy, but they had to tell a joke first. She wanted people laughing through their tears. \n\nThe last, and by far the most emotional for me, was that as soon as she “was feeding the worms” (her words not mine), her oversized leather purse was to be passed on to me. It was my greatest joy and most profound sadness to accept her gift, and I’m sure you know the first thing I did. I pulled out a little piece of paper and a pen and wrote:\n\nI buried my Mom today. How will I go on without her?\n\nThen I rolled it up in a ball, threw it in my new purse, and headed home.\n\n(Oh, by the way, I don't have any stool specimens in there, I promise.)" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: comfort the disturbed\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1272\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an artist whose work has magical properties." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Creating was carving out pieces of your soul, sending them out into the universe, begging for judgment based on something other than the physical body you were born into. Judgment comes when you show others your work, but you welcome it. Your artwork was there for you when nobody else was, and letting audiences in was a form of connection you allowed, eventually. \n\nComfort the disturbed, disturb the comfortable - your work has always been good at that. Disturbing, disturbed, you've always been that. Your creations first began as a way out - pretending that you weren’t real, his breath wasn't against your neck, you weren't real, just ink and paper, a closed book. You didn't exist unless you were being watched, only you were always being watched. In the shower, you had curtains and drew on the steam in the mirror don't see me don't see me don't and he didn’t, complaining you had left the water running, unaware you were still there. \n\nYour sketchbook contained self portraits with scribbles, dark lines, sometimes using permanent marker rather than your usual pens, over the parts that were usually covered by clothes. You weren’t great at drawing clothes so you didn't bother trying.\n\nThe first time you did that, giving up on drawing the clothes entirely and just making your pelvic area a big black box, you had no way of knowing what would happen, what magic your artwork might create. \n\nThen you found yourself beneath his hands in the backseat of your parents’ car, not bothering to even say anything because they wouldn't stop him. This was how he expressed his love, after all, and you do love your brother, don't you? The answer was what you accepted. Yes, you loved him, so you felt everything and stayed silent. Only this time was different. \n\nYou didn't feel his hands when he touched you, as though striking through the area in ink had struck your nerves there out of existence. Or maybe you were just dissociating, you weren’t sure, but you drew another nude self portrait afterwards only to scribble over it, just in case your artwork was magic. Maybe you could draw your clothes into your person, make them unable to be removed, only that required drawing the clothing and it didn't look right, prompting erasing and redrawing, until you eventually scribbled over the whole work until it was a black cloud rather than a person. \n\nWhat you really wanted was for your parents to do their jobs and protect you, but you weren’t a skilled enough artist to sketch their disapproving faces, nevermind putting his face to paper.\n\n You were only a teenager, and you sometimes shut your sketchbooks for days at a time, scared even drawing might reveal too much, make more tangible what couldn’t be seen. You wished you couldn't be seen, sometimes, during those droughts when you didn't create. You would be forgotten, a faceless commenter in your art discord groups. Sometimes their questions were the only motivation you had for opening the sketchbook, taking out the pastels, making something again. \n\nWhen you created, you weren’t complaining, not at risk of saying too much and making yourself someone else's problem. You wanted to be someone else’s problem, sometimes. Fantasized about one of your teachers seeing you flinch, catching your fake smiles and asking the right questions, only you didn't even know what those questions might be. You knew the words for what was happening to you, but how would someone put them into a question? And where else would you go? No, you were better off silent. You were fine, really.\n\nYou tried a facial self portrait during one of his overnight visits, trying to avoid thinking by keeping your hands and eyes busy, crossing out your eyes in the portrait because eyes were too hard to draw and replacing them with blobs made the rest of the drawing seem more realistic.\n\nYou lucked out that night. Well, not really, he still snuck into your room and did unspeakable acts but he kept the light off. Or maybe your drawing did that act of kindness for you, you weren’t sure. You wanted to believe in magic, believe maybe you had some level of power over your situation. When life was a nightmare, who wouldn't want to live inside a sketchbook, y'know?\n\nYou sketched in notebooks meant for class, drew your teachers in an effort to pay attention to what they were saying, and they seemed to pay a bit more attention to you as well, an act that you were ambivalent about. You couldn't concretely connect the small mercies to your artwork, but you continued drawing regardless. Your friends fawned over your doodles when you shared your notes with them, impressed. You had talent, not that you planned on using it. \n\nArt was not your future, just a much-needed escape from the present. You showed off your drawings to your friends only and soaked in the phrase, sometimes even showing your parents your drawings. Not the figure drawings, obviously, but the doodles and self portraits that were family friendly (and damn if that wasn't an ironic choice of words, considering how friendly your family was) you sometimes showed off, when you were alone with them, making a quick exit or just quieting when he visited. \n\nA few times he even complimented your work, kissing your cheek, and those, those drawings you tore up completely, rewriting the notes on those pages first, hating yourself so much as you did so. The burning memory of his lips on your cheek prompted you to shower, only he pretended to need to use the bathroom, watching you. You pretended in your mind that you were still at school, sketching… something. You couldn't think while he was touching himself, still watching you and complaining as you decided to leave, wrapping yourself in a towel the way your notebook cover covered the drawings you created. You ignored him, returning to your bedroom, letting the water dripping from your hair destroy the drawing he had complimented earlier. \n\nYou would rewrite the notes in your pajamas, sketching your anxiety in the corners. Hands, that bane of most artists’ existence, you could sketch easily, and you drew his, doing what they had been doing. That act was meant to be done in private, just like showering was. But as long as your pen scribbled over the drawing afterwards, the blob next to your notes would be undecipherable. A scream from your brother's room interrupted your drawing, but you ignored it. Your parents would tell you the following morning he had accidentally closed a drawer on his finger. You would wait until they all left, home alone on a weekend morning, able to smile without it being fake for once.\n\nYou didn't hate him, couldn't hate him, but you welcomed the reprieve. After all, he couldn't touch either himself or you with a broken finger. You spent the weekend drawing animals from memory, and the more you drew, the more you would see scurrying by your window or pecking at the ground. So you then had live models to draw, and when you drew a worm that didn't exist, the robin right in front of you found one, life imitating art. \n\nYou wondered, sometimes, if you could draw a friend into existence who would already know. But you didn’t have the courage to risk the magic failing you. Every other part of your life involved some level of failure - creating didn’t. Creating couldn't rescue you, but you needed some magic in your life, and drawing added that." } ]

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

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fall\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1000\n\nPrompt:\n\nFly by the seat of your pants and write a story without a plan." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Just thinking about way too much as I'm standing at the top of the stairs. I stop to hear people walking by my house, the rustling of leaves pulling my attention away as I put my left foot in the direction of the first step into space. The brisk, scratchy sound of leaves swooshing up into the air with each step of the unknown persons outside my perception. Taking me to a moment in time, not this one. Taking me away from where I should be focusing my attention. Stealing my attention from this critical moment.\nNow I'm falling, and all thoughts of leaves and the time of year\nand the place I went back to just then are gone. But are they? I'm seeing the\nleaves mixed with tears, my tears, as my brain sorts out all the way too much\nthat was running around in my head on my way to the stairs, to the next errand,\nthe next crisis, to falling. Falling into these thoughts that crowd my mind.\nThat make me unfocused when I am so intent on focusing.\nFocusing on the many things I need to do to keep all the balls in the air, now complicated with my oldest son’s drug addiction, the turmoil it has caused my family and my business. What steps to take to protect him from himself while he refuses to get help and remains on this journey, to provide shelter and safety for his two daughters, to protect my company from further harm and embarrassment due to his behaviors?\nPeople must think there is something wrong with me, that I have not gotten him into a rehab program already. What is wrong? He’s 42. An adult. What interventions are there for him when he admits he is as we say, but refuses treatment? Everyone has tried to have those conversations. No, really, we had them. He pushes us away. Shuts us out. Ghosts us. Says yeah, yeah and leaves. Can no one see this? He’s my son!\nAnd I fall. Falling back to the day my daughter died. His sister. A combination of prescribed psych meds and some “recreational” drugs she added. Died in her sleep on an ordinary workday. Left us for a different journey we can not imagine. I, we picked up the pieces and carried on, albeit sadly, empty of spirit. Went on that way for quite a while. Finding joy in the dark is hard. Well, actually it’s impossible. For all of us, including her three children. Left behind. In a freefall of pain and sadness, with no idea what caused this or why. They were children, for Goddess’ sake, why?\nNot that it was better for us adults, but we had work to do and now more to care for than we expected. We did the work of life and plowed on. Gradually light returned to our lives. We walked slowly out of the darkness. We managed to smile a little, laugh a little. We wept when we remembered but tried not to leave door to darkness open too long.\nThe human mind is an amazing thing. The pain of birth. The pain of loss. Waves of tears wash into the shores of sadness and ease our burden. Make the load lighter. With time. And family. Both critical to reweaving a torn life. Then why was it not strong enough to keep it from happening again? Why did we as a family not learn the lessons it brought us so painfully? Why do we repeat creating pain? Are humans masochistic in nature? We treat psychological pain with physical pain to drown out the things we cannot listen to or fix within ourselves. Caring not about the ripples it creates with those who need them, love them, care for them. A horrible selfishness that each of us asserts as our right, while we feel alone in a world full of pain, not knowing we are part of this world, this blanket we are weaving together.\nOh yes, pain of broken bones. Flashing threw my thought pan is the\nunderstanding that I am still falling downstairs! These thoughts and\nimages are coming at me like falling leaves, bringing messages from the\nuniverse in slow motion. If only I could decipher them before I reach the\nbottom!\nThe bottom is where I have landed alright. Here I am, in the bottom of my emotional cesspool. Feeling sorry for myself, feeling lost, alone. Where do I go with this now? Oh why can’t I pull myself out?\nWHAM! I’ve hit the lower landing. Luckily, not on my head, although it sure feels like something got knocked out of it. As for the rest, everything else hurts all over. I think one of my shoes is up there still. What the hell! Now I have a good reason to cry, and I do. Probably for a while. Nobody home just now except me. Well, at least not when I started down the steps. Not sure if I can stand and I don’t try. Whatever I thought was important when I started this fall isn’t anymore.\nCan I fix all this by myself, the way I always feel about crisis situations? Do I have to? Aren’t I always saying “Nature takes its own course”? I am. Yet I still want to wave my hand and all is magically repaired. Then I feel sucked in by a whirlpool of sadness of a failure that I don’t control. Really went overboard this time. I can only control my life. I know that. The threads I add to the world’s blanket touch many others, but I can’t repair the knots.\nLost my focus. Lost my way. Lost my footing. But I think I found something. I found some hope in there, for myself at least. Some light to take another step out of this new darkness. To listen to the leaves and not get lost.\nI’ll get up from this floor eventually. Really." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ruthless\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2696\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where the laws of time and space begin to dissolve." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "‘I should have made you leave a long time ago.’ Murmurs Ruth.\nI see her looking down, then at the window, as if meeting my sight could change anything.\n‘You should leave.’ She whispers. \nAt last, her eyes look into mine. I dive into this ocean in which I would be ready to drown. Her shoulders quiver, hands envelop her mouth, then fall back down. The ocean becomes a lake, as countless droplets leak out. They crawl down her cheeks and chin, only to jump and crash to the floor of our living room, that I will not leave without a fight.\nStill, she stares at me. Her gaze is now her strength. She refuses to look away. I wonder if she’s crying so much to replace this ocean by a fire, with which she could burn me.\nI watch her cry. Cry. Cry. My arms reach out for her, only to pass right through. This can’t be real.\nI wake up the next day. \nTik tok, tik tok, tik tok\nSleeping alone when you don’t want to is like walking with a squeaky shoe.\nEither you numb yourself to it, you try not to think about it… Or you obsess. Nothing else matters anymore. At every step, at every sleepless night, at every sound, you are reminded that your life is not what it should, could have been. You want to lock yourself inside, to never walk again. But who are you locked in with? Ghosts. So you fall asleep watching videos until the words of those podcasters or YouTubers can almost be mistaken for the whispers of loved ones. The best for that are Twitch lives, the ones where streamers answer questions. The only part of the conversation missing is my voice. Your voice.\nI have both. A squeaky shoe and a lone bed. I want to throw out those ragged sneakers. Throw them in the chimney and watch them turn to ash. They could squeak for help as much as they like, no one would come to the rescue. But I can’t. They’re the first thing Ruth gave me. A pair of Nikes, as if gifts could make all of our problems go away. She gave me gifts in the end, the way I imagine Incas would give offerings to a vengeful god. Then I started giving her presents as well, perhaps to prove that I was mortal. It became the norm, the routine between us. One argument, one gift, until we could not look each other in the eyes anymore. The last gift she gave me was a kitchen knife. She didn't cook, neither did I. Then the gifts faded away and were replaced by screams.\nWhen I see people staring at me in the streets, grandmas with a frown in between their wrinkles, children with their mouths and eyes so widely open they could explode, I wonder if any of them know about Ruth. If they heard us break our vocal chords at each other in our thin-walled house. Do they hear the same silence as me now? A small town like this, everyone knows everything. How long before they stare at me, not because I’m a stranger, but because they know exactly who I am? Or is that already the case?\n‘Hi, name’s Cole, I’m new in town. I came here in the name of love. Now love’s gone. Ruth left my bed cold. My left shoe squeaks. Good day to you.’\nWhen ghosts end their weeping and birds start chirping at the end of my sleepless nights, I wonder. Only after my computer’s audio stops, when it’s run out of battery, the questions come. Should I leave this village? Let’s not pretend too much that it’s a town. The mayor is a part-time baker. It’s a village, if that. That’s beside the point, though. I wonder if, or rather when I should leave. But then I feel the blankets on my skin, the ones that she’s been wrapped in with me, I remember the fields that she used to look at endlessly. I can’t leave this land. Not quite yet. And yet, the question returns: How could any of it mean anything, now that she’s gone?\nThen - I’ve been doing this more and more lately - I go back. My soul leaves my body. I explore. I let my mind go to all the moments that I should have treated differently in my life, to not end up alone in a bed in the middle of nowhere.\nTok tik, tok tik, tok tik\nI think about the man who walked past me last week. I returned to his side. He drags his feet on the pavement, his hood dropped down to his nose. I can't see his face, not that I could recognise anyone’s face in this hamlet. Can it really be called a village? The mayor appointed himself.\nThe hooded man walks, glancing around at the puddles and the mud. Then - too late - he looks up and starts running. I see the bus, so does he. He signals the driver and tries opening the door, but there's nothing to be done. The bus starts driving away. Then, the impossible happens.\nThe man grabs a knife from his pocket, stabs the bus door repeatedly until the glass shatters. The driver - either in shock or having some trouble with his vehicle - stops the bus. The mad man walks in. I hear passengers scream.\n'Please, sir, please!' Implores the driver, uselessly.\nI see a flash of red and run away. Squeak squeak squeak. Some passengers leave the bus, by this point I'm almost home. I make myself a hot cup of tea. I turn on the TV. The police officer on the news calls out for any witness testimony on what they are now calling 'Bus homicide'. I turn off the TV.\nIt was all over in a moment, really. But I still wonder what could have been.\nI go back to this moment, sometimes. I scream at the hooded man.\n‘Run! Run or you’ll never get on that bus!’ Maybe he hears my echoes. Still, the moment barely ever changes. One time though, I saw him look back at me. His face mostly covered up, but there was something ever so familiar about his chin and frown. Something barely human.\nThe bus never waits, he never runs fast enough. Life’s too short to waste big chunks of it waiting for the bus. Life's too short for prison. Moments worth living are much rarer than the rest. Maybe he knew the value of a good moment. Maybe he could not forgive the driver who took one away from him.\nThere’s nothing I can do, there’s nothing I can change. So I go further. Back, back, all the way to when I was voiceless. I could speak, I was simply not allowed to, most of the time.\nMr Thompson is writing something on the board about triangles and I couldn't care less. At the back of the classroom, I see Luke. Him and his cracking voice while he jokes with Sydney. I hear the way he snorts every time he laughs. I see the way he looks at me, prey. The first glance he took in my direction, that’s when I should have done something, back when I was a teenager. Hate at first sight. Still, here I am now, ready to do what needs to be done.\nThe bell rings, Mr Thompson says a couple of things that no one listens to, as we step into the hallway one by one. Luke’s eyes are on me, I’m sure of it, but I keep walking. My moment is coming, that’s all that matters. I go to my locker and reach for my history notebook, when I feel his hand on my shoulder. My moment, there it is. I turn around and before he can say or do anything, I grab a fistful of his hair and smash his face against my locker. Again. And again. And again. \n‘Let me go! LET ME GO!’ He screams.\nHis nose is bleeding, his head tilted back by my grasp.\n‘Say the magic word.’ I say. He looks at me, flabbergasted that I would dare.\n ‘Please let me go. Please. I’ll do anything! Please, I’m sorry!’ He begs and cries.\nI hit him one more time, then let go.\n‘See? That wasn’t so hard.’ I nag him.\nThe crowd that formed around us is speechless. His trembling fingers reach his bleeding nose. It’s probably broken. He looks at me all over again, scanning from head to toe. Not a victim, not a friend, something new. Something to keep at a distance.\nThe moment is over. I escape the blood and my parent’s yelling and the temporary suspension that would probably have followed. \nI escape all of it and return to my now. On the way, I see the horrors that followed. The years of Luke.\nThen colour comes into my life. An explosion of light called Ruth. Her and her smiles and the sound of her voice as she speaks about her sister or her new boss at work. Then every sprinkle of light fades away and here I am, in the now. Ruthless.\nTik… Tok…\nAn empty bed, an empty life. Squeaky shoes and fading lights. Memories of bliss, in between the chaos. That’s what we aim for, isn’t it? To stay in the happily ever after, to reach the garden and to never, ever bite the fruit that would get us banned from it. That split-second, that calm in the eye of the biggest storm.\nI wish I could go back, right between the screams and the unbearable silence that I can never quite escape, no matter what squeaks or which YouTuber speaks.\nNot far enough. I go back, before last week, before middle school. Right to when I was born. Britney Spears at her peak and my mother, a smile splitting her face in two. I think about it all the time, about how to change things. I could have learnt an instrument or five, right then and there. I would have learnt to read and write.\nBy the age of one, I would be what they all spoke about. I would not have had an ordinary life, I would have been extra. A super star, like the world had never seen before.\nBut what would it have meant, if Ruth was not by my side, to live through it all with me? Sometimes, when I feel brave, I murmur her name out loud to myself, just for the sake of her not being completely gone. For her ghost to feel heard.\nPeople - if I spoke with them - might tell me that I’m depressed. Maybe I should see a therapist. But what would he say? That I’m depressed? Obviously. Then he might make one too many deductions that I would not be comfortable with. I wonder sometimes, when I look at myself in the mirror, what I’ve become. I crease my lips to make a smile. There’s something wrong about the face that looks back at me. It looks broken, like if some creature of another world learnt about us humans and tried to imitate our facial expressions. I wonder if I’ve forgotten how to smile. Then I look at photos of Ruth and I together. My smile hasn’t disappeared, it’s trapped in that beautiful past and it can never leave it. The time of hope.\nWe would have had babies together. We were talking about it. Well, we had gone from talking about it, to mentioning names, until we found the ones that we agreed on. Then those names were everywhere. If an actor or a dog carried that name, we would giggle. If a parent called it out, we would look at each other and smile, her hand tightening around mine.\nImagine me, as a dad. Running around, after a toddler, letting my little girl put her feet on mine as we’re dancing.\n'I'd rather die than have a child with you, Cole! I'd rather die!' She screamed. Screams. I can still hear her cruel words, taunting me.\nI can’t even bring myself to think of those names now. Lives lost in the universe of What-could-have-been. I see them sometimes, the children that we’ll never have.\nTik, tik, tik…\nI go back to the last time Ruth cried, the way she did so often towards the end. I'm back there, then. A second chance, to do things right, to keep her. To stop the inevitable.\n‘Stop crying.’ I say.\nHer tears flood me. I look at the kitchen door, then back to her.\n‘I said stop it.’ If only she said a word, something human, something that could make me feel like she and I belonged to the same world, then I might be okay, but no.\nShe uses her tears as weapons and her screams to keep me at a distance, like a gazelle keeping a tiger away. I look at the kitchen door again, knowing what I must not do, what I cannot do this time. I love her, I love Ruth. She is my sunshine, she…\nSnot drools down her nose. The sight of her makes me nauseous. She’s putting on this show for me.\n‘Stop it!’ I scream. ‘There, are you happy? It’s all my fault now, again!’ \nI remember once, when Ruth cried, like she did so much towards the end, I put my lips against her eyelid. I don’t know if I did it to kiss the pain away or to eat it out of her. Either way, the sensation touched me, it felt like butterflies, trying to fly away from a bird, from a snake, from... Me.\nThe kitchen door opens, the knife that she had gifted me only a week prior ends up in my right hand and my body takes over. I can’t hear Ruth cry anymore, I can’t see her blood flowing down my hands, I can’t feel her last breaths against my cheek as tears don’t fall out of my eyes. It’s not happening. It’s not happening. But it happened, whispers the ghost in my ear.\nI get out of my bed. I have to leave this… This place. I have to go.\nTok.\nI put on a black sweatshirt, hood up and leave the house. I walk, with vigour at first, before remembering that nothing of Ruth’s would ever be near me, ever again. I stroll, let my feet slowly kiss the ground at every squeaky step of my journey to the bus stop. A man walks next to me. He doesn’t look at me, I don’t look at him. How could he anyway? My hood is down to my chin. All that I want to see is the floor. Not the fields that remind me of her, not the people who stare at me. The mud and puddles.\nI see the man by my side turn to me. I’m almost sure that he is trying to tell me something, but that’s when I see the bus. I run as fast as I can to the bus stop. The bus comes. Its doors open. Close. I try to open them again, I knock, but the driver won’t help. He looks at me and I see him smile. Smile at the idea of leaving me in this haunted place, inhabited by demons who stare at my miserable, inhuman face. This is not a town or a village, or a hamlet. This is hell and the bus driver wants me to burn in here. Forever. In my pocket, I feel the one thing that I decided to leave with. The knife. Nothing matters, not anymore. Time is meaningless, now that there is no one to spend it with.\nI stab the door until it shatters. I hear the driver beg, just like Luke, just like Ruth. Then he doesn't beg anymore.\nThen, as my knife drips blood and the screams of strangers dissipate in the distance, I wonder what it means to be human." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 One\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2204\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who thinks their life is a romcom and they’re the protagonist." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Howdy, ma’am,\" he said, sitting down on the barstool next to her. “My name is Charlie and before the night is over I’ll have your attention, your name, and your phone number.” \n\n“Excuse me, what?”\n\n“I said, Howdy…” \n\n“I heard you the first time Cowboy,” she replied crisply, taking a sip of what looked like whiskey. “I come here every Friday night, and I have for more than two years. You aren’t the first to try and fail. I always arrive by myself and always go home alone.”\n\n“Well, first of all, I don’t plan on taking you home. Secondly, you’ve never talked with me on any of those Friday nights. If you had, I’d already have your number.” \n\n“Oh you would, would you?”\n\n“Yes ma’am. And, I’d like to add, you’d already be in love with me.” \n\nHis response made her laugh out loud and, surprisingly, intrigued her. “Alright Cowboy, buy me a drink and give it your best shot. I’ve got an hour to kill.”\n\n“Ok,” he said, signaling to the bartender to fill her glass and to bring him one as well. “But, first, I do have a few rules.” \n\nOnce again, she laughed out loud. “Rules? Let me get this straight. You sit down next to me, uninvited I might add, and boldly state I’m not only giving you my name and phone number, but also predict that I’ll fall in love with you.”\n\n“That’s right.”\n\n“And on top of that you expect me to follow your rules. What makes you think I won’t just get up, throw my drink in your face, and walk away?” \n\n“Is this guy bothering you—” \n\n“Don’t say another word, J.D.,” she said as she held up her hand like a stop sign. “Charlie here is trying to get my name, and I don’t want you to make it easy for him.” With a grin on his face, J.D. filled their glasses and went back to tending the bar.\n\n“Now, Cowboy, I‘ll ask you again. What makes you think I won’t just leave?”\n\n“Because you laughed.” \n\n“Because I laughed?” she repeated, failing to suppress a smile.\n\n“Yup. You won't leave because I made you laugh. I’m sure you’ve been approached by a lot of good looking guys, but you like to laugh. I could see it from the moment I walked in.”\n\n“I was laughing at you, not with you.”\n\n“Be that as it may, you laughed just the same. That's all that matters in the beginning.”\n\n“So what are these rules?” she asked, enjoying the banter more than she cared to admit. “I’m not saying I'll agree, but I am curious.”\n\n“First, I am required to treat you with respect. I’m not trying to pick you up, I’m trying to prove to you I’m worth your time.”\n\n“And?” she interrupted.\n\n“And what?”\n\n“What are my rules?”\n\n“You have only two,” he continued. “The first is you have to give me a honest chance. I can take no for an answer. But if I earn a yes, then I get your name and number.”\n\n”And the second?”\n\n“The second is if I guess your name, you have to give me your number, too. Do we have a deal?” Charlie stuck his hand out and waited.\n\n“Hold on, that's hardly fair. You could just keep guessing until you get it right.”\n\n“You underestimate my ability to guess.”\n\n“How about this. I’ll give you three guesses. Three strikes, then you’re out”\n\n“Okay, that works for me. I agree to your terms. Now do we have a deal?” Charlie again offered his hand.\n\n“Deal,” she responded, giving his hand a firm shake.\n\n“Susan?”\n\n“Susan? Why in the heck would you think my name is Susan?”\n\n“I don’t know,” Charlie responded, “I guess my whole life it’s seemed that every woman I've known named Susan was beautiful. I’m right, aren’t I?”\n\n“Nice try, Cowboy. Not even close. That’s strike one. Care to try for two?” She smirked, taking another sip of her drink. “Let me ask you this. Why me? There is a bar full of young ladies in here. Why waste your time with me?”\n\n“I’m glad you asked,” he replied. “You see, when I was about ten years old, my parents were looking for a plot of land where they could build their dream home. The four of us, mom, dad, my younger sister, and I, spent the better part of three hours, in August, in a car with no air conditioning on our way to rural Virginia to—”\n\n“Is this story going anywhere?” she interrupted.\n\n“I’m getting there,” he replied. “Geez, I hope you don’t interrupt me on all of our dates.”\n\n“You’re pretty confident for someone who thinks I’m a Susan.”\n\n“That I am,” Charlie acknowledged. “Now, because I always finish my stories, I’ll continue. After a long hot ride, tempers were a bit raw. When the real estate agent offered to drive us around in his air conditioned car, my parents jumped at the opportunity. My sister and I were relegated to the third row seat, but I was close enough to hear the agent say something that changed my life.”\n\n“You’ve got to be kidding me. You came over to me because of something a real estate agent said to your parents over 15 years ago?”\n\n”I did. You see, the man told my parents, ‘I can take you to all the properties we have listed and let you decide which you like, or I can just take you to the best right away.’ Well, my parents, fresh off an exhausting trip with an irritated ten-year-old boy and an infant in a car seat, decided on the latter. And guess what? That first property was the best. They still live in the house they built there” Charlie paused and looked around the room then back at her. “Sure, I could have made my way through the bar and talked to a bunch of women, or I could have just talked to the best. I also chose the latter.”\n\n“You made that story up,” she responded curtly, raising her glass.\n\n“I did not. You’ll see the property when I take you home to meet my parents.”\n\n“I’m not going to meet your parents. Stop trying to trick me,” she said, smacking Charlie gently on the arm. “Anyway, what makes you think I’ll choose you?”\n\n“Because you love me.”\n\n“I love you. I don’t even know you!” she said, incredulously, but quickly added: “What makes you think I love you?”\n\n“Well, you see when I was going into high school . . . ”\n\n“Going into high school? That has nothing to do with us here today.”\n\n“Let the record show you just referred to us as an us for the first time.”\n\n“I didn’t mean it that way.”\n\n“And yet you said it all the same.”\n\nFor a moment, she looked entirely put out until curiosity got the best of her. “So tell me about high school. What does that have to do with me?”\n\n“Laura?”\n\n“Laura? No, my name is definitely not Laura. I know I’m probably going to regret asking but why Laura?”\n\n“When I think of the name Laura, I think of a spitfire with a sneaky sense of humor.”\n\n“Well, thank you, I think. But that’s strike two, Cowboy. You better tell me about high school before you completely strike out.”\n\n“Okay, I was getting there. You see I was pretty scrawny going into high school. In fact, I was just under five feet tall and just a shade over 100 pounds. I had never had a girlfriend, not even just a girl friend. It seemed as if I had a choice to make. I could either go through high school lonely or I could act as if every girl loved me. I’m guessing you know what I chose.”\n\n“That’s not endearing. That’s narcissistic.”\n\n“Maybe so, but then again, maybe not. You see, in my experience girls are attracted to confident men. That being said, confidence is not what makes women fall in love. To make that happen you have to treat them right. No, actually you have to treat them special. The good news is that’s exactly how my dad treats my mom, so I have had a good role model. You’ll see when you meet him.”\n\n“I see what you’re doing. You're pretending I love you already—just like the girls from high school.”\n\n“Yes ma’am,” Charlie responded. “But, here’s the thing, I’m willing to do the work, too. I’ll send you flowers and take you out on Friday nights. I’ll write you love letters and sing you romantic songs. I don’t want you to fall in love with me because I decided you should. I want you to fall in love with me because you discovered I’m the man for you. Remember my rule. I will treat you with respect. I’m not going to play games with you. Oh and remember—I already made you laugh.” \n\nAlmost on cue, she laughed then smiled warmly at him.\n\n“But what if, after all your hard work, I still get up and walk out that door? What will you do then? Are you going to chase me down in the parking lot? Follow me home? Are you a stalker?”\n\n“Nope. If you get up and walk out that door, I’ll do what my dad did with my mom.”\n\n“Another story!?”\n\n“Yes, but it’s a good one, I promise. The first time my dad saw my mom, he was working the counter at a snack bar in Woolworth's. To hear my dad tell it, she acted as if she didn’t even know he was there. According to my dad, he knew the moment he saw her that my mom was the girl for him. That very first day, he asked her for her name.”\n\n“Let me guess—she gave it to him?”\n\n“No, actually she didn’t.”\n\n“I’m beginning to like your mom.”\n\n“I told you it was a good story.”\n\n“Maybe I’m just being polite.”\n\n“If you are, I can stop.”\n\n“No, go ahead and finish. I promised you a fair shake.”\n\n“Okay, where was I?”\n\n“Your mom wouldn’t give your dad her name.”\n\n“Oh, that’s right. So, after she declined, he just smiled and told her one day she would. He was willing to wait. Usually at this point, my mom jumps in and tells her side of the story. Unbeknownst to my dad, she was actually so impressed with him that she wanted to tell him her name right away, but she felt she would have been too forward. Instead, she went back to that snack bar every few days. Even though he would talk to her, tell her stories, and make her laugh, my dad never asked for her name again. She wanted him to, but he was giving her the time she needed to come around. Finally, mom grew impatient and marched into the store, walked right back to the snack bar, and said, ‘My name is Mary Ann, and yes, I’ll go out with you.'\"\n\n“And they lived happily ever after, right?” she chimed in, feigning disinterest.\n\n“Why yes, they actually have. That was 30 years ago and they are still very much in love.”\n\n“Okay, that is kind of sweet.”\n\n“I know, right. So, in answer to your question, if you say no and walk out that door, I’ll come back on random Friday nights and, as long as you’ll let me, I’ll tell you more of my stories. I believe one day, just like my mom, you’ll give me your name. And until then, just like my dad, I’m willing to wait. But, I will tell you one thing.”\n\n“What’s that?”\n\n“Well. my mom always says she regretted not giving my dad her name on that very first day. You see, no matter how many days they have had together, she has always wished they would have had more.” \n\n“That’s actually very romantic.”\n\n“Monica? It has to be Monica. My younger sister’s name was Monica, and she was the kindest person I’ve ever known.”\n\n“Was? What happened to her?”\n\n“That’s actually more of a third date question,” he responded quietly.\n\n“I’m sorry, Cowboy. That’s strike three and your hour's up. Like I said, I’m not here to meet people, I’m just here to unwind.” And with that, she gave the bartender the universal sign for the check.\n\n“Fair enough. Will I see you here next week?”\n\n“It’s a free country,” she responded with a chuckle as J.D. handed her the receipt. She quickly scribbled her signature, finished her drink, and walked out the door.\n\nCharlie just smiled because he knew she would be back.\n\nSo would he. \n\n“Hey there, fella. I think this is for you.\"\n\nCharlie looked up as the bartender handed him her signed receipt. “Turn it over,” J.D. said. \n\nCharlie flipped the receipt and read the writing on the back.\n\nMy name is Mary Ann, just like your mom. Give me a call and tell me another story.\n\nJust below the note was a phone number.\n\nAfter taking the last sip of his drink, Charlie pulled out his cell phone and began to dial." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hallelujah!\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1022\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with it raining… anything but rain (e.g. flowers, cutlery, seashells, running shoes)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The screaming was the first thing we noticed.\nIt was one of those grey days that me and my brother Mike used to like. The kind where the sky is dark with angry looking clouds and the wind is high enough that it makes your shirt cling to your skin.\nIt wasn't wet though. Those days only got wet when we went in.\nMike and I were out with a set of little plastic golf clubs, ignoring Ma as she hollered at us to knock off our mock sword fight, and it was only her cuz Dad was at work. It was at this point that we heard the screaming.\nAt first, none of knew what to do. The neighborhood, what little of it there was on a workday, was silent aside from it, and even then, it was far away sounding. I had a look around and caught sight of Josh across the street. He was an older kid who sold his NERF guns to Mike and me for a couple of toonies, so I've got nothing but nice things to say about him. He was at his barbell bench, mid lift. He was frozen up. I couldn't wonder long about that because the screaming, clearly not him, was getting louder, and Mike was still battering me with his red mini golf club. That's the point where I really started to get that feeling. The one where your heart is going too fast. Where it feels like the thing is pumping inside of a vice. I shoved Mikes club away and looked at Ma, and she's just got a pinched look on her face; forehead full of worry lines and lips set in a hard line as she leaned on the porch railing, trying to get a look around.\nThe screaming was the loudest it could have gotten now, and it was hoarse too. Hoarse like it'd been going for ages.\nWhen Ma's eyes went up, so did mine.\nThey didn't stare there long, cuz they found themselves following a big, flailing man as he found himself driven into our old, cracked up driveway. The mess that made. I still see it as clear as the day it happened.\nHe landed headfirst, and that cut the screaming off with a wet crunch. The weight of it made the skull burst out in fat chunks of red and red splattered white. The rest of him followed suit. I could see his spine compress through his naked back, the vertebrae mashing into each other and out of the open hole of a neck. The arms slammed hard too, though that seemed to me like it was a dryer snapping noise that betrayed the useless swinging that followed it. The lower body, I don't know how to describe that. It looked like all that pressure, all that injury, all of that worked to help split him vertically at the pelvis, a fount of blood spewing from between leg that seemed to drive themselves down into the asphalt.\nThe bastard was a pile on impact.\nI couldn't hear much screaming after that. Not mine. Not Mikes. Not Ma's. Certainly not from any of the people I saw falling after that.\nGod, did they fall.\nIt was slow at first, two or three in small bursts. By the time Ma started hauling our little asses to the house those bursts got bigger. By the time we were inside it was a downpour.\nThey hit the ground hard. Some of them burst on impact. Some of them bounced up a bit before settling in a broken heap. Then those ones had other bodies land on them, building up into small piles of dead. I saw a couple get skewered on tree branches; their intestines wrapping around them. Ma shut the blinds after that.\nShe shut all of the cuz it was happening all over. You could see the primary school across the train tracks behind our house and they were bouncing off the roof. Our roof too. Dull thud after dull thud while Ma had the two of us huddled in the corner, sitting in the dark for it all to pass.\nIt did not pass for two hours.\nWhen it was finished, we still sat in our dark corner, Ma's arms wrapped tight around us. I don't blame her. What would you be doing after all that? Still, we waited so long to do anything that Mike fell asleep, like he wasn't nearly stuck out in a rain of screaming people.\nAfter a while, I got myself loose and headed for the front door. It was a bad idea, but I was about seven when this happened, and I wanted my golf clubs. I got the door opened before Ma could grab me and what I saw was... confusing.\nI saw piles of bodies stacked on top of each other, amid loose organs and limbs strewn every which way. There was some dangling off the roof of Josh's house, Josh himself nowhere in sight. They were stuck in the trees, and one of the heavier looking ones came tumbling down when the branch stuck through his back snapped off. Across the street, I saw no sign of Josh among the gore, but I did see someone I knew. Someone draped over Josh's bench press, limbs snapped backwards, and his head twisted around that the bumps of spine were visible even from the distance I was at.\nI saw my dad there. That was the last thing I saw of it before Ma closed the door.\nIt took them a week to clean everyone up. Took months to go through all the funerals. They were attended though. All six thousand, four hundred and seventy-three of them. Every one of the bodies belonged to someone from our town, or who had been to our town at some point in the past, and that's about all the cops figured out about it.\nNo one ever found out how this happened, why it happened, or if it'll happen again. All I know is this one thing:\nI miss my Dad." } ]

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

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Running Shoes\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1407\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where your character is travelling a road that has no end." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Dan Parker, AKA '@RunDanRun' considered his video caption for a few moments, then decided to go all out with: \n“THESE RUNNING SHOES WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE. HERE’S WHY…”\nHe then scanned the video timeline until he found the right thumbnail. A shot of himself holding a pristine pair of Megaflow 11, his frozen expression a picture of awe. He pixelated the image of the product, as he didn’t want to give the game away before he earned his click, and added a few neon exclamation marks and a ‘mind blown’ emoji for good measure. \nIn the opening seconds of the video Dan claimed that while these shoes were sent to him for free, his opinions were entirely his own. That wasn’t strictly true. He didn’t have any opinions as such. He just said what he needed to say to get more views, likes and subscribers, and keep the free loot coming. \nHe did actually think this pair were good, and planned to take them for a spin at the 5K ParkRun this Saturday. But were they a game changer, or just the same as the last ten pairs? Who was he to say? If someone wanted to spend £200 on new shoes they didn’t need it was their own business.\nSaturday came round and he proudly strolled into Friary Park, north London, wearing his new bright red shoes. While he made a show of stretching out his hamstring a steward with a thin frame, high cheekbones, and fine black hair approached him. He had the look of a vampire in hi-viz, and moved with absolute silence. \n‘Are you the man who reviews shoes?’ he asked in a strangely formal tone.\n‘That’s me, Run Dan Run.’\n‘I bet the sporting companies love you.’\n‘The feeling’s mutual.’ Dan chuckled in reply. \nThe thin man then regarded him with a cool gaze that seemed to draw Dan in for a moment or two. He felt as if time was slowing down and his thoughts were muddling, like in the moments before sleep. The man then looked down at Dan’s shoes, before returning his eyes to him and muttering, ‘May you keep running in this pair.’ \nDan felt a sudden chill run through his body, and quickly hurried off to the starting line, shaking his mind clear of this bizarre exchange. He stood at the front flexing his calves with all the other top runners in the pack, and waited for the start. \nAs soon as the race began he took off like a gazelle, easing straight out in front. He was simply gliding. In a state of flow. Not thinking about his pace, just enjoying the sensation of the asphalt under his feet. One foot in front of the other, floating serenely like a swan on a still lake.\nHe stayed in first place the whole way round, it was an effortless win, but as he crossed the finish line a strange thing happened. Instead of coming to a stop he just carried on running. Some unknown force compelled him to keep going, so he went with it. Straight past the stewards, out of the park gate, and onto the main road, heading north on the A100. \nHe went on in a trance-like state with barely a thought in his mind for about 20 kilometers. His subconscious dealt with road crossing and avoiding pedestrians, but there was no inner dialogue at all. He just went on and on. \nAs he crossed over the M25 and reached Potters Bar, semi-coherent thoughts began to enter his mind. He realised he’d gone a lot further than planned, that he should have been home two hours ago, that he had things to do today, that this wasn’t right. \nHe decided to stop. He told himself he really should go home. He willed his legs to cease, but they simply wouldn’t co-operate. He found he couldn’t come to a halt. It was like being on a treadmill that wouldn’t switch off. \nHot lashes of panic whipped up and took hold. He cried to a man walking his dog for help, but the dog walker simply cheered and shouted, ‘Run Dan, run!’. \nHe then came upon a woman pushing a buggy and yelled, ‘Help me, I can’t stop, call the police!’\nBut she just laughed and said, ‘You’ve got this Dan!’\nThen things became increasingly weird. People started to gather along his route and film him on their phones. They told him he’d become a viral sensation. Film crews started following him on his journey, the news presenters excitedly sharing their reports to the camera. Cars would pull up beside him, the passengers leaning from the window to shout encouragement or hand him energy gels and water. The more he cried for help, the more they cheered, and the road stretched on. \nHis most macabre and harrowing moment came on the outskirts of Birmingham, where he saw his wife, Rachael, and two daughters, Olivia, aged ten, and Molly, aged seven. ‘Thank god,’ he thought to himself. \n‘Rachael, I can’t stop running, do something, call someone!’ \nRachael smiled and shouted back in response, ‘We’re proud of you Dan, keep going!’\nDan then saw Molly was holding up a cardboard sign which read 'GO DADDY :)'\nIt was at that point that Dan began to weep uncontrollably, his tears and sweat mingling on his shirt.\nAnd so, after 16 days, 4 hours, 37 minutes and 29 seconds of non-stop running, Dan decided to force an end to his nightmare. His body seemed inexplicably fine with no sleep and perpetual motion, but his mind was not. He could take no more. He was deep into Scotland by this point, past Aberdeen, and he decided that instead of looping round and returning south he’d just keep going, out into the sea. \nSo, with resolve, he carried on due north until his feet hit sand. ‘This is it,’ he thought to himself, ‘The finish line!’ and started hysterically whooping and howling into the air. \nAs he approached the grey, murky waters of the North Sea and awaited his final relief, he saw a flash of fluorescent yellow out of the corner of his eye and turned his head to see the thin steward standing ankle deep in the surf, still wearing his hi-vis vest. \n‘That’s enough,’ said the man calmly, and semi-circled his hand. \nDan’s feet went out from under him and he fell tumbling over, landing in a cold puddle of sea water. He looked up at the man, and suddenly felt like every bone in his body was as splintered as the driftwood that lay next to him. \nThe thin man walked over, looked down on him, gestured to Dan’s feet and simply said, ‘Please…’ Dan understood, taking off the shoes, and handing them over. He was suddenly aware of hard calluses forming on his feet, like limpets on a rock.\nThe man regarded the trainers in his hands, now faded and battered, and muttered, ‘Well, the last thing the world needs is more new shoes.’ He then turned and hurled them out to sea with Olympic force. He caught Dan’s eye one last time and then made off up the beach without another word. \nDan watched him leave, and then felt a sudden lurching sensation in his gut, as if he was falling over. He groaned, and then collapsed onto his back, staring at the clouds and filling his body with deep lungfuls of salty air. \nHis mind drifted idly for what could have been a minute or an hour, before his old habits of thought reared up and pointed out he’d not checked his YouTube stats for over a fortnight. So he pulled out his phone from the pocket of his shorts and opened the app. \nWhen he tried to log in his details were rejected, so he instead tried searching for his account. But no matter how many times he entered '@RunDanRun' he couldn’t find a single video. It was as if his entire online history had been erased. All those hours spent filming, editing, reviewing, influencing. Gone. \nHe instinctively considered starting again and filming a video diary there on the beach, but the thought made him sick. “No”, he muttered to himself, and instead turned and launched his phone out to sea to join the cursed shoes. The phone submerged with barely a splash, and he turned and slowly made his way back towards land." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hemi The Hori\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1760\n\nPrompt:\n\nThink of someone who stood on the periphery of your childhood memories (a classmate, a teacher, a neighbor) and cast them as the main character of your story." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "ADVANCE NOTE: This an NZ story.\ndairy = convenience store\nkumera = sweet potato\nkai = food\nhangi = ground oven\nwhanau = family\nboil-up - pork bones and puha boiled for long time.\npuha - a common spinach-like weed.\nI was home for a family dinner, back in the old hood. It had changed a bit. The big Pak’n’Sav supermarket had never been here when I was growing up. It sits where the fish’n’chip shop was that gave me my first after school job. There was a dairy here as well, and a stationer. Those and a whole bunch of houses had gone for a fancy ‘commercial estate. The Warehouse, Briscoes, a Noel Leeming, and a few other big names. The Pak’n’Sav is a big ugly yellow supermarket with none of the magic of the old ‘corner shops’ where we used to hang, but it is a great place to stock up on kai. I was in the vege section, loading up with kumera, cabbage, some cauli and a pumpkin. I was thinking I would put a hangi down for the whanau. I was adding some onions when I heard a sentence that froze me, that sent me rocketing back in time. \n“Too many bloody Horis in here.” \nAn older overweight white male in front of me was muttering several racist expletives, looking at a family who seemed to have heard him. I reckon he intended them to hear. The woman pulled a confused looking boy closer to her. \nI had stopped my trolley on an awkward angle in the fruit aisle, oblivious to the grumpy comments of shoppers navigating around me. \nI was six years old walking into the dairy with Mum, my small hand clasped in hers. An older woman was leaving. I thought she looked real smart. Her blond hair was cut in a neat style, one wave in point over her cheek. She had some smart looking spectacles on and lots of makeup. She definitely was not a local. I also saw a look of disgust flash across her face. She clutched her fine leather handbag tightly to her side and muttered ‘Horis.’ \nJust like I did, back then, that child would be asking his mother what ‘Hori’ meant. \nI wondered what his mother would say. My mother told me it was nothing, ‘the lady was just in a bad mood.’ \nThe word had rolled in my mind with its connotations of disapproval, of dislike; along with the woman’s sour expression and the way she clutched her handbag. I asked my brother later. Wirimu told me.\n“A filthy word white people call Maori because they think we are shit, they think anyone with brown skin is kaka. Probably thought you were going to steal her handbag.”\nThat one word changed my world. I had always been just ‘Hemi.’ At six years old in my head I became ‘Hemi the Hori’. Something less. Something smart people would look at with disgust. I could not get that smart lady's face out of my mind. I was an object of derision. My whole family was. Everyone like me was.\nIdeas about the colour of my skin had not entered my head at that age. At school there were a lot of Maori kids, and kids from India, Samoa, Fiji – and a few white kids. But I had never noticed what ‘colour’ the kids I played with were. That changed, I found myself wondering if all the white kids thought of me as a Hori.\nI started to pay attention to the ads on TV. All those ads with people using magical cleaning products in beautiful houses with shiny benches and matching glassware and big colourful jars of flowers were all white. \nMy home had green benches with white swirls and chips on the corners. I remembered how I used to like following those swirls with a finger, finding animals and faces, but suddenly all I saw was the chipped edges. \nNone of our glasses matched. That was cool, me and Wirimu each had our favourite glass. Mine was one of those Coca Cola ones that came free with a tank of petrol and still wasn’t broken. I loved its curves and indents. I knew Wirimu liked that one too, but Wirimu let me have it. Now my glass looked sad cos no others matched it. Just a cheap glass. \nMy mum was surprised when I stopped demanding my special glass, but did not ask why. \nAt school when George asked me to play I turned away to play with Te Kare instead. I saw George years later, funny, he did not forget me doing that. He was hurt, we had been good friends. When I finally got that chance to explain he understood. Friends again twenty years later. It took a long time to learn that not all white people looked at us like that lady did.\nI was okay at school when I started. I liked learning numbers and writing. I had not noticed until I became ‘Hemi the Hori’ that there were special programs for Maori kids. Why? Because we are ‘Horis’? My grades went down, so I soon joined them. The work in those programs was easy. \nGetting lined up to have our heads checked for nits had been funny. We would scratch our heads, shoving each other and laughing about who had ‘cooties.’ As ‘Hemi the Hori’, I noticed it was only the ‘Hori’s’ who got lined up. Did white kids not get nits? It sure looked like Tom did, the way he scratched his head. \nWhen I started year three my teacher asked me if my name was short for ‘Hemingway,’ and laughed really loud. I had no idea who Hemingway was, or why he was laughing. Next he asked if I had a dad at home. Mr Wills didn’t ask any of the white kids that question. \nNo, I did not have a dad at home. My Dad had died working in forestry soon after I was born. I became aware that it was more common for ‘Hori’s to not have dads at home. I was a bit older when I learned Janaya’s Dad was in prison, and Te Kare’s Dad had been violent and drunk a lot, and one day just left. It was true, lots of ‘Hori’s’ had absent fathers. It made me feel both sad and angry and I could not work out why. \nA trolley banged into mine, another ‘Hori’ saying “hey mate, can you move?” He bumped me back to the present. Meat for the hangi next, a few chickens and a leg of lamb, a big fat lump of pork. And of course pork bones, I would do a boil-up with the hangi. Boil-up had to have puha. I grabbed a bundle before I headed for the meat. Pork bones and puha could always be found in supermarkets in neighbourhoods like our one. I saw that family ahead, the one that old guy had muttered ‘hori’s too. I would get them a ticket to the game next week. My thoughts soon drifted back to my past. \nBy high school I knew where I belonged, and it was not with the white kids. I knew what was expected of me. Sneaking a smoke down the treeline at breaks; skipping English, even though I liked it, but it was what my mates did. Hori’s were not good at English anyway. No point. \nWirimu gave me a hiding when I got stood down. I can’t recall what I got stood down for now, either wagging or fighting. My mum had a cry. I felt bad and I knew I should do better but I was too full of anger I did not understand and could not see the point. \nI had been angry at everyone back then. I owe a lot to my brother. \nWirimu dragged me to his rugby practice after school to keep me out of trouble cos Mum had to work. I was angry with Wirimu, I wanted to hang with my mates. The first time I sat on the sideline scowling for as long as I could, but the game got me. I was following that ball with a sense of excitement like nothing I had ever experienced growing in my gut. I had a ton of questions for Wirimu later that night. He explained all the rules and I soaked them up. After that Wirimu did not have to force me to go. My heart raced watching the running and the tackles and tries and the big kicks. My eyes would be riveted to the ball on its arc toward the goal, holding my breath to see if it went over. \nOne day the ball came my way and I ran with it. I did not hear my brother or the coach yelling at me, I tucked that ball down like I had seen Wirimu do and ran. Coach had me enrolled in the juniors the next day.\nI found myself chuckling. “I may be a bloody Hori, but I can run with a ball!” My mutter was louder than I thought, shoppers were staring at me. I hadn’t been here for a while, but I was seeing flickers of recognition. I moved on fast.\n‘Hori.’ That word, that man, it had taken me back down my road. From then to now. This trip to the old hood was special. Wirimu had dreamed of being an architect growing up, but our family never had the money for that sort of education, so Wirimu became a builder. He was good at it. I worked with him whenever I was home, I loved the outdoor physical work. It kept me fit. \nYeah, Wirimu was good, but he wanted more. He had set me on my path to my dream, now I was ready to set him on his path to his dream. A full scholarship to study to be an architect. I planned to do more after that for other Hori’s like us, in Wirimu’s name. \nRolling my trolley to my SUV I heard someone yell out.\n“Hemi! Hemi Nichols!!!”\nI looked over to see the older white man from earlier. The man who had been muttering ‘Horis’ and sent me down memory lane.\n“Man, you are the best! That try last week was record busting.” The man scrabelled through his pockets, producing a pen, and then offering his cap. “Can I have your autograph?”\n“Sure.”\n I took the cap and scribbled on it. \nHori." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Vanity, and a Deal with the Devil\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1709\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an artist whose work has magical properties." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: sexual and suicidal imagery.\n\nJenny Murphy is gorgeous, just ask her. Her parents spoil her. Her friends admire her. Boys desire to be with her and girls want to be her, encouraging lust and envy wherever she goes. She’s dating the most popular boy in school and her teachers love her. Jenny feels the world is her oyster, spinning around her, set in motion specifically to give her everything she wants.\n\n“Ugh, here comes Jenny Murphy. Just keep your heads down. Maybe she’ll pass us by,” Melissa Carter tells her friends at the lunch table outside.\n\n“You know Jeremy can’t keep his head down when she’s around, if you know what I mean,” Brandon teases.\n\n“Wow, Tosha, look at all the losers. Isn’t it neat how they congregate outside to the farthest corner like it’s their natural habitat,” Jenny says with a smile.\n\n“We come out here to get away from the likes of you, Jenny,” Melissa tells her.\n\n“Geesh, sounds like someone has goth an attitude. Why the long sleeves emo,” Jenny says pulling back one of Melissa’s sleeves, revealing a scar. “Oh, that’s right. Nobody loves you and you want to die,” Jenny says with a pouty face while her gal pals, Tosha and Kim, laugh.\n\n“Booger off, Jenny. Don’t you have something else to do,” says Brandon Lawrence, Melissa’s closest friend.\n\n“Brandon, Brandon, Brandon, are you still blowing the chess club, so they’ll do your homework?”\n\n“That was one guy, one time.”\n\n“It can be multiple guys multiple times. All I have to do is say that it’s so, so sit down and shut up,” Jenny says with vicious authority.\n\nTurning her attention to Jeremy O’Neil, she smiles and sits down beside him. “Caught you sneaking a peek at me during English,” she says. Leaning in and whispering in his ear, she says, “Save me a sock,” and laughs wildly, tossing her hair as she gets up. “Later losers.”\n\n“I wish there was some way we could put her in her place,” Melissa growls, pushing her black bangs from her eyes.\n\n“How? She has the whole school eating out of her hand. Even the teachers and the administration think she’s the moon and stars,” Brandon says.\n\n“If she wasn’t so pretty, no one would think twice about her,” a voice says from behind them.\n\nMelissa turns her head and finds a young man with long hair pulled into a bun wearing a Slayer t-shirt, torn jeans, and combat boots.\n\n“Who are you?”\n\n“Dylan Rose. I just moved here.”\n\n“Well, Dylan, it’s not like we are going to set her face on fire,” Melissa tells him. “But I get what you’re saying.”\n\n“All I’m saying is that you can put the princess in her place once and for all. Meet me here after school,” Dylan says, handing her one of his father’s business cards.\n\n“Rose Photography,” Brandon reads out loud with a questioning tone.\n\n“It’s my father’s business. Don’t worry, he won’t be there. He’s off on Mondays. All three of you come by. I want to show you something.”\n\n(*)\n\nAt the end of the school day, Jeremy drives them all over to the studio. It’s a quaint little brick store in the middle of the downtown area with portraits in the window. Dylan greets them at the door and leads them back to the studio. Nothing is out of the ordinary, just lights, a plain background, and a digital camera.\n\n“My family has developed a photo editing software that has some magical properties tied into it and I’m going to show it to you.”\n\n“Magic,” Brandon questions.\n\n“Yeah, you brought us here for a magic trick,” Melissa says, feeling perturbed.\n\n“Trust me, this is no trick. People pay top dollar and come from all over the world for my father’s service.”\n\n“Service? I thought you sold pictures,” Brandon asks.\n\n“It’s better if I just show you,” Dylan replies. “Jeremy, we’ll start with you. Just a picture of your face.”\n\n“I don’t know, Dylan. I’m camera shy, with my acne and all.”\n\n“You won’t be after this. Trust me. Don’t smile. Just look at the camera.”\n\nJeremy slouches to one side and looks at the camera, letting Dylan take the picture. After he takes the picture, he takes out the storage card and inserts it into the computer, downloading the image.\n\n“Alright everybody, watch Jeremy’s face.”\n\nBrandon and Melissa watch as Dylan selects tools from his photo editing software and works. Slowly they start to see Jeremy’s acne disappear. “Whoa, is this for real,” Melissa asks.\n\n“Yep,” Dylan says, putting on the final touches. “Here, give him a mirror.”\n\nJeremy gasps and touches his face. He can’t believe it. He looks at Brandon who nods sincerely at his friend. “Dylan… How…”\n\n“I told you. With a little bit of magic. Melissa, how about those scars on your wrist.”\n\nMelissa pulls up her sleeves in a hurry as Dylan grabs the camera. He takes a picture of her wrists, downloads it, and gets to work. Within moments there is no evidence that she has ever attempted suicide. She flips her wrists over several times, astonished by Dylan’s work. Brandon watches on with his hands cupped over his mouth, tears in his eyes.\n\n“All right, here’s what I’m proposing. I can take this camera to school and tell the students that my dad owns Rose photography in town and we’re holding a most photogenic competition for free senior pics. That should get me the pic I need of Jenny. From there we can alter her appearance, and nobody will be none the wiser.”\n\n“What do you need us to do?”\n\n“For starters, you have to keep your mouth shut about the software, what we do to Jenny, all of it. My dad’s boss will have us killed if word gets out. There’s a lot of money in this, and his boss is someone you don’t piss off. On top of that, I want a date with Melissa.”\n\n“Hell, all you had to do is ask for a date with Melissa,” Melissa says.\n\n(*)\n\nThe next day, Dylan presents the school with the competition, and everyone is eager to have their picture taken, especially Jenny Murphy. They wait until the end of the week and announce Jenny as the winner. On Sunday, they go to work on altering her appearance in such a way that she won’t want those senior pictures.\n\nMelissa, Brandon, and Jeremy all gather around Dylan’s computer. “How should we make her look,” Melissa asks with a mischievously evil voice.\n\n“I have a function that shows you what a person looks like if their inside appearance was seeable on the outside,” Dylan tells them. “It won’t actually happen unless I hit enter. It’s just for viewing purposes.”\n\n“Do it,” Jeremy says. “I have to see. I’ve been so blinded by her outer beauty that I can’t see past it. I need to know what she’s like on the inside.”\n\nDylan selects the inside-out function. Jenny’s long, flowing golden mane is replaced with patchy stubble like she has mange. Her right eyelids are missing, and her left eye is melted shut. Her nose is gone. Her ears are tiny and pointy. Her right cheek is gone too, exposing teeth and gums.\n\n“All I have to do is press enter,” Dylan tells them.\n\n(*)\n\n“…nine, ten. Ready or not, here I come,” Jenny screams across the house so her nephew knows he better hurry up and hide. At six years old, it won’t be too hard to find him, but Jenny decides to drag it out like a good aunt, make him feel good about himself.\n\n“Are you under the table,” she says with a frightening tone as she lifts up the tablecloth, knowing good and well he isn’t there. She heard him go upstairs.\n\nOn her way upstairs she stops at the mirror above the mantle to admire herself. “Is he in the bathroom! Nope, I better go look upstairs.” She blows herself a kiss after primping her hair and heads up stairs.\n\n“Where are you, Sebastian? I’m going to find you. Are you under the bed! No. Are you in the closet!”\n\n“Eek, Aunt Jenny, you always find me. Your turn to hide.”\n\nSebastian went to the dresser to count, but he peeked open his eyes and watched his aunt crawl back into the closet. He reaches ten, and runs to the closet, flinging open the door. “Roar,” Jenny screams.\n\n“Eeeeeeeeeeeek,” all the way down the stairs and out the front door. Jenny gives chase, not meaning to scare him so badly. When she passes the mirror above the mantle on the way to the front door, she has to turn around and do a double take. What she sees has her screaming and crying.\n\n(*)\n\n“For our first date you bring me back to your father’s studio?”\n\n“I want to see what you look like through the inside-out function.”\n\n“What, you can’t accept me as I am?”\n\n“I do and I will. Hitting enter is up to you.”\n\n“Okay, I’m curious. Let’s do this.”\n\n“Okay, to really do this, you need to take off your clothes. I’ll take four shots of you – front, back, and both sides.”\n\n“Now I see what you’re up to,” she laughs as she removes her shirt.\n\n“No, you don’t, but you will.”\n\nMelissa is a stout girl with love handles, thick thighs, and a butt that sags. She has a cute face but covers it with dark make-up and long bangs. She turns as Dylan takes his photos. He downloads the images and hits the inside-out function. Melissa’s hair turns to a caramel brown and the long bangs disappear, being replaced with flowing waves. Her dull green eyes are now much brighter, sharper. Her face is thinner exposing beautiful cheekbones. All of her piercings remain. Her body has tightened up. She’s not skinny or athletic, but not fat either. She would say she’s voluptuous. Most notably, there’s a sleeve of tattoos on her right arm that she would never have been able to afford.\n\n“What do you think,” Dylan asks.\n\n“It’s exactly how I want people to see me,” she says quietly. Reaching across him, she presses enter." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: My Heart and the Sea\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1262\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character saying “Where I come from, …”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Where I come from, people worship an invisible snake. It’s always been our protector and provider, though no one has actually seen it. Old stories written on yellowed papers named it the Saffron Serpent, and people have called it that ever since. Its skin color is like the peel of a banana, its body stretching across eleven straw houses, its width the height of two food chambers. My parents would tell me about how, at night, people would go missing and food would get stolen by the Saffron Serpent. The only evidence were the slithering and hissing sounds of the creature at night and the loincloths on the ground – covered in blackened blood – at day. At first I thought they were stories to keep children from going outside at night, for my mom would say, “Cordelia, if you don’t get back home by nightfall, a really big snake will eat you, and mommy’s heart would break into a million pieces.” But after losing both my mom and dad, the realness of the stories has never been so real. I wanted to hate the invisible snake, but I couldn’t. When I tried to think of ways to avenge my parents, tranquility would fill me as my mind got taken to the sea.\nNever in my life have I grown such fondness of the waters I fish in, of something non-human. Every day, I would, as an infant, be carried, as a young girl, skip, as a grandma, limp to the wooden pier my mom and I made – to see the waves and ripples and feel what’s within. Dolphins and small fish would pounce from the sea, and I would feel their movements in my body. Even when the surface was blurred, my skin would feel as if it’s been enveloped in tender clouds, my joy within would touch the sea with its fresh fingers. But the reason I have been paying a visit to the sea daily was because of the strange red light in the sea that would, when the stars were dancing in the coal-black sky, flicker until dawn cracks, acting as a town hall for the fish in proximity. Small fish, turtles, dolphins and sharks would swim to the beat of the strange red light in harmony. It would flicker twice, pause for a beat, and repeat until dawn. When the sun wakes, it would become like the Saffron Serpent: invisible.\nUnfortunately, I could only feel and see these heartwarming moments during my infancy, childhood and dotage; my adulthood was overflowing with work. Mostly hunting and gathering. I would spend most hours of my day finding eggs in tree hollows and in bushes. If luck was on my side, the bushes would hide berries in them. But fish are the main food source of our tribe. Almost fifty nets and spears would dive into the sea water each day, but only a few would bring up fish. I would use the special wooden fishing pole my mom gave to me as it had a circle hook to it, which would do least damage to the fish.\nMen would wake up before the sunrise, before us, women, to bring big animals back to the village. Some days, animals hide and meat would rest on their shoulders; other days, their clubs would be blood-free, their quivers stuffed with arrows. I, too, would hunt for land animals, but only at night. It was risky to hunt during the day – not because of all the wild turkeys or the roaming emus or the Saffron Serpent, but because of my own people. It’s against the traditions to, as a woman, hunt land animals. If I got caught, I would be forced to leave the tribe. But the pain every time a fish is caught breaks me a little. I had no choice but to hunt as many wild turkeys, opossums and mutton-birds and as few fish as possible.\nWhen I reached sixty-two years old – that was seventeen years ago – I belonged to the dependent group once again; I no longer needed to find food. The young grown-ups would do it daily instead. Still feeling the pain when a fish dies, I would revisit the strange red light. The sensation of all kinds of fish jumping out of the water would be there, but not as strong as when I was little. All kinds of fish would gather around the strange red light. It tickled. I could feel it in my heart. I would trace the path one of the fish had created and jump to the next one. It felt good to feel like a child once more.\nThe skin of the sea glinted moonlight as I dove deeper into the sensation. Though my eyes had a hard time trying to keep up with their speed, I felt the sudden rush of the fish. It was…strange. No longer did I feel enshrouded in clouds. No longer did the fingers of joy touch the water. The fish started swimming away from the strange red light, away from me. Hollowness crept in as I turned my back to the sea and went to my straw house. A huge gap in my chest expanded to the walls. And I fell asleep, my heart flooded with dismay.\nI woke up to the sound of the commotion outside. More loincloths laid about the land. Fewer food left in the chambers and bags. Different comments on the Saffron Serpent’s doings soared into the air, all insulting and aspersing. One of the complainers, whose voice almost created a borehole where he stood, said, “let’s spear those fish and circle our village with their blood. Once the creature comes, we will execute it. I don’t want to lose any more of our food and people. Let’s settle this once and for all.” Hundreds of shouts responded, almost shaking the earth. Their battle-cry still drifting in the air, each of them grabbed a weapon and marched makai. \nMy mind wanted to rush to the pier and stop them, but my body thought otherwise. I was in my sixties, going up against an army of armed men and women wouldn’t be wise. I sat under the shades of a tree, looking at the enraged people lining on the pier. But then I heard it – the Saffron Serpent. It was hissing and slithering behind me. Surprisingly, my heartbeat remained unhurried. I looked behind with great curiosity but saw nothing but trees and straw hats. That was when the slaughter of a hundred fish ensued. Hunting spears pierced the sea’s skin. Clubs battered the scuffling fish in blood-soaked nets. Arrows flew into the flesh of the sea, into the hearts of a sea of victims. Countless lives met their demise that day; I, too, died on that day.\nMy life as a human has gone by like a flash. The moonlight leaps from my skin as I now feel and see the lives under water enjoying themselves as clear as my rippling skin. No one in my tribe has made it to today. They became the victims of their own hatred towards the Saffron Serpent. Though it would be sane if I thought such an occurrence was a misery, my life is in its golden age. Life has never been so serene. The beauty of the sea animals has never been so lovely and elegant. I continue to feel the presence of the sea animals circling around my glowing red heart as the Saffron Serpent saunters along the wooden pier." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Emerald Deal\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 3074\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an artist whose work has magical properties." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“This is unbelievable!” Francis exclaimed as he held my self-portrait in his hands, “It looks just like you!” Francis “Franky” Cullins is my best friend, and he holds in his hands what I hoped to be the beginning of my illustrious career as an artist. I smile at him – a humble, gentle smile – as I contain the bubbling anxiety within the pit of my stomach. “Do you really think so?” I asked in what I hoped to be a tone that indicated only mild curiosity, and not that of a child seeking validation.\n Franky looked from the painting and up to me with blazed excitement in his eyes. “This is no joke, Mort; what I have in my hands here is pure, uncut talent!” He lightly shook the painting in his hands as he said so, but abruptly stopped when he realized he was doing so, as if worrying he could ruin it. “As a matter of fact,” Franky continued, “I’d like to post this on your page and talk about the process of how you painted this if you’re all right with that.”\n Honestly, I was taken aback by this offer. “What, like you want to be my manager or something?” I sarcastically asked him this as I chuckled, but Franky’s face remained sincere. His response to me felt so genuine, so lacking in the raillery I expected, that it took me some time to register it. “Why not? I’ve always believed in your work, Mort, even when no one else did. But with this…” he trailed off as he looked back down at my painting. Finally, he continued, “This was seriously all freehand?”\n I nodded, “Yes, it really was. But, Franky, would you really want to be my manager? I don’t even know what that job would involve.” He waved his hand dismissively at me and smirked. “Exactly why you need one! Let me handle all the details, but this – you just need to worry about making more of this!” His smirk had grown into a wide grin as his eyes welled with moisturized droplets. I was stupefied at my friend's eagerness to want to work for me after seeing this latest piece of my work. I knew of course that this painting, and all others that followed, would be different, but to have this sort of hypnotic effect was entirely unexpected. “Yeah, okay,” I hesitantly agreed, “Go ahead and post it, then.”\n Franky’s eyes widened in a somewhat disturbing display of ecstasy. “Perfect! I’ll get on that right now, and you do what you gotta do for your process and you get another painting out A-S-A-P! I promise you, Mort, this is going to be huge!”\n Before I could even open my mouth to respond Franky had already darted out of my studio – which was just my room in our shared apartment – and into his room across the hall as I heard his door slam behind him in an eager swing. I stood silently amidst the canvases on easels which all displayed different degrees of blankness to what had the appearance of being worked on for several minutes of brush strokes, then forgotten. They stood around the room in a way that formed a labyrinth to the bed, one which only I knew the right way through. I looked at all of these unfinished and unbegun paintings and vowed they would not stay this way for long. Things were different now.\n I got most of the way through a new painting I was working on, I believe I will title “Green Singers,” when I noticed I was at it for almost ten hours straight – no food, water, or bathroom breaks. I got myself into bed. I lay there for an unknowable amount of time as sleep eluded me, and I found myself thinking back to a conversation I’d had with an alluring stranger.\n It was last week on a Thursday when I was at my favorite art exhibition in town which thankfully had a small coffee shop near the entrance. As I sipped at my caramel macchiato I was scrolling through the reactions (or lack thereof) one of my paintings received. It had been posted for approximately 72 hours and had garnered seven likes, while most of the comments were uninspired at best and rude at worst. One of them even said something along the lines of, “This is motel art at best. You look too scared to put any real expression into your work. Don’t quit your day job for this. Hope this helps.” What the hell was that even supposed to mean?\n I dropped my phone on the table in such a frustrated way that my coffee trembled and nearly spilled. Not that I cared. I threw my hands over my face and exhaled in an admittedly overdramatic, defeated way. There I buried my face as I gathered myself when I heard someone sit down in the chair across from me. I looked up, expecting to see Franky. Instead, it was a man who I had never seen before – I recall little from his physical appearance, but I remember he was wearing an expensive-looking suit. And his eyes, those piercing emerald-green eyes with an intense and aged sheen the likes of which I had never seen before. “Can I help you?” I asked, making sure the irritated tone hinting at please-go-away was noticeable in my inflection.\n The stranger gave me a smile that was warm and comforting, and I felt my disappointment in myself, and the world melt away from my chest. I know it’s weird to say, but I instantly felt comfortable with this man here. “I’m a fan of your work,” he said to me. His voice was velvety and sweet, “I wanted to meet you in person. But I have to say, there is room for improvement.” Of course, I thought to myself, another critic who thinks they can tell me how to paint. “Oh, yeah?” I said with the irritation back in force. I took another sip from my coffee.\n “Oh, yes,” the man said, “but that’s not a bad thing – every great artist knows there is always room for improvement; it’s the knowledge that one would never achieve perfection, yet their pursuit for it is endless.” I rolled my eyes at him, though I guessed he did have a point. “Maybe you’re right. And I’m guessing you have the solution for that?” This was obviously a rhetorical question, yet the man kept his gaze locked in mine and he said, “It so happens, I do. What would you say if your paintings would become the epitome of perfection? That through your great works, your name would be immortalized, etched into the framework of history alongside Monet, Van Gogh, Michelangelo, and so many others.”\n I laughed dryly at him, “For that –,” I paused, peering searchingly into my cup of coffee, now at room temperature. “For that – I would give everything.” That statement came out of me so much more sincerely than I would have expected from myself. Realizing this, I laughed at myself, raised my coffee, and gulped the rest of it down. I was feeling this odd sense of anticipation I could not explain, like the feeling a kid at a theme park gets when they are near the end of the line for a ride on one of the attractions. The man with the green eyes raised an eyebrow at me as he said, “While I admire the enthusiasm, I wouldn’t ask you for everything. If I were to perfect your art, I would ask for very little in return, in fact.”\n Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows, but in a more incredulous, disbelieving sort of way. “Wait you’re… Are you serious right now?” the man said nothing. He only kept that cool, soothing smile. I pressed on. “So, you could make me one of the greatest artists of all time and you would want, what, my soul? That’s what this is, right? Some low-budget Twilight Zone episode where you grant me my biggest dream, and all I give in return is my soul?” Now the man leaned forward in his chair, closer to me. I could smell him now; it was a scent that felt so refreshing as it ignited nostalgic feelings for events of my life that I could not recall ever happening. It soon dawned on me that the feelings of nostalgia his scent gave me were not like smelling freshly mowed grass and remembering a magical summer from childhood; this was a sense of longing for events in my life I had not yet lived.\n “No, you don’t have to worry about that,” he said in a reserved timbre. “Despite what certain media would tell you, I don’t barter for souls.” I considered this, then asked him, “Well, then what do you want from me?”\n “Two things,” he said, “If I immortalize you and your art, I need you to paint something for me – I will tell you what at a time of my choosing. Second, I need you, Jack Mortimer, to say five little words to me to endorse our contract.”\n I was practically vibrating in my seat now with anticipation as if a colony of butterflies had birthed within me all at once. He didn’t need to tell me what those five words were that he needed as I could feel them on the tip of my tongue, ready to burst. I stood up and eagerly reached my hand out to shake his. He did the same. I fervently told him what he needed to hear, “I see you, Mr. Green.”\n***\n Three months had passed since I painted that self-portrait, which I allowed Franky to keep. He keeps it proudly hung in his new office where he works around the clock to get me new exhibits for my paintings. “Green Singers” had been a phenomenal success, and there had been twelve others so far after. He even got me a spot to talk on the Late-Night Show, which to be fair, didn’t seem too hard as they had reached out to him and practically begged for me to make an appearance.\n But what I found most astonishing from this whole experience was that the scenes I painted seemed to come to life not long after they were finished. When I painted my hometown with a clearly visible view of the Andromeda Galaxy in the night sky, the next evening the miraculous anomaly was reported across the states which led astronomers stumped as to how it had suddenly become so bright to make it so visible to the naked eye. I painted snow in southern California, and the next day there was a blanket of almost twelve inches in Los Angeles. That’s what made it exceptionally convenient when, out of the millions of supporters and admirers across the globe, I discovered one truly bitter, ignorant critic.\n His name was Elijah Quill, better known by his Reddit username as ElQt69 – a truly tasteless name to choose for one such as him. It didn’t take long for me to find a picture of him, as people like him are always so self-absorbed that their photos are aplenty and public to pair with their highly opinionated views. But Eli should’ve thought to be more careful which what he does with photos of himself on the internet.\n After I had memorized his face, his body type, and what style he wears, it was almost too easy to paint his liking as I saw fit. Elijah Quill, in my depiction, was seen in a dark alley somewhere, having been beaten to death – the folds inside his pocket turned out to indicate he had been robbed after the fact. I kept this painting to myself, of course, but couldn’t resist the urge to google the news in the city I found that he lived in. There he was, the egotistical bastard, making the top headline. Good for him.\n A few days after the oh-so-tragic passing of ElQt69, Franky came to see me. We no longer lived in that small apartment together as I had found a nice condo in the city. I buzzed him in, and he came in with that adoring, eager grin. That suck-up smile was starting to get on my nerves.\n “Hey, Mort!” he said cheerfully. My God, he’s practically skipping towards me, I thought exasperatedly. “Listen, I got a new opening for you downtown. And if you’re okay with it, I’m thinking somewhere around five we can –” I held a hand to stop him, which he did instantly. “Hang on a second, Franky. There’s something I got to tell you.” Something I should’ve told you a long time ago.\n He cocked his head to the side as he asked me, “Sure, what’s up?” I looked him into those weirdly adoring eyes as he waited. “I’m going to have to let you go, Franky.”\n The look Franky gave me was as if I had just kicked a puppy across the room. “W-what?” he stammered.\n I blinked, and said, “You’re fired, Franky. I’m sorry but, the truth is I don’t need you anymore. You can expect your last check in the mail.” Franky backed away, his legs trembling. His eyes darted about the room in disbelief. “I can’t believe this… I thought we was friends, Mort?” tears had already begun to roll down his face.\n “We were, but let’s face it Franky – I’ve outgrown you. I'm sure you understand.”\n Franky’s face turned beet-red as he exclaimed, “You can’t do this - we were a team!” I watched him begin to storm away and back to my front door, as he yelled over his shoulder, “You’ll regret this, Mort! It was both of us – together!” the door slammed.\n“Well, that was dramatic,” I said to no one.\n***\n That night, I awoke with a start. I was having some horrendous dreams, though I can’t remember the details. Now awake, I found that I was standing in my new studio, painting. The unfinished work before me showed horrid images that were difficult for the human mind to comprehend; hulking beasts of otherworldly proportions as they crowded and swarmed an unnamed city. People stacked haphazardly on pyres as they burned in a green, hellish inferno. The more I looked into this accursed piece, the more I felt my sanity quickly escaping me. I thought I heard voices chanting around me in some long-forgotten tongue, whispering names I had not heard nor possessed the power to pronounce. Summoning every ounce of my mental fortitude and strength, I managed to tear my gaze from the canvas as I knocked it to the floor. That’s when I saw behind it was another easel, and displayed on it was my painting of the murdered Elijah Quill, whose disproportionately crooked neck had upturned his face to look directly into my eyes. That one should not be there, I thought incredulously, it was hidden away.\n “Come now, Mr. Mortimer. Such a beauty should never be kept hidden.” That voice, behind me. It was his voice. I spun around and saw the man – this Mr. Green – smiling at me. “You,” I said as I pointed an accusing finger at him, “You’re what made me paint that… that nightmare, aren’t you?!”\n Mr. Green looked at the unfinished painting on the floor, then back to me. “That was our deal, Mort. One painting of my choosing, when I wish it. It would be in your best interest to uphold your end, and finish it.”\n “No,” I muttered, “No. I will not bring that hell into being. The deal is off! You can take away this power – I've already gotten enough out of it anyway.”\nMr. Green sighed at me, but coolly said, “I would have to agree. Thanks to your admirable work with Mr. Quill.”\n I was taken aback by this. “What do you mean by that?” I demanded.\n Mr. Green’s smile vanished. He sneered at me as he explained, “I told you when we first met that I do not barter for souls. I don’t have to, as your kind are always so eager to place it in the palm of my hand. For just the smallest taste of power and ultimate adoration, you burned yourself on the very pyre that you built.”\n My jaw dropped open. “I... No…” But what could I say? What could I do?\n “I go now,” Mr. Green continued with a returning smile - now sinister as a dealer in a rigged game of poker, “to prepare a place for you.” And with those parting words, he faded from view until all that was left were two floating orbs of emerald glaring at me until they, too, were gone.\n alone again in the darkness of my condo, I began to see visions - things that were not of my home - of a similar layout to the one I used to live, in the apartment with Franky. On a table, I saw a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels. I turned and saw on the edge of the bed was Franky. He still lived in that tiny apartment, and here he was, drunk beyond all reason with tears flooding his face and snot oozing from a sniffling nose. I saw in his hands he held that self-portrait, the first of my paintings after that deal. “Damn you, Mort,” he whimpered. He produced a pocket lighter and set the flame to the bottom corner of my self-portrait.\n “No, Franky, wait!” I screamed at him, but he didn’t appear to hear me. The flames ate up the canvas as they crept from the torso to the painted face. “Damn you to Hell, Mort,” Franky began to sob. The images of Franky's room vanished, and my own dwellings had returned.\n“This is unbelievable!” I cried as the last image of Franky disappeared.\nStanding here in the dark of my own vanity, I felt the effects of Franky’s actions with that damned painting. The fire started at my feet and quickly licked and raced up my legs, soon engulfing my body. I yelled, swatting at the flames, yet the inferno continued to spread all around me, and only me, as I raised my hands to my face and screamed." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Ride Not Taken\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1096\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone facing death for the first time in their life." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The plan was to leave campus early, before the snow set in, while light still filled the sky. But Aidan had fallen into a rabbit hole of online references and blogs and comments-on-blogs while researching his essay on indigenous land claims in northern Canada. Just an undergrad essay for an optional class, but it had suddenly become make-or-break, the piece he would regard forever more as the point when he committed, the point when he actually took up the cause to work for justice for his people. The library closing-time signal had chimed, forcing him to the surface with a shock. He crammed papers and laptop and water bottle and a greasy lunch container into his knapsack and hurried out.\nThe plan was to walk back to the sub-let, but one blast of icy wind as he emerged from the overheated library convinced him to dig in his pockets for bus fare. Damn! A dollar short. Greyness descended rapidly like a thick curtain being lowered on a critically reviled show. He decided to board the city bus anyway, pitch in the coins with confidence like he’d seen other people do—the wealthy kids, the entitled kids—and look offended when the driver challenged him.\nHe shivered alone at the bus-stop pole as winter’s fury mounted. Suck it up buttercup, he told himself, you can put up with a little snow, can’t you? He’d barely scraped through first year, and now it sickened him to think how he’d wasted time and money. After a back-breaking summer planting trees he’d returned to university a changed man, a serious man, a man with a purpose that burned like an ember: something hot, painful, and not to be ignored. He’d given up the party lifestyle; he’d canceled his room in student residence. He was even trying to grow his hair long, long enough to braid. Long braids to honor his ancestors. The snow stung and his sinuses pinched, so he tied his thin scarf not just around his throat but also his lower face, thereby trapping nose-jelly, the taste of chapped lips, and the odor of tuna recirculated from his breath.\nHe waited ten minutes—sixty minutes with wind-chill factored in—and obsessed about cheating on his bus fare. Could he actually pull it off? Or had his granny, his dear old kokum, raised a goody two-shoes, too compliant to ever break a rule? He tugged his toque lower, so the knitted hat was down to his brow, but it was little brother’s toque and it kept inching upwards, allowing the cold to draw a band of steel around his forehead. If he got questioned on the bus fare, he imagined throwing himself on the mercy of the driver: “blizzard out there, man!” No further hint was needed, he hoped; the case was in today’s headlines: a homeless woman, Yolanda, had died of exposure during the last blizzard.\nEvery year rumors circulated: drunks or homeless guys who were dropped off outside city limits—some said by vigilantes, some said by police—and were left to find their way back. Or not. But Yolanda was a plump motherly figure, who looked rather like the old widowed Queen Victoria, and her death had touched a communal nerve.\nHe stomped and tromped, the tingling of his feet reminding him that his feet were not yet frozen. Damn, he had to get on that nice warm bus—but how? Maybe some guys could pretend they’d paid enough fare but his heart said he would not get away with it. Oh, the shame of getting caught! His kokum would be so disappointed. And Mrs. Tandy, his high school science teacher who had pushed him to apply for entrance scholarships, would hear about it. Arrested for cheating on his fare. He could picture the quiver of disappointment on her lip. \nWhat the hell; he would walk. Walking would chase away those thoughts blowing back and forth in his head like old plastic bags in an alley. Three blocks from the library, the lights winked out of sight behind the admissions building. Soon he glimpsed the benches of the park, with its rows of trees poised like bristles on the toothbrush of a giant.\nBrilliant! The shortcut. Of course!\nThe footpath was blocked by a snow windrow left over from the snowplow’s last tilling of the main road. The windrow was piled up so high he had to step into the middle and shwoop! the windrow sucked the sneaker right off his foot. “Not my Air Jordan high-top, you don’t!” Aidan shouted.\nHe plunged his arms into the windrow to retrieve the sneaker. He tried not to put his sneaker-less foot in the snow, so he teetered with every gust of wind. He found the sneaker, shook out the snow as best he could, and put it on. Ice pellets in the sole prickled and began to melt. But he scarcely noticed the ice as he hastened to find the footpath before the wind erased it.\nThe trees the shrubs the shrubs the trees. Eyes narrowed against the wind, he discerned the engineering tower, charcoal against the grey of the storm. Mrs. Tandy had said, “Go into engineering; you’ve got the marks and it’s fun; you can make things.” At first Aidan had said yes, because he liked rockets and robots. But now he wanted to change his studies to law, to know how other things were put together—societies and governments and whole civilizations.\nHe bent into the wind, which resisted him like the meaty forearms of bouncers pushing him away from a private club. Hands of ice tore at his scarf and slapped at his thighs. The wind’s roar, loud as a jet engine, filled his ears, quietening every so often as if to draw breath. In the lull, he heard the ringing in his ears, the crunch of his sneakers, the thud of his heart. One foot, and then another: ice cubes making indentations in the snow. Damn bus damn bus damn.\nHis eyes, constantly tearing up in the wind, searched for the tower, his point of reference, but floccules of snow had thickened the sky and he could no longer see any building. He yawned. He shivered uncontrollably. The plan was, he now told himself, to keep walking. He was panting now, drawing shallow breaths. His heart felt jumpy in his chest. Walking and walking, just like kokum used to do across the great big frozen lake. She always said, “keep walking and you will arrive.”\nHe yawned again. Keep walking—\nThe snow beckoned. How very very tired he felt—\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: Where The Spirit Horses Drink\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1523\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character has to take on heavy responsibilities (perhaps beyond their age)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Where The Spirit Horses Drink\nBy Johanna Lor Rain Parry ---- this story is based on true events, and real experiences.\nShe could hear them drumming for those praying in the lodge...the heart-beat rhythm reminding her of the thousands of tears that drip slowly into the red earth from the eyes of those who have seen too much. A trail of prayers trickled upward from the fire in front of the sweat lodge. The swirling smoke spiraled, threadlike towards the sky. Life had always been hard in the sacred land. There is always a price to pay for living, it is never free.\nThe People had already known wrenching hunger and the ongoing agony of life gone awry. Still the interlopers come. Red faced screamers with yellow hair flowing like a horse's mane. They pushed and shoved with no respect at all for Nature, or her People - those who knew the language she offered from the depths of her breast, our sacred land.\nThe heavy hide door opened and a final load of glowing stone ancestors were settled into the center pit. With a grateful sigh she sank back into the dark womb of healing. She could feel the drumming. The far-away sound slowly deepened in the darkness while a searing heat burned at her sweating flesh. The prayers of the woman next to her mixed with steam from the whispering ancestors. Ancient rocks reverently layered round after round. They first glowed red, then they released vapors hot enough to singe the skin, removing and cleansing the bodies dirt along with the heavy, costly weight of bad thoughts. Thoughts that lack love. Thoughts that pull the heart down, and inexorably force the mind to follow. Becoming pure and clean again was all she wanted to do. Next to her a small form wriggled with discomfort. \"Just put your face on the ground, Teyana, you can breath in cool air that way\" she whispered. The drumming continued, her heart becoming one with it’s rhythm. Next, the singing. \"Tonkashila ... Wankantanka.. Chante' Me Chu Ha. Wopila… Hey ya hey ya hey ya na oh ya ha nay ya…\"\nAnother round of steam on rocks, another round of prayers. Peering into the dark she thought she caught a glimpse of something. Suddenly - a spirit horse leapt from the red glow of a rock and flew into the dark above her head. The wisp of a miniature prancing animal dancing sideways as they do. A good sign, she admitted. The bluish-white glow galloped in an arch above her head. She thought she could hear the most silent of whinnies. Then almost a snort. She smiled inside. Teyana's first pony. This is good. Another round of singing, another round of prayers. \"Please, grandfather, please heal the hearts of those who have caused us so much pain. Heal their lives, their thoughts, their dreams so that we can live as one people upon this land you gifted us.\" She begged. She pleaded. \"You who have given me the breath in my lungs, creator - please, please, bring peace to the people, and bless these white brothers and sisters so that hatred can fall from their hearts like a cleansing rain...\" Murmers of agreement rippled softly, touching the darkness. \"Tonkasila, forgive these people who have crafted so much loss and hunger, clearly they know not of your benevolence and grace. “Certainly they have never understood the fresh face of your dawn, or the closing eye of the sun as he slips into night to greet you...\" \"protect my family from suffering, please creator - I beg you.”\nThe anguish of her prayer wavered with her tearful supplication. \"Love of all love, creator of everything that has ever held meaning - bring healing to the People. Bring laughter into the eyes of our elders once more.\" She fell into silence. The sizzle and spit of water from the ladle pouring more liquidlife onto the blistering heat of the healing lodge’s stone ancestors filled the air. In the old days women were never required to enter a sweat lodge for cleansing or prayer. Everyone knew they already suffered enough in daily life with child bearing, cramping and bleeding and putting up with the behaviors of a husband grown complicit and compliant with the years that roll by. Everyone knew she had a sacred relationship with the water within her - and that cleansing and prayers could be just as effective performed in the river. On the mountain. In the lodge while rocking her babies. But now - everyone took any opportunity possible to put up more prayers. Sun dances, sweat lodges, spirit ceremonies, ghost dances - anything, everything, as often as possible.\nOnly now it is all in hiding. Laws of this occupation made prayers punishable by death. A people bandaging the shredded bloody entrails of a nation. A people begging into a night of horrors to see the light of a new dawn that wasn't hungry. A people making up the body of a nation being crushed by the disembodied government called a democracy. At its head the looming form of a grizzled white man who seemed to think he spoke for everyone in the land. The man who ordered the hanging death of thirty eight of our most valuable holy men and tribal leaders. Even then - Mr. Lincoln held back. They intended to murder a full 300 of them. The 38 Dakota prisoners greeted their captors with grace, thanked them and said good bye as though they were about to embark on a most joyful journey. They called out to our people not to mourn as they were happy to be leaving. In Mankato, Minnesota, it was 1862. An uprising of the Dakota people who were starving, had decided that fighting might be better than dying. It was a very short war. The sins of a nation had already been committed. The people had lost. The robber barons had their railroads, and an ocean of Washeechus were flooding into the land. Washeechus. Those who take all the best and leave nothing for others.\nThe third round was almost finished. Teyana had darted into the night when the heavy hide was lifted after the second round. She felt her heart lift as she sang boldly into the waiting ears of the beloved. She sang proudly as she felt the heart-bliss of divine energy permeating her soul. Rejuvenation. She now knew she would survive another year. She would make the bridle for Teyana's first horse. She would remember the stories of the ancestors. She would help her children learn to live without hatred or anger. In the searing hot darkness they saw a war party thundering down a slope toward a small army of white soldiers. The fear on their pale faces exploding into terror as the painted warriors let loose their arrows, and fired their rifles while thick black clouds glowing with internal flashes of lightening followed quickly behind the fast-moving cluster of deadly riders. It didn't take long for these poor creatures to comprehend they were no match for the power and glory of a people so deeply loved by nature herself. Nature was always willing to lend them her elements. To show up with a conscious response to the wails and sobs coming out of the lodges and ceremonies. Hugging her knees, she wiped her dripping forehead with the corner of her sweat dress. She could feel the depth of love that had given her the power to survive. She understood the reality that owning the power of love meant owning the power within nature. The creator of all things generated the force of love to hold all things together. This power can heal. This power can manifest the most profound of miracles.\nIf the people do not stop dancing on her earth - the drumming of their dancing feet will keep her heart of hearts beating into another era. We must keep dancing. We must keep praying in our lodges, she thought quietly. They say the searing ache of the human heart is the most powerful tool available in the land where everything dies. She sighed at the heavy joy her thoughts had ushered in. She began to hum the tune to an ancient ceremony song. She lifted her head, and began to sing: \"Every breath taken in...\" she offered her song into the final round of prayers. \"By a woman who loves, and by a man who loves - goes to fill the water-tank where the spirit horses drink...\" soon she was joined by all the voices in the lodge. A crackle of approval sputtered from the rocks into the darkness, and everyone present could feel the thickness of love and see the dancing shapes of the people moving about the village doing the chores and tasks required to live a grace-filled life. The roof of the lodge opened into a night sky - and the people sighed and wept with the joy revealed before them. \"Every breath taken in...\" they sang. \"By a woman who loves... hey ya hey ya hey ney ya....\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Roomba\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1783\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a regular household item becomes sentient." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "FACEBOOK MARKETPLACE\nROOMBA 600i\nDetails:\nCondition -Used like new\nDescription:\nSlightly used, comes with all accessories and two chargers. Price negotiable. Need gone ASAP.\n\n****\nChristine kicked off her heels as soon as she walked through the door. The French baguette peeking out of the brown paper bag in her hands wobbled precariously as Sir Lancelot wove his way beneath her feet while she attempted to place the groceries on the bench.\nLancelot was a Persian crossed with a rag-doll, and the combination equated to hair—lots of it. Christine scanned her critical eye over the apartment, clumps of fur wafted everywhere. She loved little Lancie immensely, but she didn’t love his hair. She sighed as she opened the hall cupboard to get out her cumbersome Hoover, a relic that had belonged to her mother, and had been passed down to her. It was time for its second workout of the day, and she just hoped the ancient beast was up for the task.\nThe high-pitched groan was ominous, as was the smell of electrical burning that began moments after she had switched the machine on. Christine immediately disconnected the power and resigned herself to her fate. It was time to purchase a new vacuum. Unfortunately, her finances were still limited and so she opened her phone to browse Facebook marketplace. Surely she would find a deal there. It wasn’t as if she was fussy. Anything that would work would be better than trying to sweep up the unsweepable.\nThe price caught her eye first, then the picture. A Roomba, a robot vacuum. Imagine coming home each day to a house that was freshly cleaned, no cat hair, no dust. The more she thought about it, the more Christine became convinced that she could not possibly live one more day without the services of her own personal Roomba robot.\nA quick series of messages back and forth, and soon Christine found herself the proud new owner of a secondhand robot vacuum.\n“Be careful with the settings, it’s a bit of a beast, if you’re not keeping an eye on it,” the previous owner had advised her. She’d smiled and nodded, figuring that the internet would have all the instruction manuals and safety precautions listed somewhere.\nOnce she plugged in the charging dock, Christine googled the instructions and set the operating time to run twice a day while she was at work.\nWith a happy sigh, she fed Lancie his dinner, reheated leftovers for herself and went to bed.\n***\nShe was jolted awake at four in the morning by a soft mechanical whirring, and solid, repeated thumps that shook her bed. Lancie, startled awake from his sleeping position at the foot of her bed, hissed violently as he landed on her chest, claws extended. It took her a bleary moment to connect the dots, but she finally realised she’d set the timer incorrectly, setting the machine to work at 4am instead of 4pm. It seemed to be stuck trying to vacuum under her bed, catching itself repeatedly on the leg and unable to navigate its way out of the situation. The bright lights, like little eyes, glinted with frustration, which echoed her own emotional state. It really was way too early for her to remember the settings, so she stumbled out of bed as she tried to whack the off button on the machine. It finally powered down with a petulant wheeze, the lights blinking off sadly. Placating Lancie took much longer, as his fur was literally on end, but after much stroking and coaxing, the cat settled back at the foot of the bed, curled up in a cat ball and purred himself to sleep.\nThe following morning, after feeding Lancie his breakfast, Christine studied the online manual closely as she absently munched on toast and sipped her coffee. Carefully following the instructions, she set the timer, double checking the AM/PM setting. From his sunny position on the windowsill, Lancie hissed and arched his back. A familiar whirring caught her attention and a soft bumping nudged her toes. When she looked beneath the table, the Roomba was carefully vacuuming the crumbs she had spilled.\n“Odd,” she muttered. “I haven’t turned you on yet. Must be a saved setting from the previous owner.” She didn’t have time to look for the ‘clear all settings’ section of the manual, but resolved to look into it after work.\n***\nOnce again Christine was rudely awoken at 4am by the repeated thumping of the machine and the yowling hiss of the cat as Lancie landed claws first on her chest.\n“For the love of…!” she muttered, tossing her blanket aside to deal with the rogue machine. This time, the off button seemed to stick, and she was unable to power it down. “Well, if you won’t switch off, you may as well do your job out here!” Christine shoved the machine into the living room and firmly closed her bedroom door. Lancie would be alright for a couple of hours. She’d let him out for a kitty litter break as soon as the sun was up.\nThe morning brought chaos. Christine’s living room was spotlessly clean, immaculate even, but she couldn’t find her shoes. She usually kicked them off by the front door, but they were nowhere to be seen. She rummaged under the sofa and coffee tables, just in case she had kicked them off in the living room, and then crawled into the dust bunnies under her bed, on the off chance they were there, but to no avail. Finally, she had to do a quick change of outfit so that she could wear the more casual loafers in the back of her wardrobe and rushed out of the door, late for work.\nWhen she came home, Christine kicked off her shoes near the door as she juggled the bags of groceries she’d purchased after work. The light on the Roomba’s dock was flashing, indicating that the dust bin needed emptying, so she dumped the heavier bags on the floor to attend to the task. When she lifted the lid, a mystery was solved. There, in shreds, were her lovely leather, high-healed shoes. They’d obviously been caught by the Roomba over night and had become a casualty of the cleaning machine. “At least there’s a reasonable explanation,” she sighed as she took the small dustbin to empty into the outside bin, happy that she wasn’t losing her mind, but not happy about the cost of replacing her favourite shoes.\nWhen she returned, she cried out in alarm. The Roomba was stuck on the paper shopping bag and its whirring brushes had opened a hole in the washing powder box. Fine white ponder was flying everywhere.\n“Oh, for the love of…!” she cried in exasperation as she extracted the paper bag from the maw of the machine. She set it to clean up the white laundry powder while she packed the rest of the groceries away. When she turned from the pantry after putting the last item on the shelf, she nearly tripped over the Roomba that had silently moved its cleaning path right behind her, its lights blinking up at her like two besotted eyes. With a gasp, she stopped herself from falling just in time by grabbing the fridge door with one hand and banging her other forearm hard on the kitchen bench. She cried out in pain, and she wrenched the freezer open to get an ice pack. Pressing the ice to her smarting injury, she trudged into the living room to rest and assess the damage. Hopefully, she hadn’t broken anything. The skin was still intact, but she’d have a huge bruise tomorrow, no doubt.\nLancie curled up next to her and purred as she scratched his head with one hand. She’d just relaxed enough for the shock and pain to wear off when the cat hissed and leapt from the couch. A soft whirring approached, and the Roomba trundled in, bumping gently into Christine’s feet.\n“Goodness, you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” she told the machine as she stood up to make herself some dinner and pour Lancie some Kitty kibble into his food bowl.\nChristine shut her bedroom door that evening, determined to get a full night sleep and not be woken by a marauding machine at an ungodly hour. She had to lock Lancie out, much to his disgust, as she didn’t want him to lose access to his litter tray and have an accident in her bedroom. Her sleep was undisturbed, and she woke refreshed and ready to begin the day.\nIn the kitchen, she noticed that Lancie had not finished his dinner last night. The bowl was still full of kibble.\n“Lancie, here Kitty, Kitty,” she called as she opened a can of cat food. He was not around, sulking, most likely because she didn’t let him sleep on her bed. “I’ll leave it here for you, then.” She emptied the old kibble and replaced it with some tuna.\nAs Christine ate her toast, she felt the whirring of little brushes bumping into her toes, so she lifted her feet to allow the Roomba to pass under the table on its morning cleanup rotation. She’d long since given up the idea of setting the machine to work when she was not home. It seemed to have a mind of its own and cleaned at all sorts of random times during the day.\nShe didn’t think much of the little trail of red on her foot when she put her loafers on, just brushed the smudge away.\n“Bye Lancie,” she called as she left for work. The cat was still sulking. Perhaps he’d be more cuddly when she got home.\nWhen she returned, her apartment smelt like rotting fish and she gagged as she opened the door. The cat food was still sitting in the bowl uneaten and flies were buzzing around the dish, along with a trail of ants. Quickly, Christine disposed of the food.\n“Lancie?” she crooned gently and then again, more urgently. Perhaps the cat was unwell. The Roomba’s light indicated a full dust bin and Christine noticed the trail of ants marching up the side. She opened the lid and screamed. Blood and fur and pulverised viscera filled the bin. She ran to the bathroom and heaved, retching up the contents of her stomach as tears ran down her face.\nFrom behind her there was a whirring sound, and the Roomba looked at her with its bright lights unblinking.\n****\n\nFACEBOOK MARKETPLACE\nROOMBA 600i\nDetails:\nCondition -Used like new\nDescription:\nSlightly used, comes with all accessories and two chargers. Price negotiable. Need gone ASAP." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Relic\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1380\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where the laws of time and space begin to dissolve." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Caleb observes every detail as space and time perish. \nReality is constructed on an ambiguous paradigm, a wild architecture reflecting the works of men scrambling to make sense of the unknown. \nEvery block is disorderly and mad.\nPast the corrugated warehouse walls and streets, indulged in tenebrous garages, are broken automobiles risen with hydraulic lifts. Flickering incandescent lights ping and tick until burning out with an audible pop. \nThrough worn weeds, there are coiled vines. Dark thread connected pole-by-pole spun and wrapped like tightly webbed kite string. \nShattered and hollow bottles mingle with adolescent toys, used needles, and moldy orange rinds.\nA crescent-shaped rictus glistens from a shattered street lamp, and a cyclone of insects drifts down in a steady helix. \nIn the shadows lies used condoms, splintered crates, rotting meat infested with maggots, broken glass, and useless household artifacts. \nA realm beyond all fantasy. \nMalevolant, tactile and dissociative.\nBlown lightbulbs, skull-colored and vaguely translucent.\nBeyond, in the dark gutters, runs a fecal ooze stinking of human waste and rotting fish guts. \nThe city is beset with all things unknown. Charcoaled factory walls of darkened brick. Boot and tire imprints grown with weeds. A coarse and pungent foul indigo drainage where cataclysmic tides of teal dross sway in rusty sewer pipes caked in muck.\nIn the stillest moments, the madness can be felt and heard.\nTime passes without remorse. \nFlesh. \nBone. \nLife decaying unto death. \nEverywhere.\nCaleb knew that beneath the facade of the material lies a truth yet to be discovered.\nA relic hidden in the mystery of perception. \n***\nPast hardware stores, meat markets, and little tobacco shops is a strong smell of food in the hot noon like working mash. \nMute faces watch from dirty glass windows. \nCaleb observes a cacophony of bums and beggars and wild street preachers. They scream of a lost world and the impending punishment for those unsaved. \nHe admires them with their hot eyes and dogeared bibles. \nGod's barkers that have gone forth into the world like the prophets of old. \nHe stands along the crowd's edge for some stray scrap of news. Still, he recounts nothing but moss-pasted stones and conspicuous passageways. \nCaleb passes the main city crowd to find aged brick walls, jagged and plummed by harsh weather. \nHe eyes the city graveyard. \nThin dark trees, through forged iron bars, collect the metropolis of the dead.\nSlanted construction, bizarre and oblique, cross-shaped stones whose names grow pale and dull with years. \nA celestial body packed with decaying samples of a mortician's trade. \nCaleb regards each one of them. \n“We recall neither birth nor death,” he says.\nHe still knows their stories and their timelines.\n“Death,” he mutters. “All roads lead here.”\nDusty bones, rot, and death. \n***\nA grumbling backdrop of faint summer lightning swallows the darkness momentarily before vomiting it back out. \nA delicate downpour follows.\nCaleb sits against the wall of a worn sarcophagus to keep dry.\nIn the quiet moments of rainfall, he hears their cries. \n“Even insects can scream,” he says. \nSomething so small that it's practically invisible to the naked eye. The birth pangs of this creature shall soon coil up into something segmented and black from the darkest recesses of the earth. As it slips inside, the aphid cannot articulate the agony.\nIn its dying moments, it attempts to scurry up a nearby tree stem and take refuge in one of its fleshy leaves. It gathers company with an ant feeding on the aphids' honey. \nTheir bent antennae touch momentarily. \nWhatever small beast that possesses the aphid burrows grotesquely into the ant.\nAn action so natural and insignificant.\n“The magic all around,” Caleb says. “Nature.”\nCaleb regards the aphid as it erupts with a minuscule and pressurized hiss. The ant skitters back to its hill and disappears.\nOnce the rain stops, Caleb saunters past the graveyard towards the city's underbelly.\nThe drunks and homeless are huddled in sporadic areas like mere statues. Beyond them, a sea of walls, abandoned alleys, and car lots. \nShadows make a monochromatic gothic harp of even darker corridors beyond. \nCaleb opens the manhole and descends like any other sandhog. \n***\nThe insects are so heavy at dusk that they scratch about like wildcats wandering for prey. The torrid depths swirl with colonies of parasites and savage rats. Their glowing eyes and buzzing torments trace Caleb’s every move. \nThe spiders below are hairy or bald and naked. The clustered water pools harbor collections of amphibian puppets splashing about like reckless theater marionette dancers, the arachnid’s silk torn amid their rampant play. \nWretched bats dangle in bunches like clusters of furry black fruit. A tapping of unending water plays throughout the underworld like the temperamental oscillation of ringing church bells. \nThe flint of a rusty zippo sparks and ignites in the dark. \nDragonfruit orange circumvented by an acetylene blue ridge lights Caleb’s pale face. \nHe stares until his eyes burn while the crisp air works at the flame's subtle decay. \nOccasionally, he presses a rubber-coated flashlight button, steadying the beam long enough to observe the unfamiliar surroundings. \n“I feel you closer,” he says.\nHe stops to catch his breath and then again pushes the button to illuminate a filthy basilica. Above him, muddy arches are scratched by vampire bats. \nVomit-colored sewage percolates through fault lines, and dark pipes stick out like rotting organs from the city's wretched underbelly. \nA grim slime slithers and oozes quietly. Archaic stone walls lie in decay; half fossilized with chipped concrete. \nLimestone fixtures perish in an endless void where only creatures of the dark are familiar. Occasionally, he passes a trace of abandoned utility work where the terrain was unfit for men to brace the outlines of civilization.\nCaleb finds a cracked bucket surrounded by bones. He does not know to what or whom the chastened pieces may have once belonged. Their origin was contaminated and lost by the chittering teeth of voracious creatures having gnawed and dropped the pieces once they were absent of flesh. \nHis grimy boots slosh through the swampy mouth of a hidden cave.\n“Closer,” he says. “Ah…there you are.”\n***\nIn a skull wriggles a slick centipede. Brown fibrous hairs flail and tether to the cracked marrow with lengthy brown tentacles. It slithers in and out in criss-crossed stitching through cracked orbital eye sockets. \nCaleb’s shaky hands drop the skull, and it clatters on a jagged rock, smashing the centipede's body like a broken train. \nHe brushes aside the squirming centipede. He cleans the relic in a puddle and cuts the light to carefully feel the skull in both palms.\nCaleb finds an archaic church pew bench, rests his weary legs, and observes the discovery in greater depth. Neither bird nor cat, he concludes. Something more familiar. Perhaps, he considers, someone. \n“At last…the timekeeper,” he says.\nHe explores further and notices the cave corridor draws to a stony impasse in which the walls seem to terminate simultaneously. \n“What comes next?”\nCaleb pulls his flashlight to study the dark arches of oblivion. \nHe looks at the wet ceiling. \nThe crescendo of his heart makes him dizzy.\n“And here…,” he stutters. “…we go…”\n***\nBefore him lies the most terrible place he has ever seen. \nHis senses are mysteriously heightened. The flashlight bulb feels like a scorching fire.\nThe faint breeze becomes a brazen gust. \nDrip drops from a distant void resurrect a cacophony of thuds.\nSomething inhuman pushes his trembling body forward. \nCaleb’s quivering hand drops the flashlight to the ground. \nHe frantically recovers the lighter from his pocket. \nThe dancing flame reveals the baptismal lake a few strides beyond, clear and pure. \nVoid of filth. \nCaleb's rigged limbs stiffen and flex as he's pulled nearly chest-deep in the ice-cold waters. \nThe skull begins to soften and break. \nAn aqueous solution slips through his fingers like a grainy ooze.\nThe water begins to glow.\nA bright pearl opalescence. \nCaleb shudders at his reflection. \nHe moans.\nHe hollers. \nHis face begins to sag and loosen. \nCaleb’s skin wrinkles and folds over itself.\nHis eyes flake and turn to ash. \nThe last thing he hears before the world goes black is his own scream. \n***\nTime ceases. \nSpace folds in on itself.\nReality crumbles.\nNothing remains but a relic.\nIt should never be found." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: These Blades Are Made for Woundin'\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1014\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a regular household item becomes sentient." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The knife whispered to him in its innocent, mouselike voice.\n\nTatum Blythee gritted his teeth and squeezed the blade’s handle in a white-knuckle grip. Moisture threatened to spill over from his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not now, not tonight. StopitstopitSTOPIT.’\n\nBut the knife, as usual, paid him no mind. Half hidden in the reflection along the blade, the little face grinned. It giggled. Its high-pitched tones recalled the voices of untold Disney characters. ‘Murder, Tatum, murder! Killing! Death! Slayings! Stabby-stabby-stab-stab!’\n\nTears spilling from his eyes, he began to chop the onion like a madman.\n\nMeanwhile, the blade giggled and chattered about everything it could do. ‘Stabbing and slicing, Tatum! Punctured lungs! Impaled hearts! Slashed open bellies! Sweet, juicy, beautiful blood, Tatum! Like a fountain, Tatum! Like a goddamn fountain!’\n\nTatum chopped, diced, and sliced the onion into oblivion. The recipe had asked for onion cut into cubes, and he had gone overboard.\n\nBehind Tatum, the toilet flushed. The sounds of handwashing came, and then the bathroom lock clicked open. Louella Fairchilde, indeed as fair as her family name declared, stepped out. ‘How’s the meal prep going?’ she asked.\n\nHe chucked the knife into the sink with a metallic clang. He grabbed a different blade from the magnetic knife rack. ‘Great!’ he said, his voice cracking.\n\n‘Oh, let me handle that,’ Lou said.\n\nBefore he could stop her, she’d picked up the knife and turned the tap on. What could he say? ‘Don’t touch that, the blade is sentient and maniacal’? He’d be the one who sounded insane. She’d leave and never look back. Hell, she’d tell her friends to steer clear of him, and they’d inform their friends. He’d be alone forever. So, he watched her with the knife. He waited for a tiny voice to delight in obscenities.\n\nLouella prewashed the knife under the tap. With the sponge, she wiped the blade clean until it glinted. And then, she placed the knife into the dishwasher. Meanwhile, the knife said nothing. She caught his gaze as she bent down to the dishwasher. A small smile touched the corner of her lips, but there was a flash of confusion – like light on a blade – in her eyes. ‘What?’\n\nHe laughed. The sound was wild and unhinged. ‘Nothing. Hey, would you pass me the wine? I wanna caramelise these onions. It’s on the dining room table.’\n\nThe caution in her face softened, and her smile became more relaxed. ‘Sure thing. You sure do know your way around a kitchen, Tatum. I can’t wait to try it. Be right back.’\n\nHe sighed and scrolled on his phone through the rest of the recipe. His battery was running low, so he plugged it into the charger cable he always kept on the counter. ‘So, the next step is to—’\n\nHalf a second after Lou had left the room, the fresh knife in his hands chuckled. ‘Murder, Tatum! Beautiful, cold-blooded murder! Stab her in the back, Tatum! In the back! Get her in the kidneys, and watch her bleed out! Gorgeous killings, Tatum! Slash, stab, and slice!\n\nNo, not this one, too. Could it be that it wasn’t the knives at all? That it was him, that he was the one who was insane? Tatum took the knife and threw it at the wall. He screamed, not thinking about his present company. ‘NO!’\n\nThe blade thudded into the wall with the accuracy of a circus knife thrower. It punctured the wall, pointy end first, and remained there, wobbling from the force. Behind him, Louella screamed and jumped, dropping the wine. The bottle hit the kitchen tiles and shattered. Glass fragments and splashes of wasted wine flew in all directions.\n\nThat was that, then. The gig was up; Lou knew he was nuts. Tatum turned to look at her. He stood there, panting, eyes wide, hair wild, madness written all over his face. His shoulders slumped. ‘I-I’m sorry Lou. I’m so sorry. You need to leave.’\n\nHands held to her collarbone, Lou stepped around the glass and approached him. She reached for him, shaking. ‘Will you please tell me what’s going on, Tatum? I—’ Her voice hitched. ‘I can help. You need to trust me and open up. It’s not good to keep this sort of thing trapped deep inside.’\n\n‘I-I—’ he stammered, ‘I can’t!’\n\n‘Tatum—’\n\n‘LEAVE! GO ON, GET OUT! GO! NOW!’\n\nA heartbeat passed between them. Lou’s eyes couldn’t grow any wider. The world held its breath. The knives said nothing. And then the woman burst into tears and bolted from his apartment.\n\nTatum sobbed. What was wrong with him? Had he lost it? Were the men in white coats coming to take him away, ha-ha, coming to take him away? Tatum slammed the door shut. He took a step, tripped over the open dishwasher, and fell backwards. He landed on the knife Louella had cleaned and placed upright.\n\nThe blade sliced through his back and penetrated out through his chest in a gout of blood. The wet metal glinted. ‘Yay, murder!’ squeaked a tiny voice.\n\nTatum gasped as the cold hands of death squeezed his heart. He reached up for his phone on the counter. His fingers crawled like a blind spider until Tatum found it. ‘Lou,’ he choked, blood dribbling from his mouth. ‘L-Lou—’\n\nThe charger cable, still plugged in, caught around something and yanked. The knife rack toppled from the kitchen counter, spilling the knives into the air. The glinting blades twirled and plunged like Olympic divers going for gold. They punctured him and left him pincushioned. A choir of voices rose in ecstasy. ‘YAAAAY!’\n\nHe should have told Louella what was going on. He’d been too scared to speak about this madness, fearing it would drive her away. But he’d driven her away anyway, and it had resulted in his death. He shouldn’t have kept it all bottled inside; now it was too late. Tears trickled from his eyes and intermingled with the blood spilling from his mouth.\n\nAs he faded away, the knives wriggled inside him, giggling about death and murder." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Elijah the Water Diviner\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2946\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose job is to bring water to people." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A man walked out of the Dead Mountain Wilderness area wearing the traditional robes of a shaman. His name was Elijah Foster and he had been reported missing over fifty years ago. His sudden appearance sent shock waves through the remote communities of the Mojave Desert in California. According to first hand accounts, Elijah appeared not to have aged a bit since his disappearance and he was confused and disoriented after his Rip van Winkle disappearance a half century before.\nHis father was a Paiute shaman, a follower of Wovoka who started the Ghost Dance cults. Based in both Christian and ancient spiritual beliefs of the native peoples, the Ghost Dance was made famous by the Lakota who wore the shirts that were supposed to stop bullets during the Wounded Knee Massacre when they found out the shirts were not bulletproof. Shaman Marakado Foster, simply known as Marty when he was a ranch hand at the Hanson Ranch outside of Henderson, Nevada. When he wasn’t working as a ranch hand, he would use his dowser to find underground water in the driest place in the country. He would teach his son Elijah how to be a water diviner. As Elijah would come to find, being a water diviner was a lucrative way to earn a living while most of his people struggled on the reservations. \nOne day a rich rancher hired Elijah to search for water near the Dead Mountain in 1925, but Elijah was never heard from again. Popular suspicion pointed to Ryland McDowell, the rich rancher who had hired Elijah. Whatever the case, when Elijah stumbled out of a cave that dotted the mountains, it caused quite a stir. \n“I just don’t get it.” Hank Bowden remarked as he put a bridle on a young horse he had been trying to break.\n“I wouldn’t put much stock in it, you know how folks like to twist things around out here.” His son Lance chuckled as he leaned against the fence, his hat pushed back to keep the early afternoon sun out of his eyes. It was already hot, too hot to be breaking horses as far as Lance was concerned. \n“Folks tell how Ryland McDowell did him in up there in the mountains while the old shaman was using his dowser to find water.” Hank rode the colt out into the middle of the corral.\n“Don’t let it get to you, pa, Ryland is long gone.” He spit on the dusty ground.\n“Yeah, but his grandson, Barry, is kind of riled.” Hank bounced in the saddle, but was pleased with the progress of his roan colt. \n“Barry? He’s just a corporate pawn.” Lance shook his head.\n“Our well is healthy.” Hank rode over toward the fence where his son was standing. \n“Healthy according to our last inspection.” He spit again. \n“Plenty of underwater runoff.” Hank dismounted.\n“As far as we know.” Lance opened the gate so his father could exit the corral. \n“I’m going to let him run for a bit.” Hank locked the gate.\n“He’s sure got lots of energy.” He nodded.\nBut the summer that year brought a drought. Even though the annual rainfall was under ten inches, the ten inches never came and the snow run off did not provide enough for the underground wells that most of the ranchers on the High Desert depended on to provide their livestock with enough water. \nWhen the June inspection of their well was accomplished, Lance noted that there might not be enough water to meet the needs of the ranch. While the ranch had done well financially, Hank doubted they could afford to import water to meet their requirements. \n“What do you want to do, pa?” Lance asked.\n“Do we know how to get in touch with that Injun?” He asked, closing the ledger to the ranch.\n“I could ride out to where I heard he had a trailer.” Lance shrugged.\n“He lives in a trailer?” Hank looked up at his son. \n“That’s what I’ve heard.” He nodded.\n“Well, bring him here. We can pay him for her services as a water diviner.” Hank kicked his chair back and stood up.\n“I’ll take the jeep.” Lance replied,\n“Take your brother Jess.” Hank ordered.\n“Sure thing, pa.” He walked out of his father’s office and went looking for Jessie. Hank sighed looking at his ledger. It was already a difficult year and the summer had not yet arrived. \nDriving up the dirt road toward the Dead Mountains, Jesse wore his bandana over his mouth and nose to keep the dust out while his older brother didn’t bother since he was used to it. \n“So, who are we looking for?” Jesse tried to speak through the bandana.\n“Some shaman named Elijah Foster.” Lance answered. \n“I’ve heard of him.” Jesse nodded as the jeep jolted across the gravel road, “He was that guy who wandered out of the mountains after being gone for fifty years.” \n“Yup, that’s the guy.” Lance affirmed. “I see it.”\n“Hard to believe that anyone lives out here.” Jesse noted. \n“Sure is pretty desolate out here.” Lance chuckled as he pulled into the short driveway.\nFrom the door of an ancient Airstream Trailer, burst a man armed with a shotgun.\n“Must be him.” Jesse was a little startled by his sudden appearance. \n“Holy-!” Lance couldn’t even finish his statement.\n“What do you want?” Elijah Foster stood before them raising his shotgun.\n“We are looking for Elijah Foster.” Lance put his hands in the air hoping the man would not see them shake.\n“Well, you found him.” He lowered his shotgun, “What do you want?” \n“My father, Hank Bowden, sent us to hire you.” Lance put his hands back on the steering wheel.\n“Hire me for what?” Elijah tilted his head.\n“As a water diviner.” Lance sighed.\n“I thought your ranch had plenty of water.” Elijah lifted his chin.\n“We did up until our last check. We’re not going to make it through the summer.” Lance replied.\n“I warned a lot of folks about that.” He shrugged. From a closer look, Lance noted that the old shaman with his silver black hair that hung down to his shoulders and his leathery skin, Elijah did not look much older than about sixty years old. Dressed in buckskin and Levi jeans, he looked like a lot of the patrons that hung out at some of the cowboy bars in Bakersfield that Lance would frequent on Saturday nights. He and his friends were known to pick on some of the natives who dared invade these establishments where they would get too drunk to stand. Once they were in this state of inebriation, it was easy to pick their pockets and rough them up a bit for fun. \n“We’d be willing to pay top dollar.” Lance hoped the old man would not recognize him from one of those cowboy bars.\n“Alright. Let me put away my shotgun. I had some unwanted visitors last night.” He began walking back to his trailer.\n“He lives in that heat box?” Jesse sniffed.\n“I reckon so.” Lance nodded.\n“Makes me grateful we got what we got.” Jesse leaned back in his seat.\n“I guess some folks aren’t so lucky.” He punched his brother in the arm.\n“Knock it off.” Jesse whined. “One day I’ll be as big as you, moron, and then you’ll be in for a world of hurt.” \n“Well, it’s going to be a long time before that happens.” Lance laughed.\n“I’m ready.” Elijah said.\n“Climb in.” Lance pointed to the backseat with his thumb. Elijah complied and got himself settled in the backseat as Lance started the engine. \n“It will be a summer with no rain. Not even the Monsoon will quench the thirst of this parched land.” Elijah declared as Lance circled the small trailer and headed back down the incline. \n“So how long have you been living here?” Lance asked his guest.\n“All my life.” He answered. Lance looked at Jesse as his brother shrugged.\n“I heard you had disappeared for a spell.” Lance stated.\n“I wasn’t lost.” He declared, “I was just not found.” \nAgain Lance looked at his brother who had a strange expression on his face. For the rest of the forty minute journey, it was silent as Lance did not wish to continue their strange conversation.\nHank walked from the shady porch to greet his visitor when Lance pulled up in the driveway with the water diviner.\n“Hello, it is good to meet you.” Hank shook Elijah’s hand.\n“I heard you needed the powers of a water diviner.” He said with an acknowledgment of his purpose for being at the ranch. \n“Yes, it appears we are going to have a dry summer.” Hank walked Elijah to the front porch where it was cooler.\n“I have been warming people of what is to come.” He sat in an Adirondacks chair next to where Hank had been sitting upon their arrival. \n“I will pay you handsomely for your services.” Hank assured him.\n“I do not need money for the magic I bring. Paying me would not compensate the proper entity.” He sniffed the air and closed his eyes. “I feel the presence of what you seek.” \n“Really? Water?” \n“Correct.” He sat there with his eyes closed.\n“Boys, go get him some refreshments.” He motioned with his hand.\n“Water. Water only.” He sniffed again without opening his eyes. \n“Water it is.” Lance nodded and slapped Jesse on the shoulder. Both of them ran inside to leave their father to speak to the strange man sitting next to him on the porch.\n“Who is your father talking to?” Wilma, their mother, asked.\n“Some shaman.” Jesse picked up some of what his mother was preparing for dinner and popped it into his mouth. “Hey mister, leave it be.” \n“Sure mom.” He smiled and winked at Lance who got his hand slapped for doing the same. \n“I heard strange things about him.” She mentioned as she continued to cut the carrots.\n“Well, he does not disappoint.” Lance said. \n“He disappeared for fifty years.” She nodded.\n“And he talks like it.” Lance shook his head.\n“Have a little empathy.” She glanced up at her oldest son. \n“Alright, no matter how loony he is.” Lance smirked at Jesse who was already smiling. \nElijah raved about the splendid meal that had been prepared as Wilma gushed with each superlative compliment. Both of the boys sat there exchanging glances with each other while Hank seemed to become part of the scenery, eager to help clean up after the meal was over. When Hank went to show Elijah to the guest room prepared for him, he did not see him. Walking out onto the porch, he found his guest sitting by a fire he had made.\n“Are you going to come inside?” Hank sauntered up to him as he sat on the ground in front of the fire.\n“No, I must keep a vigil out here with the spirits.” He did not turn to face Hank, “As a shaman, I must promise myself loyalty to my mother.” \n“Your mother?”\n“Yes, Mother Earth, for it with her guidance I will find what you seek.” He bowed his head.\n“When will you seek?” Hank squatted on his haunches next to Elijah. \n“In the morning before the sun rises above the horizon.” He replied, “I will use my dowser to search.” \n“Well, I will leave you to it.” Hank stood up and walked inside, “But if you need anything, please ask.” He said over his shoulder. Once inside, Elijah was alone.\n“We should go out there.” Jesse said, looking out the window at Elijah.\n“What for?” Lance shrugged.\n“Just look at him. Sitting there like some magic wizard. He’s just another drunk injun.” Jesse stated. Lance sat back on his bunk.\n“Sure, I'll go with you.” Lance nodded. \n“Midnight.” Jesse snapped his fingers.\n“Done.” \nThe boys hid in the barn with the horses. They had a clear view of the water diviner who was chanting with words neither one of them understood. \n“What do you suppose he’s saying?” Jesse wondered aloud.\n“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Lance shook his head.\n“What do you want to do?” Jesse bubbled with excitement. \n“I want to kick out his fire and then kick his ass.” Lance chuckled. Although Lance Bowden was nearly twenty-five years old, he had never had to mature living on his father’s ranch. He had no intention of showing any signs of becoming his own person as long as he lived on the ranch. Jesse was going to graduate high school the following year, but together the boys enjoyed the juvenile hijinx they were about to impart on Elijah. Neither one could see that what they were about to do was wrong. \nLance was first out of the barn, walking up to Elijah with his hands behind his back. \n“Hey there chief.” He addressed Elijah who was sitting by the fire with his eyes closed. He did not look up at Lance.\n“Did you hear me or are you deaf?” Lance sat next to Elijah.\n“I heard you, but I am in the middle of my prayers and do not wish to be disturbed.” He said without opening his eyes.\n“Really? Who are you praying to?” Lance asked innocently.\n“The spirits to guide me to the water your father seeks.” He continued to keep his eyes closed which angered Lance.\n“What if we decided to kick this fire out?”\n“Then I would pray in the dark.” He answered with his eyes still closed.\n“You know, I think the whole thing was a hoax.” Lance put his hands on his hips, but Elijah just sat there. \n“Hoax? What do you mean?” \n“I mean that disappearing for fifty years.” Lance’s voice reflected his growing anger.\n“I was being chased by some men who wished to do me harm.” He said in a calm voice, “Mother Earth hid me from my enemies.”\nLance stroked his chin with his hand, “Is that so?” \nBy this time Jesse was hiding behind some rocks a few yards out from the fire. \n“I must warn you that I am protected by forces with power you cannot reckon with.” He opened his eyes and looked at Lance. When Lance saw Elijah’s glowing red eyes, he gasped. “Too long Mother Earth has cried out for help and received no response. Now you have come to me for help and still you cannot appreciate what has been given to you.” \n“Who are you?” Lance put his arm over his eyes, but Elijah’s eyes grew brighter and brighter.\n“I am the hot desert wind who will make you die of thirst.” His voice carried on the hot wind that now swirled around him. Jesse called out from his hiding place, but he too was surrounded by the wind that kicked up the dust and rocks. He was not wearing his bandana and felt the dirt scratch in his throat.\n“Please, please…” Lance begged but the wind had lifted him off his feet.\n“I have warned you of what was to come, but you did not listen.” Elijah’s voice seemed to come like thunder out of the sky.\n“We will listen.” Lance promised as he was lifted higher into the air. \n“Water is a gift from our Mother.” He cried out.\nThe horses were screeching from their stalls in the barn. \n“You wished to do me harm.” Elijah called out from the heavens.\n“No! I promise!” Lance saw that he was at least fifty feet in the air. His brother was crying as he was lifted like a piece of crumpled paper in a windstorm. Elijah waved his hand and both boys disappeared.\nThe next morning Hank knocked on the doors of his sons’ rooms. Both boys blinked awake. “Breakfast is on the table. Come and get it.” \nLance walked into Jesse’s room, “Did we dream that?”\n“How could we both have the same dream?” Jesse yawned and stretched out his arms. \n“It happens.” Lance said more to convince himself than to answer his brother. \n“Me and Elijah want to go out into the field with his dowser stick. Hank had never really been one to believe old superstitions, but at this point he was willing to try anything. Even at sunup, the temperature was almost triple digits. There was a wind that seemed to kick up over the mountains as he walked behind the shaman. \n“Do you feel that?” Elijah asked as he felt the stick pull him along. \n“What?” Hank asked.\n“The wind.” Elijah answered. “I can hear the voices of my ancestors as it rushes through this arid land.” \nHank tried to hear these voices, but was unable to hear a thing other than his own breathing. \n“Here.” Elijah stopped, “Dig your well here.” \nHank looked down at the rocks and dirt beneath his feet. He did not think it was possible that water would be hiding there. Taking out a can of spray paint, Hank marked the spot. Much to his surprise when he turned, Elijah was no longer standing next to him with the dowser.\nWhen Hank got back to the house, Lance and Jesse were eating their breakfast in silence which was nearly as unusual as the shaman vanishing into thin air.\n“I marked the spot. We will go digging a well in the evening when it’s cooler.” Hank said, but his sons just looked at him and nodded. \n“Is he still here?” Lance asked.\n“No, strange thing, he just vanished into thin air.” Hank shook his head. Lance and Jesse looked at each other, but didn’t say a word." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Newton's cradle\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1939\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where the laws of time and space begin to dissolve." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Something was wrong. Fatally wrong. He couldn’t grasp the reason for his anxiousness.\n\nAs Clive stepped onto the platform at precisely 06:05 and 35 seconds waiting for his early morning commuter train, something was wrong, he thought. Something was not right. In those moments in his life, his mind concentrated on an image of Newton’s cradle, it was idle, motionless, the big brass orbs, dangling from the brass cradle, all were stationary, passive and still, but there was a sense of anticipation, the orbs were oscillating in anticipation of movement, one of the outside orbs to the left or right would start the motion, and then the orb would send all the others into a monotonous; endless click – clacking. When will one of them initiate the law of the conservation of energy, the transfer of energy, the two-way domino effect? Clive knew. He grinned with the image of Newton’s cradle in the front of his mind. He could count time, the seconds, by the rhythmic striking of each brass orb in Newton’s cradle. The kiss of the cold metal against cold metal. Click – Clack.\n\nEnergy converted into time, that’s what made Clive special.\n\nClive knew how to slow down time, to make it stop.\n\n“Don’t YOU mess up, now! Stay cool, stay calm!” Said the voice in his head. It was his imaginary friend he had been told. Clive knew different.\n\nMr. Black stepped onto the platform at 06:06 and 10 seconds, in his commuter uniform, his pressed suit was covered with an elegant cashmere and wool full-length overcoat, and camel coloured scarf elegantly arranged on both sides of the coat covering the lapels. His umbrella hung on his angled arm, held in position like a soldier on parade.\n\n“Morning, Clive.” Greeted Mr. Black. “Not so cold this morning.”\n\nThen the hushed whisper, as he passed by Clive, to take up his normal position on the platform.\n\n“What time will she come?”\n\n“Don’t say anything, nothing, you idiot!” The voice said gruffly in his head.\n\nMr. Gray bundled onto the platform at 06:07 and 5 seconds, as ever fumbling nervously with his numerous pockets, more than likely, trying to check on the whereabouts of his wallet, keys, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything for the day’s commute, he opened and checked his slim briefcase to locate his phone and book for the umpteenth time.\n\n“Morning, Clive.” Mr. Gray said to Clive. “Bit chilly today!”\n\nThen the whisper from behind his raised hand hiding his mouth, his lips.\n\n“What time will she come?”\n\n“You say a word, your life won’t be worth living.” The voice inside his head hissed.\n\nMr. Brown arrived slightly late at 06:08 and 30 seconds, he continued to peer in concern at his watch, but brightened as he recognized Clive.\n\n“Morning, Clive.” Mr. Brown said to Clive. “Fine morning.” Then the whisper and furtive look for a fraction of a second, before he said, “What time will she come?”\n\nThe voice in his head made a cough, sounding like a grunt. It was a warning signal, not to reply.\n\nMrs. Mauve and Mrs. Green stepped onto the platform together in deep conversation, talking behind animated hands. As they passed Clive, they both whispered, without turning their heads.\n\n“What time will she come?” They said in unison, and then walked to their waiting positions on the platform.\n\n“Don’t….” Warned the voice in Clive’s head.\n\nFinally, Miss Pink arrived at 06:09 and 20 seconds. She strode confidently onto the platform like a catwalk model, she knew everybody on the platform had waited for her entrance this morning, for all the waiting passengers, it was the thrill of the day she imagined. She walked with the same purpose as a model, a gladiator of hearts and minds, she imagined she was walking a straight line, walking directly, purposely towards Clive, and on cue, her timing was stage perfect, she winked flirtingly at Clive, the wink that meant, anytime, I’m your license to promiscuity buddy, a longing stare to the recipient of her wantonness; an unsaid message - take me!\n\n“Shut the f..k up – you dare, you just dare!” Said the angry slightly nervous voice in his head.\n\nAs Miss. Pink passed Clive, she whispered like everybody else. “What time will she come?”\n\nHe followed her path looking enviously at her long shapely legs, her tight backside.\n\nEverybody was in their normal position. They all started looking downline for sight of the commuter train to the right. The tunnel entrance to the left was a dark black hole, like a large muzzle of a gun, a void, an impenetrable blackness, it was different to the darkness of the early winter morning, where the light pollution and illuminated glare, diffused the blackness, and played tricks with eyes.\n\nThen the stranger arrived. He wore dark glasses, and a long black trench coat styled raincoat. He looked around the platform and recognized Clive, he bowed his head and strode up to Clive. There was intent in his voice when he said.\n\n“Mr. Caldwell, I need a few words with you, do you mind if we talk?”\n\n“Don’t tell him anything – understand. Not a word!” Screamed the voice.\n\n“It’s an important matter Mr. Caldwell, it’s about your wife….” The stranger in the long trench coat didn’t finish the sentence.\n\n“Be careful now…” said the voice with a menacing tone.\n\nInstantly, the golden orbs started to move in Newton’s Cradle, click - clack, click - clack. The energy, and counter energy started to dance. Both the cradle and balls were shuddering, jerking in an erratic crazed movement.\n\n“What time will she come?” Said the stranger. He didn’t whisper it like the others, but as the voiced question appeared in the hushed morning air, the stranger smiled a knowing smile. Clive thought he noticed a smirk.\n\n“Keep that mouth shut, keep it shut!” The voice in Clive’s head was getting more than angry, it was becoming uncontrollable, insane!\n\nCLICK – CLACK; CLICK – CLACK the golden orbs had really started to move now, they were moving back and forth with the velocity of a funfair ride, Clive had forgotten the name of the ride. His brow started to sweat, his palms started to feel clammy, he felt nauseous.\n\nBANG!\n\nThe explosion came from the black tunnel entrance, the impact, the latent energy of the explosion was made more catastrophic as it was ignited from inside the tunnel, and then the trapped energy blasted outwards with more force at its mouth, the entrance, a titanic release of deadly energy, huge pieces of masonry, metal flew like missiles through the dark morning air hissing with a deadly force, the sonic boom of the explosion deafened the dark morning skies. Clive had a slow-motion image of the chaotic debris decapitating some waiting passengers on the platform, their bodies smashed into pieces by the force of the explosion.\n\nClive slowed the titanic forces in his mind to a still photograph type image – he made it STOP.\n\nClick – clack, click – clack the sound of Newton’s cradle returned from his peripheral hearing, as the sound of the explosive forces stopped at the same instant as the horrific images.\n\n“She won’t come now!” said the voice with evil mirth in Clive’s head. “She’s gone forever.” There was a sense of finality in the last words.\n\n************************************************************\n\n “They will be ready for you shortly Mr. Caldwell.” The nurse said chirpily.\n\nClive was handcuffed to the wheelchair. Two burly attendants on each side of the wheels.\n\nThe door opened suddenly, and Clive was wheeled into the meeting room.\n\nThere was a committee of three men and two ladies waiting inside, all seated behind desks, files and papers, laptops in front of them, and on the side seated ready to take minutes, a transcriber of the meeting was a young administration lady, wearing a bright puce lady’s suit. Sitting separately in the corner of the room was a strange man with dark glasses. The attendants and the chirpy nurse stood at the side and behind Clive, seated in the wheelchair.\n\n“How are you today, Mr. Caldwell?” Said one of the women, a member of the committee.\n\nBefore Clive could answer, the women started the introduction to the meeting. “The psychiatric team of Edmundston Mental Hospital, in attendance today, Dr, Schwartz, Dr. Sery, Dr. Braun, Dr. Zeleny, and myself the chairperson Dr. Malva presiding over case: 10476; Mr. Clive Caldwell.” Dr Malva paused.\n\n“Now, Mr. Caldwell, under the Mental Health act of 2018, we are required to conduct a regular status review of your condition. The committee has your records, and we have duly reviewed all the details, including your recent status of the last 6 months, and we find some improvements in your condition.”\n\n“We have some questions for you today. Do you feel in a frame of mind to answer?”\n\nClive paused for some moments, before he answered calmly. “Yes, that’s OK.”\n\n“OK, looking at the records we find that your medication is stabilizing your previous traumas, there are no reported incidents of violent behaviour.”\n\n“Do you have visions, or when was the last time you had any distressing visions, Mr. Caldwell?”\n\n“I can’t remember, not for some time.” Clive quietly replied.\n\n“Good, and what about voices, do you hear any voices in your head nowadays?”\n\n“No Ma'am, and I don’t have any headaches either.” Clive added.\n\n“Very good, we the committee believe that you no longer pose a security risk, not whilst you are in this institution, and you are taking your prescribed daily medication. We have also agreed that based on a clean incident free record under the constant observation of this institution, that in 6 months, we can look at a release program. What do you say about that Mr. Caldwell?”\n\n“Great! - gettin' me time back again, - thank you Ma'am.\" Clive said with some hesitation.\n\nHe looked to the corner of the room at the seated stranger. The seated stranger took off his dark glasses and peered directly at Clive. He had no eyes, instead where there should be eyes and eye sockets there were two black holes; they looked like tunnel entrances, with the scars and scorch marks of fire caused by a tremendous explosive blast were evident on and around the circumference of the black holes. The stranger’s expression didn’t change, his face was peering directly at Clive, and then he smirked, and mouthed silently. “What time will she come?”\n\n“Who is that?” Clive thought.\n\n“The past, and the future, YOU arsehole, don’t look at him, you idiot!” Said the voice in Clive’s head.\n\n“OK nurse, take Mr. Caldwell away, and we will see the next patient.”\nThe attendants reversed the wheelchair out of the meeting room. Clive’s first thought, 5 minutes, and 12 seconds – meetings are getting shorter. Clive was grinning, a crooked smile which never disappeared off his face, but no one noticed his eyes, peering at nothing, there seemed to be something going on behind the masked appearance on his face, his pasted-on smile, his eyes; it was a charade for the continued monitoring and inspection of all at Edmundston. He wore the mask like a reveler at Mardi Gras, his unique disguise. Fake it, to make it.\n\nThe voice in Clive’s head. “Told you we’d be out of here, just keep smiling sonny, just be patient with these arseholes for a little while longer! – who’s always looked after you, sonny Jim, always - right from the beginning of time!”\n\nCLICK – CLACK The sound of the orbs in Newton’s cradle continued counting time. Clive's 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 Be Thankful\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2852\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unlikely group (or pair) of friends." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The first thing I notice when I poke my head in the university's Indigenous Peoples' Appreciation Club is that there are only two members, one guy and one girl. The second thing I notice is that neither is Indigenous.\n\nThey sit at adjacent desks in the corner of the classroom. The girl, whose platinum hair is brighter than the overhead lighting, poses for a selfie, closing one eye and flashing a peace sign Nixon-style. The guy preoccupies himself with a game of Pokémon Go, swiping violently at his phone screen and cursing his rotten luck. Rows of empty tables and chairs flank them. The walls are cluttered with pictures of pumpkins and turkeys.\n\nI'm standing there in the doorway, the threshold between my world and this unfamiliar territory, when the guy drops his phone on his desk, groans, leans back. Our eyes meet. Before I can escape, he springs to his feet and beckons, makes his way to me. \"Please, come in, come in! Don't be shy.\"\n\nBehind him the girl shakes her head, deposits her phone in her pocket, follows his lead.\n\n\"What brings you here today?\" the guy asks. He hasn't blinked or taken his eyes off me; he's been too busy inspecting me like a gemologist appraising a rare find. I can practically see the Venn diagram forming in his mind: one circle comparing my thin brown arms to his thin pale ones, another contrasting my black ponytail to his copper crew cut. There is very little overlap. \"Come to join the fray in the fight against Indigenous oppression?\"\n\n\"Uh, not exactly,\" I say, and admit to only stopping by because I saw one of their Xeroxed flyers in the hallway. All over campus there are drawings of a Cherokee in a headdress shaking hands with a grinning turkey, while the decapitated head of a pilgrim sits on a plate between them. And, inexplicably, Uncle Sam looms in the background, pointing his galvanizing finger while the words \"I Want You For Indigenous Peoples' Appreciation\" hover beneath him.\n\n\"Thanks,\" the girl says with a turkey-like grin. \"I designed those myself.\"\n\n\"Heavens, where are our manners?\" the guy says, clapping the girl's shoulder. \"I'm Clancy, and this is Darla.\"\n\n\"Anakin,\" I say, and we all shake hands. Clancy's face falls when I inform them my last name isn't Skywalker. Without missing a beat, Darla offers a Vulcan salute and says, \"May the Force be with you.\"\n\n\"And also with you,\" Clancy replies, his voice reverent as a prayer. They bow their heads.\n\nThen Darla turns to me, asks, \"So, what are you?\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"What kind of Indigenous Person?\" Her words come out slow and stilted, like a drunk person being asked to recite the alphabet backwards.\n\n\"Oh,\" I say, and let the word linger a bit. Darla looks unfazed, so I add, \"The Navajo Nation.\"\n\n\"No way!\" she shrieks. \"My stepdad is one-sixteenth Navajo!\"\n\nWhat she wants me to do with this information is unclear. Before I can find out, Clancy taps the table twice with his palm.\n\n\"People, people, we'll have plenty of time to spill the tea after the club meeting,\" he says, walking back to his desk.\n\nDarla huffs but returns to her table. When she motions to the desk beside hers, I know it's too late to leave. In a gesture of reverse chivalry, she pulls out the chair, waits until my butt collides with the hard plastic, then tries unsuccessfully to push my seat in.\n\nClancy checks his wristwatch, announces that it's now four o'clock. \"All right, now that we're all here, let's get this meeting started. First order of—\"\n\n\"Wait, this is it?\" I ask. \"It's just us?\"\n\nThe two of them exchange glances, a semaphore of blinking and winking and eye-rolling. It is Darla who says, \"The other members currently have food poisoning and couldn't make it.\" Now she speaks with the tone of a drunk person being asked to recite the alphabet backwards, three times fast.\n\n\"Oh,\" I say, and let it linger.\n\n\"First order of business,\" Clancy continues, undeterred. \"Thanksgiving is in a week and this year we'll be having our Appreciation Club dinner at my place.\"\n\nReaching into his knapsack, he withdraws another flyer and passes it to Darla, who passes it to me. I can tell she designed this one too. It's identical to the ones in the hallway, with the same Cherokee and grinning turkey and beheaded pilgrim, except for Uncle Sam's caption, which now reads \"I Want You For Dinner.\" I try not to read too much into that.\n\n\"Now, I know what you're thinking,\" Clancy says, holding his hands out, his palms angled toward me. \"And no, we don't condone Thanksgiving. We know the history, what it means for Indigenous peoples. But this dinner is tasteful. It's light. It's fun. Right, D?\"\n\nDarla sacrifices a moment of her precious time to glance up from the flyer, to look away from her handiwork, and offers a perfunctory \"Yep.\"\n\nThen Clancy turns to me and winks, and for a moment, even though it's over, I feel included in their semaphore. I feel like I'm a part of something bigger than myself.\n\nHe says, \"And you're invited, Anakin.\" And now he's grinning like a turkey too.\n\n***\n\nBeing here at the university hasn't been easy for me. It's harder than I expected, not having my family or anyone to talk to. Before coming here, my parents told me to make friends, to find a tribe of my own. And I've tried, but my dormmate refuses to talk to me ever since I took the bed that he wanted on the first day of orientation, and my classmates haven't been much better. That's why I accepted the invitation to the dinner party. Clancy promised the other club members would be here this time.\n\nToday is my second chance, my chance to find my tribe.\n\nAs it happens, Clancy's home is an apartment a few blocks from the campus, funded entirely by his parents. It's one of those new-school complexes, with wide windows and a communal swimming pool and a modicum of front yard. Someone three stories above stands on their balcony with a wispy cigarette, filling the cool autumn air with a haze of smoke. A plane passes by overhead, shrouding us in shadow.\n\nAs instructed, at the entrance I push the apartment buzzer and wait for Clancy to respond. Instead, half a minute later, Darla's staticky voice eases through the machine. \"Who is it?\"\n\nWhen I tell her, she says, \"Oh,\" and lets it linger. Clancy's voice floats in the background, and Darla shouts my name to him. Then she goes, \"What's the magic word, Anakin?\"\n\nSuppressing a sigh, I give her what she wants to hear, the word she told me to remember last week to gain entry into the building: \"Tofurky.\"\n\nWhich is exactly what's loitering on the dining table when I enter, imbuing the apartment with warmth and the stench of plant-based meat substitute. The walls here are adorned with brown-and-white pennants bearing our university's name. A potted yucca plant sits in the corner of the room. Darla is lounging on the couch watching TikTok videos. Clancy is in the kitchen opening and closing the oven door.\n\nThere is no one else here.\n\n\"Just us?\" I say, a beat too late. It takes everything in me to keep my tone light, casual. Neither of them have designated a good place to sit, so I idle by the doorway. \"Did everyone else get food poisoning again?\" I ask, eyeing the Tofurky.\n\nClancy looks over his shoulder to the couch, blinks twice. And maybe they practiced their routine before I got here because it is Darla, eyes still glued on her phone, who once again answers. \"Nope. They all went home to their families. Holiday and whatnot. You understand.\"\n\nNo, I don't, I want to say, but she's too busy laughing at people's sloppy dance moves.\n\n\"Sorry, buddy,\" Clancy adds, unleashing another ripple of heat when he opens the oven door. From this angle I can't tell if there's anything inside there or not. \"I was so looking forward to you meeting the others.\"\n\n\"Yeah, me too,\" I mutter.\n\nThe doorknob presses into my lower back. It would be so easy to cross the threshold and leave these two behind, to forget this club and this dinner invitation and the weeks' worth of social media friend requests Darla's been sending.\n\nBut when she looks up from her phone and motions to the spot beside her on the couch, I know it's too late to leave.\n\nClancy joins us in the living room, and the three of us spend the next thirty minutes playing a game of Charades. I'm not sure when exactly it is—maybe when Darla puts an invisible cup to her lips and pretends to gulp a pumpkin spice latte, or perhaps when Clancy wattles his neck like a turkey and places his fists on his ribs to imitate the flapping of wings—but I start to feel my stomach unknot and my muscles relax. The air around us is warm and filled with the sound of our laughter.\n\nNeither of them ever guess right when it's my turn. When I punched an imaginary speed bag like Rocky Balboa, Clancy guessed Last of the Mohicans. When I twirled my arm like I was working a tire jack, Darla blurted \"kayaking.\" And when I threw a lowball and pretended to be the Statue of Liberty, bringing my feet together and holding one hand to the ceiling and the other over my chest, they scratched their heads and blinked.\n\nI'd like to think that means I'm winning. I try not to read too much into it.\n\nClancy is in the middle of performing the Y.M.C.A. dance when his wristwatch beeps. \"Ope, it's time to eat,\" he declares, breaking his silence and the M-pose. He slips into the kitchen, returns to the dining table with an anemic mound of mashed potatoes on a paper plate, places it by the Tofurky.\n\nThat's all the food there is. I'm not quite sure what he was doing with the oven door when I showed up.\n\n\"Looks good, looks good,\" Darla says as we gather around our meal. Of course, she's scrolling through her album of selfies right now, so whether she means the food or the photos is anyone's guess.\n\nClancy does his best job of cutting the Tofurky, but it fights back, tough as a boxer. He makes uneven slices, lancing the meat substitute at improbable angles and distributing chunks and scraps on our plates in equal portions. Satisfied, he nods and looks first at Darla and then me.\n\n\"I think it'd be lovely if we went around the table and express our gratitude,\" he says. \"We should say the reasons we have to be thankful.\"\n\n\"Kay,\" Darla agrees. Without consulting me, she points to Clancy like she's Uncle Sam. \"You go first then.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" he says, cupping his chin in his hand and closing his eyes. \"Okay, how about this? I'm thankful for the Indigenous peoples who worked so hard to make this land what it is. There. Your turn, D.\"\n\nDarla's eyes crawl up to a spot on the ceiling where there's a dark stain. She's still staring at it when she says, \"I'm thankful for the Indigenous Peoples' Appreciation Club and its loyal members for sacrificing their time to be here today.\" Her voice is surprisingly earnest, like a sober person reciting the alphabet forwards.\n\nThen they both turn to me, their faces contorting with expectant smiles. I can see them waiting, willing me to bestow my Indigenous experience and knowledge, to regale them with stories of my time on the reservation. Waiting for things I can't provide them because I grew up in the city, just the same as them. Clancy is not-so-subtly casting his gaze on the yucca plant in the corner, as if my looking at it will provide me with the anecdote he's looking for.\n\nIt takes me a while before I stumble upon my answer. \"Instagram,\" I say. \"I'm thankful for Instagram.\"\n\nDarla gives a swift, modest nod of approval. Clancy's face falls the same way it did a week ago, when I told him my last name is not Skywalker but Todachine.\n\n\"Okay,\" Clancy says after a half-minute of silence. His voice is syrupy with hesitation. \"My turn again, right?\" And he says, \"I'm thankful that the Indigenous peoples still live here and didn't emigrate after what our ancestors did.\" \n\nDarla, already grasping at straws, says, \"I'm thankful for this delicious-looking Tofurky.\"\n\nWhen it's my turn again, I tell them I'm thankful for Netflix.\n\nThe third time around is when Clancy snaps, right after I give thanks to Taco Bell's cravings value menu.\n\n\"That's not what you're supposed to say, Anakin,\" he announces.\n\n\"It's not?\" I say, feigning ignorance as best I can. \"What am I supposed to say then?\"\n\n\"You know,\" Clancy replies.\n\nDarla stabs the Tofurky with a fork repeatedly, maybe as a distraction, but it's too late now.\n\n\"No, I don't know, Clancy,\" I say. \"Tell me. What is it you want me to say?\"\n\nHe opens his mouth, closes it, blushes. But none of that stops him from saying, \"We want to know what it was like growing up. You know, 'out there.'\" He uses air quotes around the last two words, just to be safe.\n\nI sigh. It's not the first time I've been asked this. \"Look, I hate to tell you this, but 'out there' is Brooklyn. That's where I'm from, the borough. New York. I wasn't raised on a reservation. We didn't live in teepees. There were no smokes signals, no horses. I'm sorry to disappoint you.\" My voice comes out louder than intended, more aggressive, less forgiving.\n\nClancy stares at his plate of Tofurky, his mouth twisting into something that looks like a broken smile. He lowers his head. His body heaves forward, jolted by little hiccups. I only realize he isn't laughing when his face starts to glisten from a thin trail of tears.\n\n\"I'm so stupid,\" he says, then again. Darla rubs his back, makes a consoling cooing noise.\n\nWhatever anger I felt has now been tamped down by the gravity of the situation. \"It's okay,\" I tell him, feeling the heat from the Tofurky on my face. \"You didn't know. You couldn't have.\"\n\nHe sniffles. \"But I did. I did know.\" \n\n\"Shh,\" Darla says, but Clancy shakes his head.\n\n\"My ex-boyfriend was an Indigenous person,\" he says, his voice quiet and strained. \"I did know.\"\n\nAnd it occurs to me that Darla is probably in the Indigenous Peoples' Apprecation Club because of her one-sixteenth Navajo stepdad, but I haven't discovered a reason for Clancy's membership, for his being the club leader. Until now.\n\nDarla stares at me, and it's clear from her expression that this isn't part of the routine, that this isn't something they rehearsed, that maybe she didn't even know this about Clancy. She blinks slowly, a semaphore of her own, then leans in closer.\n\n\"But it was different with him, different than what you experienced,\" Clancy says. \"I guess I just. . .I just thought that maybe,\" and he stops, gesturing to the room as a whole, the yucca plant and the Tofurky and me.\n\nWe let his words linger for a bit.\n\nAnd before I know what I'm doing, I reach across the table and pat his hand. His skin is hot to the touch. \"Look, man. I appreciate it. Really, I do. But you don't have to do all this. To me, this is just a day like any other, and I just want to spend it with my friends.\"\n\nAnd it isn't until the words are out in the open that I realize they're true: these people are my friends. My tribe. I know it's too late to leave now, and maybe I'm okay with that.\n\nI say, \"Can't we just do something normal, like watch TV or something?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" Darla agrees, and grins her turkey-like grin. \"I'm thankful for TV. And for movie marathons on Thanksgiving.\"\n\nClancy sniffles, wipes his face with his shirtsleeve. \"Yeah. Yeah, all right. We can do that.\"\n\n\"Sweet,\" Darla says, grabbing her plate of Tofurky and heading to the couch. We follow her as she turns on the TV and flips through the channels so fast that I'm wondering if she's even paying attention to the screen. I have my answer when she stops abruptly on a familiar movie.\n\nWe sit together on the couch eating rubbery faux meat and watch as, on the screen in front of us, Anakin Skywalker is getting ready to embark on an arduous journey. He's stepping through a door, crossing the threshold into unknown territory, when Obi-Wan calls his name. \"May the Force be with you,\" says the master to the student.\n\n\"And also with you,\" Clancy and Darla say together through mouthfuls of Tofurky, bowing their heads. And this time I say it with them." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Broadcast\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1624\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which an important message is cut off, leaving characters to wonder or puzzle out what was left unsaid." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I stared out the window as we turned onto the main road of our small, boring town. Above, the clouds stretched across the sky as a dark gray blanket. It casted a gloomy haze over the decrepit buildings passing by in a blur outside the window. Before getting into the car I noted the that the air smelled heavy of un-shed rain.\n I heard my mom mutter under her breath, “I’ve never seen town this empty before.” Her eyebrows pulling together in confused concern. \n “Maybe it’s because of the storm?” I asked unsure looking forward to the empty street ahead. I’ve never seen town look this dead before either, we haven’t seen one person since leaving our house. It was eerie and I didn’t like the feeling that it gave me. I looked towards the darkening sky again, past the ancient hovering water tower coated in a layer of chipping white paint. \n Passing my dads workshop, I spotted his old beat up truck he’s been driving since the 80s. The same truck my mom and dad have argued about time and time again. My mom saying that he loves that truck more than her, she sometimes wondered if it would outlive their marriage. My dad loved his truck and says that if mom left than at least he would have one solid reliable thing to hold onto. \n They didn’t fight often, but when they did you could be sure that truck would find itself in the middle every time. \n “There’s dads truck.” She huffed as I pointed it out, easy irritated at the mention. In the back seat Lilly groaned at the mention of dad, “I want to see dad!” She started repeating over and over in a sing-song voice. \n I didn’t miss my moms scowl she threw my way before saying, “Not right now, sweetie. We need to get to the store.” At her refusal Lilly started crying and kicking the back of my seat. Something she has done ever since her legs grew long enough to do so. \n My hands curled into fist in my lap and I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself before I exploded on my little sister. Something that has gotten me grounded many more times than I’d like to count. \n “Maybe on the way back through, okay? How does that sound?” Mom said in a soft, soothing voice looking back at her through the mirror.” However it was all too late, her little princess was already in full tantrum mode. \n I reached my hand out flicking the radio on and turned the volume up a few notched in hopes of blocking out her pouting. No music was playing, instead was the voice of a spokesperson speaking in a low, monotoned voice. I reached out again to switch to another channel but before I could moms hand snatched out catching mine, aggressively enough to make me jump. \n She released my hand only to turn the radio up a few more notches the man’s voice spoke barely audible over my sisters crying. “-now under martial law. Again we advice-“ \n Mom whipped around glaring back at Lilly “Shut the hell up right now.” My mouth physically dropped open and behind me Lilly fell silent in her car seat. Mom never yells at us no matter how frustrated, much less cursed at us. She turned the volume up even higher so the man’s voice was the only sound that filled the car. \n “-all citizens in the surrounding must stay indoors. We also further instruct the everyone, including pets, not to drink the tap water. If water is consumed you must swiftly isolate individual immediately until further notice-“ Pure terror washed across my mom face, she paled as he continued his instruction.\n “Mom what’s happening,” my voice shook as continued to stare at my mom. Only then did I realize that my hands trembled in my lap, I crossed my fingers to hide the tremors. \n “I’m not sure, honey.” My mom said with the same twinge of fear that the broadcaster had, it gave me chills that ran up the length of my body. I began to feel cold all over, goosebumps forming along my arms making my hairs stand on end. \n I jumped when my moms phone rang, “Hello, Dan did you hear what they are saying?” Knowing it was my dad on the phone I returned my attention back to what the broadcaster was saying, while mom pulled off the side of the road in-front if a few shops. \n “-if you come into contact with affected person be sure not to engage while person may become-“ the voice died out in a blink. I looked around confused realizing that all of the lights in the surrounding building and on the street were cut off as well. To my horror even moms car was no longer running leaving us with a silent buzz that seemed to enveloped us. \n Mom was more concerned with why her phone wasn’t working to realize that everything around us went dark. To my right I saw a flash of movement just enough to catch my attention. \n “-Dan? Dan are you there?” Her voice was frantic, she even pulled the phone away slapping it on her palm a couple of times. \n My eyes continued to rove the surrounding buildings for any sign of life. In the backseat my sister began to cry again, feeling the fear as it radiated off not only me but clearly my mom as well. \n I gasped when I saw it, only after focusing passed our reflection in the glass. Inside the dark building was a deranged face glaring out at us. We sat there staring at each other for a few moments that seemed to stretch on and on. The fear in my gut began to grow and twist into a terror I’ve never felt before. Something was wrong with the way the man was staring at us. \n I watched as the man began to twitch his neck snapping in odd angles that looked painful and unnatural. Then his face twisted into a devilish smile that stretched wide across his face before he began smashing his face onto the glass door. \n “Mom!” My voice came out in a shriek, I blindly reached out for her arm shaking it vigorously, unable to take my eyes off the man. Dread turned my blood cold at the sight of the man who continued to smash his face hard against the glass. It shook with the force, dark red streaks beginning to run down with each bash. \n “What the fuck,” my mom cried out in shock. She frantically tried to put the car into drive, only now realizing that it was dead. She tried the key but it wouldn’t turn over. She whipped around to Lilly who was now sobbing, swiftly attempting to unbuckle her car seat. \n I screamed as the glass shattered with one last bash, the man ran forward reaching my window before I could blink. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as his bloody torn face began to smash against my window. Terror and panic clawed through me painfully until I felt paralyzed. \n I barely register my moms door opening as she hurriedly helped my sister out of the car. She screamed my name over the blood rushing through my ears and the man’s head bouncing off the window. It began to crack, ready to shatter any moment. \n Finally I tore my eyes away from the man and flung myself over the seat nearly falling face first into the concrete in my haste. I heard the glass shatter the moment my feet hit the ground. Sprinting to catch up to my mom who waited with my sister in one arm and the other reaching out towards me. \n I grasped it firmly and together we began to sprint. Focusing only on my feet smacking on the pavement as we ran. I began to turn for a moment, seeing he was still making his way out of the drivers side door. Ungracefully his body flopped hard onto the cement, quickly recovering. \n “Don’t look back,” my mom growled pulling me forward. I stumbled and was briefly shocked at her speed despite the weight of my sister.\n Returning my focus to not falling, until I realize a truck was barreling towards us at great speed. \n My heart sank before I recognized my dads old truck. It swerved around us slamming firmly into the man’s body, sending him flying a few feet into the air before cracking to the ground again. \n We didn’t hesitate, mom dragged me into the car throwing my sister in after me. After us she leapt in, firmly slamming the door behind her. She reached across us gripping my dads hand firmly in hers. Their eyes saying a million things at once. \n We all sat there shocked for a moment watching the man’s mangled body. It twitched once, twice before he slowly began to rise again to his feet again. Too shocked for words we could only watch in horror until my dad kicked the truck into drive and slammed his foot on the acceleration. \n The truck hit his body again this time with much less force. The truck jolted, bumping over his body and we continued down the road. Too breathless from fear, too shocked for words we all sat silently for a few moments. \n “Your truck is still running.” mom said finally. \n“Probably the only in town after the EMP.” He responded matter in factly. \n“Maybe your truck isn’t so bad after all,” she humors darkly with shake of her head. \n From the rear view mirror I watched the silhouette of the man rise before disappearing into the distance." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Almost a Year\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1355\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in an unlikely sanctuary." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sensitive content warning: reference to self-harm and suicide, reference to alcohol/substance abuse.\nPaige sat herself down on the rocky riverbank. Her legs dangled over the edge, swinging idle over the torrent of water flowing by, and by, and by…\nThe sun had been making its slow descent, teetering down to dance along the horizon, the evening stretched out for a near-impossible number of hours by the northern latitude. Ducks splashed in the river, diving and rising to break through the water’s surface. A loon called in the distance, its echo bouncing off rock to be muffled by the pungent pine trees.\nPaige fished a notebook out from the pocket of her worn-out black hoodie. She flipped through it, barely pausing to glance at the tired, desperate words. One-by-one, she tore out the pages. She flung them into the river, somewhere between resigned and angry. Most days gone by held misery, hopelessness; some held some semblance of warmth, meagre hours of joy, contentedness.\nFootsteps came from behind, crunching twigs and moss underneath. “There you are,” said a soft voice.\nPaige greeted the voice, spared her the effort of turning herself around. “Hello, Sara.”\n“How can you come here?” asked Sara. “Isn’t this the place where—?”\n“Yes, it is,” Paige interrupted, matter of fact.\nTheir words hung in the air, the silence beginning to burn Sara’s face. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just—\"\n “Just sit down already, Sara.”\nSara eased herself down beside Paige, the rock far from comfortable. They sat there in silence while Paige ripped apart her notebook, sending a slew of ink-scrawled scraps drifting down to the murky water below.\n“I didn’t see you in school today,” said Sara. “I was hoping for some company; I had to sit alone at lunch.”\nPaige shook her head. “You graduate in what? Two weeks? I got all my work done. I know when my exams are.” She shrugged. “I just didn’t want to be there.”\nSounds of ripping paper were accompanied by the calling loon, the splashing ducks, the water sloshing against the rocky riverbank. “You’ll keep it up in the fall though, right? One more year, then you can join me in the city for university. It’s what Derek—\"\n“I know what my brother wanted,” said Paige, rather stern. “Sorry. It’s just... Derek was so smart; he worked so hard, too. He really believed in education. He always said that our people deserved better. That didn’t stop him from hanging himself when he was home for the summer.”\nThey sat in silence again, admiring the beauty the stretch of the river offered. “What were you doing anyway?” asked Sara.\n“I’m moving on,” said Paige. “It’s time I start living my life, see what happens next.” She sent the last soiled page floating, saw a fair number of pages remained. She tucked the notebook back into her hoodie— maybe she’d use it as a journal. She’d write some stories, or some poetry even. \n“That’s good, that’s good,” said Sara, not quite catching on. She dared a glance behind her shoulder, spying Derek’s… tree. Nature offered an ample amount of makeshift gallows, it seemed.\nPaige noticed Sara’s attention drawn towards “it”. “Weird, eh? There’s nothing written there, no wooden cross even. Nothing. My parents didn’t want anything there.”\n“They miss him though, right?”\n“Of course. My dad keeps it all inside, but my mom… I think… I think that’s the only time I saw my mom feel something.” Paige squirmed around, adjusting her weight on the cool rock. “I ran back to get them when I found Derek here swinging in the wind. My dad came and cut him down, then my mom cried. She kept rubbing at the mark on his neck, kept kissing his purple face. ‘My baby boy,’ she cried. ‘Come back to mommy.’”\n“Oh my God,” said Sara, tears teasing at her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Paige. I wish I was there for you that night. I wish I was there for Derek. Maybe I could’ve stopped him.”\n“Maybe. You never know when he wanted to try, though. It was just a normal day, you know? We didn’t know how much he hurt.”\n“I always thought…” said Sara, her voice straining. “I just thought… he would ask one day. I should’ve just told him how I felt. I miss him so much.”\n“Me too.”\nThe loon still called, distant. The ducks had floated downriver, the fishing here lacking. Mosquitoes began to whizz about, the evening growing long.\n“It’s good we’re finally talking about this,” said Sara. “I can’t believe it’s almost been a year.” The silence threatened to return, though the conversation wasn’t forced, or awkward. It just… was.\nPaige felt at the bumps across her wrist, scars always hidden by that worn-out black hoodie. “I wanted to follow him,” said Paige, drawing her hood up.\nSara blinked. Of course Paige had been hurting that bad. “How can you come here then? Of all places to hang out?”\n“I don’t know. I guess I feel… peace here? Sometimes other things. It was hard before, never mind how hard it was losing my brother.”\n“Your parents still drink?”\n“All the time. Even harder since Derek. My mom’s using again too, I think. She’s been acting funny lately. So, I like coming here.”\n“I guess I can’t blame you. It’s beautiful. It’s not even that far from your house either.”\nPaige stared at the water, brought her knees up to her chest. “It’s like I’m spending time with my brother here. I mean, I did want to follow him at first.” She looked to the tree behind them and back. “But guys are always so violent. They hang themselves or they shoot themselves. I could never do what Derek did. So, I tried pills once. A whole bottle, but I still woke up.”\nSara couldn’t hold any longer, her clenched eyelids giving into a flood of tears. “Did you stop trying?” asked Sara, her voice growing ever unsteady.\n“Not right away. That’s why I started coming here. I came to look at the water. I thought I could make myself jump in.” Paige paused.\n“But?”\n“But then I thought of my mom. I know she’s drunk most of the time, but still. I thought of the night I found Derek. My mom cried so much. I heard… drowning bloats you. I didn’t want my mom to see me like that, all swollen and ugly.”\nSara began sobbing. Paige laid a hand on her shoulder, a small comfort. “I can’t lose you either,” Sara said, voice a near whisper. \n“Don’t worry, it’s better now. I feel good coming here now. Sometimes anyway. It’s like… I stare death in the face when I come here,” said Paige, her voice beginning to boil with anger. “It’s like I come here and tell death to go fu—”\nSara snapped out of her sorrow, laying a hand on Paige’s shoulder now. “Hey, hey,” she said. “If you say it’s better, I believe you. Just promise me I can trust you out here alone.”\n“I promise,” said Paige, the anger already boiled away. “I like coming here to just… be. Sometimes I try pray, or something. But honestly, I just like… hang out.”\nSara looked out over the river, the opposite bank’s tree line losing its definition with the fading light. “I guess it’s okay to feel those other things. Maybe we just need to feel… something.”\n“Yeah. I mean, it is getting better. Each day’s just a bit better.”\nThey embraced the silence a moment, the loon well out of earshot now. “So,” said Sara, “am I on my own for lunch until grad?”\nPaige chanced the tiniest smile, then gave into a fit of laughter; Sara joined her as she wiped and smeared her runny makeup from her cheeks. “Two weeks isn’t bad. Your first year of uni will suck,” said Paige.\nSara slung her arm around Paige, drew her in close. “We’ll take it day by day then?”\nPaige shrugged. “I guess.” The sun dipped below the horizon, the beginnings of twilight now bathing Paige’s sanctuary." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: 1822, 1851, 1885\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2236\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a particular piece of clothing appears three times." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sensitive content: mild reference to violence, trauma.\n\n\nGood stone streets, good stone buildings. Not far off from the proper French cities home across the ocean. The wind whistled down the Saint Lawrence, carrying the sickly-sweet city scent along with it. The late summer sun shone bright, providing a comfortable afternoon heat. Shouts and clamor from the port echoed behind Denis, the ship that carried him from his old life now docked and still.\n\nHe took in the sights, legs adjusting to solid ground again. He prayed as he walked, giving thanks for his safe passage.\n\nEverywhere he looked, men had broad sashes of red wool tied around their waist, all manner of designs about them. White, blue, yellow, and green laced their way through the red, a striking look paired with the bright red toque. Curious, thought Denis. He spied a shop, lengths of red wool hanging in the window. The Company recruiters will be there all day. I rather like this New World fashion.\nDenis entered the shop with a knock and a bonjour. The clerk stood cleaning his polished wood counter, goods upon goods behind him. “Bonjour,” said the clerk, his colony accent thick with a rather… unrefined manner. “What can I do for you, mister?”\n\n“Would I be able to look at some of those sashes?” asked Denis.\n\n“Ah! You want a ceinture fléché? Yes, yes, very popular item for a while now. Quickest way to look Québécois, non?”\n\n“Ha! That’s a good point, mister. It was hard leaving the Old Country behind, but I am glad to see my Countrymen thriving out here.”\n\nThe clerk looked over his shoulder, then sauntered over to a bundle of the ceintures. “Thrive we do, friend,” he said as he laid the pile of fabric on the counter. “Work and land are more abundant this side of the ocean, so says mon grand-père.”\n\nDenis ran his fingers along the ceintures, appreciating the quality, the sheer craftsmanship. “Wool, non? Are these loomed?”\n\n“Ah, the workmanship is precise, eh? These are finger-woven if you can believe.”\n\nDenis held up ceinture after ceinture; he chose one to stop and appraise. Woven in were two lines of arrows, yellow and green in the center. Another line, blue and white, pointed the opposite way at each edge. “I can believe it. Such beautiful, careful work.”\n\n“That one, friend, is a more common design. Very popular.” The clerk eyed Denis, wrinkled clothes and unkempt beard telling. “If you don’t mind, when did you land ashore?”\n\nDenis set the ceinture down, reaching for one with pairs of green and white diamonds weaved within the length of fabric. “Just this past hour, truth be told. I meant to head straight for the Company office, but these called to me,” said Denis, holding the ceinture up to inspect.\n\n“You flatter me too much, my friend.” The clerk started separating the ceintures, allowing Denis easier viewing. “The Company’s a good choice. Hard work, sure, but they promise adventure, and adventure they do deliver. Are you hoping to work the Lakes?”\n\n“The Lakes?” Denis set the ceinture down for another. “Too settled, I hear. Too settled is why I left France. I'm hoping for la vallée de la Rivière Rouge, where the land is beautiful, and the women,” Denis grinned, “even more so. So I’ve heard,” he said with a shrug.\n\nThe clerk let out a laugh. “Ah, you'll be wintering at Selkirk’s Colony for years, friend. You’re far from the first.” He picked out a ceinture, one broad blue and white arrow, weaved center to edges. “I think this one will look sharp on you,” he said, handing the ceinture to Denis. “Mister…?”\n\n“Primeau.” Denis accepted it, holding it against his waist. “Look sharp, yes. I’m guessing hand-woven will cost me heavy, non? Why else should I buy one?”\n\nThe clerk’s expression shifted, all seriousness now. “Well! You can tie your coat closed, tuck your tobacco pouch and fire-bag into it.” He ran his hands to the fringed ends: red, white, and blue. “Spare threads to mend your clothes in the field. It can even be a tourniquet in the direst of situations. Everything a man needs for a life on the frontier.” The clerk closed his oft-recited script with a smile.\n\n“Ha! Good sell, friend. I was willing buy one regardless.” Denis fumbled his coin pouch out from his coat, then tied his new ceinture around his waist.\n\n“Just take caution out west, friend. The lands can be… wild still.”\n\n“Merci, but I have caution enough,” said Denis. “I try make right with the Lord. He leads me in the right paths.”\n“That He does,” said the clerk. “That He does.”\n\n\n\n\nMarc reached below his waist, snapping a blue thread free from the fringes of his father’s sayncheur flayshii. “Lii bufloo, they ran hard today,” he said, handing the thread to his wife, Anne-Marie.\n\n“Taapway,” said Anne-Marie, now threading her needle. “Lii bufloo ran so hard they shook Joseph from his horse!” Those gathered around the campfire laughed.\n\nWith the day’s work done, the Hunt and harvest well behind the setting sun, the families gathered amongst themselves. They drew their wagons and carts into a large circle, making camp within, preparing to rest and celebrate. Fiddle music rose in the air, along with sounds of singing and dancing, cheering and laughter; fragrant wood smoke tinged with roasting bison meat rose into the calm, prairie evening as well.\n\n“Hey!” said Joseph. “It’s the horse, I tell you. He’s too skittish! I had to really coax him to get that close to the herd.” He sat on the bench, blanket draped over his lap, while his sister mended the tear in the seat of his pants.\n\n“You could keep a firmer grip on your saddle, nishiimish. You might shoot yourself next time you hit the ground.”\n\n“Or” said Marc, “you can find your own wife to sew your pants up!” The campfire roared with laughter again. Marc reached for the leather pouch tucked beneath his sash. Retrieving the clay pipe within, he loaded it with tobacco. Lighting a twig aflame with the campfire, he brought it to the bowl, lighting his pipe’s contents with one puff, then another.\n\n“Elizabeth is very pretty,” said Anne-Marie. “I’ve seen her watching you at the dances. Besides, you know I want Biibii René to have lii koozin.”\n\n“Elizabeth is English-born, though,” said Joseph.\n\n“And?” asked Marc. “I think the Michif girls are too pretty for you anyway!” The folks ‘round the fire laughed harder than ever. Sensing his brother-in-law’s displeasure, he pushed the topic aside. “But maybe you can bring toon vyayloon out soon. I’d like to hear some reels, Joseph.” \n\n“Bah! Reels can wait for another night. Did you all not see Dakota watching us on the plains today?”\n\n“Dakota,” said Marc, “don’t like it when we stray too far from li Rivyayr Roozh when we come south. I reckon they’ll be looking for a fight. We can’t help where lii bufloo go.”\n\nAnne-Marie held up her work, tear now mended. Beaded flowers, glowing faint against the dim firelight, were sewn up the legs of the buckskin trousers. “Fight all you want, boys. Just mind where you get shot. I’d hate to see nimaamaa’s work go to waste.”\n\nMarc felt at the floral beadwork adorning the front of his buckskin coat; red, white, and blue to match his sayncheur. His mother-in-law’s handiwork was exceptional. “Wii, kimaamaa would scold me for years.”\n\n“Why must we fight? They should let us hunt in peace,” said Joseph.\n\n“Maybe one day our people can make peace,” said Marc. “But for now, ready yourself for a fight. Besides, we have our rifles, we have each other and, above all, we have the Lord.”\n\n“Taapway,” agreed Anne-Marie.\n\nMarc ran his hand along his sayncheur, remembering his father’s words. “Make right with the Lord, Joseph, and He will lead you in the right paths. Then, moon frayr, you will not be fearing the fight.”\n\n“You never come to Mass anymore,” said Anne-Marie. “Father Laflèche was happy to come on the Hunt with us.”\n\n“True, true. Go see the Father tonight, then come to Mass in the morning. It’s never too late to make things right. Besides,” Marc smiled, “the prayers are beautiful out here on the prairies.”\n\n“Okay, okay,” said Joseph. “Give me my pants back first, then.”\n\n\n\n\nRené tightened his grandfather’s sayncheur around his stomach, staunching the blood leaking from the shot there in his gut. He and Henry sat with their backs against the wall, admiring just how fine of a church they had built here in Batoche.\n\n“What do you think they’re talking about?” asked Henry, nodding his head toward Riel and Dumont, conversing near the front of the church.\n\n“I think it’s best if it stays between them,” answered René. Dumont had tears streaming down his face, while Riel was stoic as ever. They reached to shake hands, then Dumont pulled them into an embrace. The larger man’s weeps shook him against his friend.\n\n“It’s hard to see him like this,” said Henry.\n\n“Wii, he’s a good kommandant. It must be hard for him to see us like this too.” René wriggled around, unable to get comfortable. The bullet burned deep within his belly. He looked down at his sayncheur, old brown blood staining the white threads, the fresh red blood blending into the red threads.\n\n“A wound like that is a death sentence, my friend,” said Henry, wincing as he watched René clutch his stomach.\n\n“True, but that’s what the British are bringing come morning. Either this wound takes me, or I’ll be hanging within the week.”\n\nHenry looked at the floor with despair. Dumont, finished with his farewells, thundered down past the pews, throwing the doors open to steal away into the still night air.\n\n“It’s not too late for you either, Henry,” said René. “There’s no shame in running to see a new day.”\n\n“No, no. It was my choice to follow Louis. It’s still my choice, following him until the end.” Henry watched Riel as he knelt at the altar in prayer. “He’s a good man; he always wanted the best for his people.”\n\n“He’s always loved the Lord, that Louis.” René felt at the frayed fabric wrapped around his belly. His hand found the thinned-out fringes at the end, played with the remaining threads while he remembered comforting, familiar words. “’Make right with the Lord, and He will lead you in the right paths,’ nipaapaa and nimooshoom always told us so. I believed it true.”\n\n“Your father and grandfather, they sound like they were good men. It’s not that I doubt our Lord, but how? How can you believe He’s leading us right?”\n\n“I do, simple as that. Look at Louis, he weeps not for what comes. He’s at peace, and so am I.”\n\nThey sat together, hushed conversations of other pairs and groups buzzing quiet.\n“You know,” said Henry, “you speak good English for being Michif.”\n\n“And you, my friend, are actually good company. Considering that you’re English-born.” They laughed together, pain forgotten until René gave into a coughing fit, the bullet burning again. “I’m glad to have met and fought alongside you, Henry. What’s your family name?”\n\n“Robertson. My grandfather, his­ father was a Scotchman. Signed with the company, chasing ‘adventure.’ He fell for an Ojibwe woman while working the Lakes. You?”\n\n“Primeau. My grandfather landed at Québec City. He heard about Lord Selkirk’s little project, so he headed west. He fell in love with a Michif woman, marrying her as soon as he could.” They sat silent again a moment. “Primeau, it means ‘first’ in English; yet I'm the last of my friends to die. This battle’s been hard.”\n\n“We did so well at Duck Lake. What happened?”\n\n“There’s just too many British; even their weapons are too much. My friend P’tit Pierre stood too close to a cannon shot. He took metal in the gut like this,” René gestured to his stomach. “It ripped him right open though. He… he tried to hold his insides in.”\n\nHenry’s eyes focused as if staring into the distance. “My little brother was taken by a cannon shot too. His leg flew right off. He cried and cried for our mum.” Henry’s head fell back against the wall. He blinked away tears. “What will happen to our people?”\n\nRené’s gaze fell upon Riel, then wandered above to the altar, then higher still to the crucifix affixed highest of all. “My wife and children fled towards the mountains. My hope is that our music, our languages will survive. Our dress is certain to fade, but our people will live.” Left hand on his wound, René touched his right hand to his forehead, brought it down to his chest, and then left shoulder to right. “Failing all else, our faith will live on. Our children can always turn to Christ, no matter how hard the days get.”\n\n“You really are at peace, aren’t you?” Henry dabbed at the tears trailing down his dirt and blood-speckled cheeks. “I’m so scared. I… I miss my family. My wife, she's expecting, you know. I can’t imagine how hard fleeing is for her.”\n\nRené ran his hand along his sayncheur one last time. “I'm sure they will find the right paths.” He closed his eyes, praying he’d wake to see just one last sunrise." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sweet Girl\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1680\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Warning: Story contains physical violence, abuse, gore and CSA. )\nThe golden twinkle of fairy lights glistens through the trees. The loud chatter and laughter of my family and friends rambles throughout the venue. A love song is being loudly played by the DJ’s speakers on stage. I can feel the vibrations in my chest. I start to feel the sweet familiar buzz sweep over my mind as I sip on my 5th or 6th champagne. David chats away with a distant aunt of mine when our gazes meet and he throws a charming smile and signals for me to waltz over and join him.\n“Aunt Helene was just telling me about the time she tried to teach you to sew.” \nAunt Helene chuckles at the memory.\n“She had the sample sat on her lap as I tried to teach her different stitches. She was struggling to keep the lines straight and from zigzagging,” Aunt Helene laughs.\n“By the time she finished, we hadn’t realized she had sewn it onto her dress!” Aunt Helene and David share a laugh as they muse at the thought of a silly young me. I remember how devasted I was. Helene’s laughter thundered over me as frantically began to panic and cry over the thought of having ruined one of my dresses. I ran away looking for scissors to remove it from my dress before my parents came back home. My father would be so angry if he had seen how I ruined a dress my mother worked hard on. I shake away my thoughts and look down at my glass. It’s empty and to survive this night, I can’t have that. I start to excuse myself when Aunt Helene’s hand reaches out for mine. \n“Your mother would be so proud. She would love David.” She removes her hand from mine and places it on David’s shoulder, beaming up at him and then back to me,” He’s so sweet and thoughtful. She would be proud of you for not ending up with someone like- “ My eyes start to fill and I can taste the bile creeping up my esophagus. \n“Thank you, Aunt Helene.” I step away and dart away for more champagne. The bartender serving me gleams, “It’s a beautiful party.” I politely nod in response. She’s had a smile on her face the whole party, not a single crack in her joy. Her eyes still twinkle with youth, I envy her. A hand on my elbow interrupts my thoughts. It’s David. Sweet David with the smirk he had given me earlier erased and replaced with a sickly sweet smile.\n“That should be your last one tonight, don’t you agree, sweetheart? “\nThoughtful David, asks so politely, no defiance in his tone. Who could ever be mad at his softness?\nHe guides me away and I watch as he mingles with the flurry of guests. I observe the way the conversations have the same basic structure. \n“Wow, this is one heck of a party.” It better be because the cost of the venue alone was outrageous. But, of course, that’s not an issue for someone so successful as David. He seeks reactions like these. The party is just another excuse to flaunt his wealth. \n“Have you guys thought about babies?” I’m repulsed by the thought. \nAnd “You must feel so lucky, Claire.” David doesn’t mask what hearing someone say that to me does for his ego. His grin feels malicious as if he feels like I’ve won some grand prize. I keep my responses to a minimum, smiling and nodding to the conversations as my mind drifts.\nMy mother once told me about how before she married my father, she dreamed of becoming a ballerina. She told me about how her parents put her in dance classes and all her favorite ballet shows and how the music used to make her feel. I pictured her petite frame prancing around gracefully on the stage in a frilly pink tutu. The lights shining against her brunette hair as it flowed along with her spins. \n“But then,” She looked off towards the window and glanced at the front door as if my father would bust through the door any minute, “I met your father, and well… Life just… got in the way,” I remember the forced smile she gave me when she said that. The soft hurt in her eyes was as if she silently apologizing for saying that out loud, as if she hoped I was too young to realize what she meant. \n***\nThe party guest trickles out. My Aunt Helene stops to speak to me before making her way out. She pulls me away from David. \n“I’m so happy to see you making a good choice for yourself, Addie. I’m excited to see you marry him tomorrow. I wish I could have saved her, she should be here to see you. She’d be so, so proud.” She holds my gaze with soft, watery eyes. I know she means well. She had tried to warn my mother that my father was bad for her, for us. She became my legal guardian after my father went to jail. She tried her hardest to keep me in school and on track. I went off the rails. I ditched school and made out with dumb boys who smoked and drove fast cars, secretly hoping their idiocy would lead to my demise and I could join my mom by someone other than by my hand. But, Aunt Helene would never remove the key from over the doorframe when I’d be attempting to sneak back in at 4 am. She’d be sat inside, waiting for me anxiously. Exclaimed how grateful she was that I was home in one piece and then I’d slink off to bed.\n*** \nWhen we arrive home, David showers and goes to bed, I, on the other hand, find that I cannot sleep. I change into a sweatshirt and pants. The idea of having a wedding in less than twenty-four hours has me reeling. I. am. Wired. I look out the double glass doors of this home and take notice of the view of the beach. David rented this Airbnb to be closer to our beach wedding venue. I slip on shoes and out the double glass doors and sit out on the deck. I watch the waves crash hard against the jagged rocks and sand. The dark endlessness of the ocean is overwhelming. It looks like a black hole as if anything the waves could get their destructive grasp on would be swallowed by the pitch black. The giant black waves reach and swallow the sky around them, they get rougher and the crashes get louder. It’s all I can seem to hear. The pitch-dark water swirls around me, grabs me, and pulls me into the ocean. I’m being trashed and thrown around. My body becomes numb as the pain and cold shocks me. A giant wave is forming and coming straight towards me to roll me into the jagged rocks. That’s when I saw her. Her beautiful brunette hair flowed. The waves carried her as if they were dancing together. As the wave gets closer so does she. I watch her, I want to reach out to her and I do.\nI wake up on the beach, my lungs heavy with grief. \n“Addiieee…” Someone calls out my name, stretching it playfully.\n“Addiissooon.” I remember my father, how he would call out to me when it was “my turn”. I was terrified of his “friendly” voice. I knew what it meant. It meant he wouldn’t be sleeping in his bed, it meant that night he picked me and I had nowhere to hide or nothing to do but pretend I didn’t know what he was doing. I was too young to know it was wrong or what he was even doing, or that’s what I told myself. But, I knew and I’d feel it whenever any other man touched me. The fear pangs in my chest again. He can’t be here. I scan the beach around me. There’s no one in sight. I look back towards the beach house. It’s not too far. If I run I can make it inside and lock myself in the room with David and call the police. \n“Addiieeee…Come on, sweet girl..” \nI begin to run, and the memory of that night begins to overtake me. The way my mother ran towards him with the knife. She had finally had it. She wouldn’t let him hurt me, hurt her, anymore. She lunged towards him but, he was much bigger. He threw her into the wall, she yelled at me to run. I couldn’t move. I stood there frozen, as she screamed and screamed. The shrill guttural screams echoed until the blood spouting out of her mouth smothered them. Her bright, deep red blood coated the walls. I don’t remember how the police got there. When they dragged my father to the police car, he was covered in her blood, he grinned at me. \n“Don’t think I won’t get you too, sweet girl.” He spat.\nOnce I get inside the beach house, I race around and lock all the doors before I run into the bedroom. \n“David!” I pull the bedsheets off him in an attempt to stir him awake. They’re heavy and damp. I pull my hand away and look at it. Bright, deep red. By my feet is a knife. I hesitantly look towards David.\n“Oh God…David.. I..” \nI’m covered in blood. I can feel the hot, wet stickiness seeping past my socks and into the soles of my shoes, making itself permanent. He’s not breathing. There\n‘S blood all over the walls, embedded itself into the mattress and my sweatshirt. \nSirens whine outside and the bedroom windows glow blue and red. I get an urge to run but, then the door is busted down. I turn and they scream at me to raise my hands, the bright lights from their pointed guns blinding me. \n“Please. I didn’t-I-”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Where is the Green Temple?\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2983\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a silent retreat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The brochure’s glossy texture had implied that the retreat was one of utmost professionalism. Their mission statement, “Those who come with loud minds, leave with quiet voices,” led Rain to believe that she was embarking on a week-long journey that would fix all of her problems. Subsequently, Rain used an entire paycheck, from Georgie’s Deli, to pay for the week-long retreat at the Green Temple, a thirty minute drive from the Everglade National Park. She did so, to remedy some ill facet of herself that had always been a hindrance to her self esteem. \nGrowing up, Rain’s mother always told her she was too loud. Too noisy. Too opinionated. Straight up annoying. Consequently, Rain moved out at eighteen, enrolled in a library science program online, and worked at a Jewish deli to pay for a rat infested one-room apartment that sat on the corner of Arlington Street. Her teachers in elementary school and highschool agreed with Rain’s mother—Rain just had too much to say. However, Rain would take any opportunity to discredit their assumptions, often lowering their opinion of her rather than bolstering it. When Rain left home, she decided that maybe the people around her saying she was loud were right the entire time. And because she desired to pursue a career that required restraint, Rain figured that it was about time to quiet her voice before it interfered with her job prospects. \nTherefore, on the sixteenth day of June, Rain caught a Greyhound bus from a little suburb outside of Philadelphia, and crisscrossed the United States until she found herself in the Florida everglades. The bus dropped her off at a run down Walmart, and then she took a taxi to the Green Temple. \nThe retreat was housed in a white, brick building that was shaped like a “T.” The landscaping was plentiful—shrubbery, a well groomed lawn, flourishing trees—contrasting with the rather plain, obscure, and almost forgettable edifice that was the Green Temple. \nRain slowly walked up the drive, which was lined with rose bushes, and grabbed onto the strap of her duffle bag, pulling it a bit down her shoulder. She walked through the front door and was greeted with a blinding white room, equipped with pale, beige abstract paintings hung on each wall, and seating areas on each side of the room: two modern, square chairs made of opaque white plastic, sitting on top of a fuzzy white rug. Two men sat to the left of Rain and spoke in light voices. She tried to take note of how softly they were speaking so that she could match their octave.\nBetween the two sitting areas sat a matching desk, devoid of clutter, save for a sleek desktop and a neatly stacked pile of papers. “Welcome to the Green Temple,” the woman sitting behind the desk said. Rain noticed immediately that she was wearing a pale green linen shirt and pants. “Name?” the woman asked.\n“Rain Barrow. I registered online.”\n“Ah! Let me look you up in our system.” The woman clicked a few times on her computer and then smiled, indicating that she had found Rain’s name. The woman then directed her from the lobby and to a long hallway off the main room.\n “Out that door is the main gathering area. Mildred will show you to your tent.” \nRain thanked the woman, and then adjusted her backpack. The hallway was white, from the tile floor all the way up to the ceiling. Four doors in total lined the space, and Rain wondered what could be beyond them. She noticed that though people spoke in the main greeting area, the hallway seemed to act as a sensory chamber—quiet within, and each time her flip-flop snapped upwards, it echoed, the noise reverberating off the walls and bouncing back towards her. The noise pierced her ears, and Rain was surprised to find the snapping of her flip-flops to be the onset of a quickly budding headache. \nAt the end of the hall, Rain pushed on a heavy door which opened up to an extensive garden area fitted with a pavilion (one of the ones that had an outdoor kitchen area built into it), an inground, sparkling pool, and rows upon rows of azaleas, Black-Eyed Susans, and butterfly milkweed. \n“Welcome!” a young woman with sandy blonde hair shouted from behind a robust bush of azaleas. She trotted to Rain like an antelope would, her pale green linen shirt and pants bouncing as she went. The young woman held out her hand for Rain to take, and when she took it, Rain was instantly aware of a constriction around her throat. It very much felt like a python wrapping itself around her, squeezing, breaking the tiny bones in her neck. The young woman smiled, despite Rain’s discomfort. “Hello. My name is Mildred. You must be Rain?” \nRain nodded, pulled her hand from Mildred’s grasp, and then rubbed her neck, immediately feeling a pressure release from her airways. \n“Good,” Mildred continued. “We’ve been waiting for you.” Mildred gestured for rain to follow her to a semi-circle of tents nestled on the far edge of the expansive garden area. Mildred brought Rain to a tent that sat at the end of the semi-circle, which was pale yellow, and made from thin tarp-like material. Mildred drew back the tent door-flap and gestured with her hand. “Your home for this next week.” \n“Oh?” Rain peered into the tent, wondering what had happened to the comfy, cozy canvas tent that had been advertised on their brochure and website. “It’s . . . uh—” \n“It’s perfect, isn’t it?” Mildred widened her smile, to the point that Rain thought there might be someone else controlling this young woman from the inside. \n“Uh hum . . .” Rain nodded, trying to not jump to any bad conclusions, and trying not to manifest any bad outcomes to this retreat by thinking ill of the Green Temple. Perhaps I expected more than what they were actually offering, she thought, tossing her duffle bag into the tent.\n“We will have dinner and orientation at seven this evening. The official retreat starts in the morning.”\nRain thanked Mildred for her hospitality, and assured her that she’d be present at dinner once she unpacked. Rain quietly, discreetly, and slowly unfolded her things and took inventory of her toiletries. Though, an ever darkening realization was dawning on her that she may have impulsively embarked on this journey to self improvement without thinking of where she was actually going. She was in the Florida everglades, she was a thousand miles from home, and she was becoming ever aware of the shadowed figures that walked past her tent, stopped, and then kept walking. Rain checked her phone, to only discover that she had no service. Strange, she thought, feeling that python wrap itself around her neck again. I had service in the taxi. \nRain threw her phone into her backpack and decided she would try again for service later, to call someone and let them know she was safe. But who would I even call?\nAt dinner, there were exactly thirteen of them. They sat on logs around a rather large fire, just like an episode from Survivor. Mildred, the front desk lady, and two men passed out bowls of buckwheat to the participants, which were topped with a bunless bean burger and two pickles. Rain grimaced at her food and poked the stiff burger with her fork. \n“Welcome all,” Mildred declared, fanning her arms out wide, presenting herself as some kind of Oracle of Delphi archetype. “You have all met me and Sarah, already.” Mildred gestured to the front desk lady. Mildred turned and pointed to both men who helped pass out dinner, and said, “This is Josh and that is Logan.” Mildred tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Tomorrow is the official start of the retreat. I advise you all to get much needed rest tonight, once you finish dinner, and we will begin first thing in the morning.” Mildred clasped her hands together. “Now, I invite you all to introduce yourselves to each other.” \nEach participant introduced themselves and the city they were from. A woman next to Rain introduced herself as Arabella Smith. “I’m from Kenosha, Wisconsin.” Arabella looked at Rain. “And you?” \nRain smiled. “Rain Barrow. Philadelphia.” \nArabella blushed, as if there was something lovely and sweet about a notoriously rough, dirty, and smelly city. \n“Very good,” Mildred interrupted. “Everyone knows each other. Enjoy your evening, and remember—” Mildred paused and looked at each participant in the eyes. Mildred especially focused her attention on Rain. Rain saw Mildred’s eye twitch, and then felt invisible fingers dig into her throat, kinking her vocal cords like one does with a hose. “We start first thing in the morning.” \nMildred, Sarah, Josh, and Logan signed off for the night, and returned to the building, all four walking in a single file line. Rain assumed that the doors down that main hall she had walked down earlier were where they slept—because where else did they go? \nThere were low murmurings of pleasantries among the participants, and little hushed gasps as the sun set and the stars lit up over the everglades that laid beyond the perimeter of the Green Temple. Rain tried to remain calm, but the sudden loss of her voice was an ill planned coincidence that she hoped would resolve itself sooner than later. She moved her mouth and made little choking noises, trying with all of her strength to say a single word. \nArabella lightly touched Rain’s knee and drew her brows together. “Are you alright?” \nRain nodded, though she continued to massage her neck muscles to try and release her voice. \nArabella pursed her lips. “Should I go get Mildred?” \nRain shook her head, and glanced at the looming building, half of which was barely illuminated by motion lights, and the rest—the moon. \n“Really,” Arabella said, wincing, “it is no trouble at all—”\nThen, all at once, it was like there was a pop within her system. Rain coughed, and she felt those invisible fingers release her vocal chords. “I’m fine,” she said, choking, trying to remember how to speak properly, like twenty-three years of speaking had been wiped from her memories. \nArabella bit her lip and leaned in closer to Rain. “Are you sure?”\nRain nodded, again, and then began rubbing her palms on her thighs. “I think . . . uh . . . I think I’m just a bit homesick.”\n“Ah.” Arabella leaned back slightly and smiled. “Terrible service out here too, eh? Can’t call your folks back home.”\nRain shrugged. “We don’t talk much anyways.” She focused on the sparks dancing off of the licking flames, wondering how much she should reveal to Arabella. That she didn’t get along with her folks because they found her annoying? That her mouth got her into more trouble than she ever wished it to? Or that she chose to avoid home all together because of a deep wound (“Rain,” her mother had said, “you won’t amount to anything and you are a disappointment to this family”).\n“Yeah, well, I better get to bed. I’m grumpy when I can’t get eight hours in.” Arabella patted Rain’s shoulder, and then walked off into the dark, towards the tents. A few moments later, Rain followed, and changed into a pair of sweatpants. She checked her phone one last time—still no service—and then crawled under her sleeping bag. Things will go fine. You are fine. Everything is fine, Rain repeated to herself in her thoughts, trying to convince herself that everything would be fine and to not even think otherwise. \nIn the morning, the participants were awoken by a loud chiming of a bell. Rain dressed in the pair of shorts and white tank she wore the day before, brushed her long brown hair up into a ponytail, and then went to brush her teeth in the communal bathroom that was merely two outhouses and a water spigot. \nThe participants wandered over to where the bonfire had been the night before, and were greeted by Mildred, Sarah, Josh, and Logan. Josh and Logan held silver trays with little plastic cups filled to the brim with a greenish, gelatin looking substance. I hope we don’t have to drink those. \n“Good morning, everyone,” Mildred proclaimed, fanning her hands outward like she had at dinner the night previous. “Today, the real work begins.” \nRain looked to her feet before she met Mildred’s gaze, though she could feel her eyes burning holes into her skull. \n“At Green Temple, we believe in reflection. Quiet isolation. Revelation. And in order to do that, we must be restrained from temptation. What temptation?” Mildred paused to look at each participant. “Speaking to others, when you could be speaking to yourselves instead.” She nodded at Josh and Logan, who went to each participant with the tray, offering them a cup to drink. \nRain took the last one and dared to look up to meet Mildred’s expression. I just want to watch her watch me drink it. Mildred smiled at Rain, and Rain fought against that creeping, invisible python that slithered around Rain whenever Mildred looked at her. \n“Please,” Mildred said, gesturing to the group. “Drink.” \nEach participant looked at each other before hesitantly bringing the little cups to their lips. \n“We suggest drinking it in one go, instead of drawing it out. It’s not something you want to savor.”\nRain peered into the sloshing sludge and grimaced. Arabella winked at Rain, and then raised her cup to her. Rain reciprocated, and then snapped her head back, so as to force the liquid down her throat without having to taste it. \nThat was impossible though. It tasted like foul, rotted, black liquorice that had been dug up from the bottom of a Philly dumpster. She dropped the cup and bent forwards, grunting as the liquid landed into the pit of her stomach. It burned. She saw Arabella keel over and fall to the ground, immediately after she had drunk the entirety of her cup. \nRain’s vision blurred, though when she looked down towards Arabella, she could see her body twisted into an unnatural position, foam bubbling up and out of her mouth. Around them, participants wobbled, crawled, and clawed at their stomachs. Rain stood planted, where she was, and didn’t dare move an inch. \nShe didn’t hear anything. It was as if a vacuum had come by and sucked every sound from the earth. She moved her mouth to try and scream, but that python had worked its way up and up and up to her throat. She could not speak. She could not yell for help. Rain coughed and felt a bubble come up from her throat. She thought that it would be foaming bile, like Araballa, but it was instead blood. It dripped down her chin, and she caught it in her palms. \nYou have to move, Rain! Rain looked up and saw Mildred, Sarah, Josh, and Logan, kneeling before participants and rubbing their backs, smoothing out their hair, and acting like they hadn’t just given them poison to drink. Rain saw the door to the building slightly ajar, and decided she had only one shot at surviving whatever mess she had gotten herself in. \nShe ran to the door, threw it open, and raced through the building. Rain nearly toppled, tripping over her flip flops and letting them fall off of her feet, once she had made it to the end of the drive. She turned, and through a cloudy visage, Rain saw Mildred standing in the doorway of the Green Temple. \nRain willed her body forward, and began racing down the road, kicking up dirt, gasping for air through hiccups of blood. If Mildred followed her, she didn’t know. The world didn’t exist for Rain, in that it was melting away around her like a candle. Noise didn’t exist in that world. Her voice was gone. She could not cry out for help, or scream, or weep. But she wasn’t going to give up. \nShe ran and ran, for what felt like days. In reality, she ran eight miles, barefoot, and then collapsed from the Floridian heat. A family were on their way to the Everglade National Park, when they found Rain convulsing in the ditch. They took her to the hospital where she was given fluids, and doctors ran toxicology reports on whatever substance she had ingested at the Green Temple. \n“We can’t seem to pinpoint exactly what you were given.” The doctor sat on a rolling chair and flipped through some papers. Rain’s voice had not returned, so she had to communicate through writing. \nThey poisoned us, she wrote on a pad and handed it to the doctor. \nHe frowned and shook his head. “The police can’t find a Green Temple retreat anywhere on that road. That is all state property.” \nRain’s stomach sank. Where had she gone? Where was she now? Nothing made sense for her. \n“You are still unwell, and we aren’t sure if your voice will ever come back. Whatever you ingested, well, it fried your vocal cords.” \nHm, fitting. I actually did leave with a quieted voice. \n“Is there anyone we can call? A parent? A sibling?” \nRain frowned, but nodded, and jotted down both her parent’s cell phone numbers. \nThe doctor gave Rain a sad smile, and then folded the note and put it in his pocket. “I will have my staff try and contact them for you.” \nRain gave the doctor a nod of gratitude, and then fell back onto her pillows. Her voice was gone, and she knew deep down in her gut that it wasn’t coming back. But, she knew that the Green Temple existed, and Arabella was still there. Dead or alive. Either way, Rain was determined to find her." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Returning Home\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1667\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character on the hunt to solve a mystery who uses their local library (or librarian) as a source of information." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Returning Home\nPeople will think I’m crazy if I tell them what I am about to do. That would even include my husband. He understands a lot about me, but not in matters such as this. One day – maybe soon, he will.\nThe house we are thinking of buying is just what we want in so many ways. It’s old enough to be classy, but not so old that it needs or will soon need repairs done. It’s in the countryside, near town, so we won’t feel crowded like in the apartment we live in now, but still be close to town to easily go to see movies, buying groceries, and visiting family. There is a small, wooded area in the backyard, with bird houses already set up in the branches. It is just this one creepy element that I am worried about. Without resolving it, I don’t want to buy the house.\nSo I’m going to go to the library to do some research in old newspapers. What I am thinking about maybe took place in the sixties, maybe a little later.\nThe couple who are selling the house are nice enough, but there is a way about them that makes you feel like they are hiding something. I think it relates to what I think that I have seen at the very end of their backyard, almost in the woods. Both times that we were there I saw it, or perhaps ‘them’ would be a better word to use. The second time I was looking for them.\nAt the Library\nAt the library they have copies of all the front pages of the papers back about 60 years. I hope that what I’m looking for, and will recognize when I see them….again…would be front page news. Not much happens in this town. I should know as I grew up here. Opening a new bakery is sometimes considered front page news.\nAs I arrive at the library, the librarian, who went to school with me, asks me if I need any help. I oblige by telling her that I need to see newspapers from the sixties, perhaps the seventies.\nShe asks me if there is anything in particular that I am looking for. I can’t tell her the truth—too strange, she would tell our former classmates--although I would like to. I pause for time, and tell her that I am writing a piece in creative non-fiction that I am submitting to a contest, and a little local history could help me out. I tell her that “I am fishing for something.” In part that is true\nWhat I saw\nWhen we first went to visit the house I was as excited about the backyard as I was about the house itself. We went there after work, so the sun was sinking, and my ability to see clearly was reduced somewhat. Still, I saw them. At the very back of the yard they appeared in a kind of dull glow. They were two children, by their height looking like they were less than ten years old, like our kids. Their hair was very dark, and long. Their faces and naked arms were a light brown in colour. In short, I saw them as being Indigenous children, not the biological offspring of the couple who owned the house.\nOne of my first thoughts, owing to an Indigenous History course I had taken at night school a short time ago, was that these were images of children who had been taken away from their parents in what was known as The Sixties Scoop. In that decade, and later, provincial and federal authorities snatched (that the teacher used) many Indigenous children were ‘snatched’ from their parents, their broader family, their reserve, and sold to white people. Often they were transported out of the country and adopted in the United States. The results were often disastrous.\nCould these images be of such children? But why was I seeing them? The second time we went there, I went straight to where I had seen the children. This time it was a Saturday, so we went there during the day, when it was much lighter. I thought that I might have been hallucinating in the semi-dark, not a new experience for me.\n I wasn’t. There they were again, appearing with the same dull glow, then disappearing.\nBack at the Library\nBack at the library I started looking at the local newspaper from 1960. For several hours, as I proceeded forward in time, I search but had no luck. There were a lot of pictures of mayors and councillors, and new businesses openings, including a few bakeries, but nothing on any Indigenous children. Maybe this was a bad strategy.\nThen, in 1968, I saw something. The names and pictures of the couple who owned the house were on the front page. They reported that the two “Indian kids” that they had adopted had disappeared. Had anyone seen them? They said that the kids were originally from a reserve many miles away, and has been taken from their biological family, as a local welfare agency had deemed the children ‘under-housed’ where they lived.. Perhaps they had tried to return there was the theory presented, without any investigation. Nothing appeared that related to this story in the rest of the papers I read for that year.\nAs I got up to leave the library, my former classmate asked me whether I had found an idea for a story. I told her that I had, the disappearance of two children, that appeared never to have been found. “So it probably won’t be a happy story then,” was all that she said in reply. I didn’t say anything more, just smiled mindlessly. \nGoing Back to the Couple\nSo what should I do now? Should I ask the couple who owned the house what happened to the Indigenous children? That would just be reminding them of a tragedy in their lives, a time that they would not be happy to bring back to mind. Should I tell them about the visions? They might then think that I am crazy, and not to be trusted to pay for their house.\nI came up with a middle-of-the-road strategy. The next time we went to their house, I indicated to the owners that we (I had convinced my husband) were interested in the house, but that I wanted to know the history of the backyard, as there was “just something about it” that fascinated me.\nSo the woman took me through the backyard, telling stories about when some of the trees and bushes were planted, and how quickly they had grown. Then when we got to the very back of the yard, I saw the images of the children again. When I turned to face the woman, I noticed that she had the look of being startled, just like the look I imagined that I had.\nThis was not as surprising as the question that she then asked me, “So you have seen them too?” I could only reply with the nodding of my head. Then I felt I could tell her of my search in the library. There was a silence. Then she looked directly into my eyes, searching for trust..\n“Promise that you will not say a word about this to anyone in town”. Like I used to do when I was a child, I said that I would, and crossed my heart.\nShe told a sad story with tears in her eyes. “We were just coming back from a party. Fred and I had a little, actually a lot too much to drink. He likes to back into the driveway. He went too fast, and didn’t look carefully behind him. The children had come out of the house to greet us, and he struck both of them, killing them instantly.\nHe couldn’t afford to lose his license, as he was a truck driver, so we made up the story of the disappearing children, which everyone bought, because the ways of Indian children were a mystery to them. We buried the two of them in the back, where you and I both have seen their images. I haven’t in years.\n Now it was my turn to be silent for a while. Then I thought to say “We are going to buy the house. Do you know the name of the reserve that they came from?” She nodded her head, and named it slowly. “Do you know their original family names?” Again, another nod, more slowly articulated words.\n“We are going to call their council office, and ask them to come here and maybe return their children to their community. Or at least hold a ceremony here. I will not tell them how the two children died. I will say that I do not know.”\n That night I told the whole story to my husband. He agreed with my plans.\nReturning the Children\nA week later, after we had bought the house, and moved into it, members of the children’s family, including some Elders, came to our new home. With appropriate prayers they unearthed and transferred the bones of the children to small coffins. When an Elder, who was their aunt, asked us how we discovered the body, I first said, “I went to the library, and saw their pictures in an old newspaper.” She tilted her head in question. Then I told her of my visions. She smiled and took hold of my hand, and said, “They chose you to help them to return.” We drove back with them to their community, following the pick-up truck that carried the bodies. We stayed in their reserve for a night, and attended the reburial. The Elder said first in her language, then, for us, in English, “They have returned home. With help.” With the last two words, she turned and faced us, lifted her right hand, and turned it palm up." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: I Remember The Day When They Took Me Away...\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 560\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the narrator or a character saying “I remember…”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Tell us another story!\" Cindy and Lewis asked their grandfather, once again. \nIt was a night like any other night, the moon bright and the stars glowing against the dark sky. They sat up in Cindy's bedroom, the children on the pink-sheeted bed and Grandfather in the comfy hanging chair. Every night they would sit down and listen to his adventures.\n \"I think I've run out of happy stories. All that I still remember that I haven't told you yet are sad. Some of my stories are not quite ready for you to hear yet.\"\n Every night he told his tales of living before the Europeans came to Canada. Before the whites took over. He lived peacefully with the others of his tribe, uninterrupted and happy. But that was before. And all the stories left were of after. \n \"Please, Grandpa!\" The children's begging eyes were too hard to resist. \n \"All right. But be warned, it's much different from the others.\"\nWere his grandchildren ready? Oh well, too late to disappoint them. He began telling them his story, the way he always did. I remember... \n \"I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was the middle of the winter, the sun was warm for once and the wind whistled in my ears. My parents had 3 children, me and my two younger sisters, Dyani and Catori.\" \n \"Those are nice names.\" Said Lewis. Do they have meanings, like yours?\n \"Yes, my name - Animkii - means thunder. Dyani means deer and Catori means spirit. Very nice names, we were all quite proud of them.\"\n \"Lewis,\" Cindy spoke sternly, \"Don't interrupt again. Grandfather needs to tell his story.\" \n \"Yes. Well, that day, we were all playing outside together when someone from the government came to our camp. They asked to see our parents and they had a lengthy discussion before our parents spoke to me and my sisters.\n \"They said, 'Animkii, you and your sisters are going to school.'\"\n \"What's so sad about going to school?\" Lewis asked.\n \"Hush, Lewis,\" Cindy told him. \"Grandfather's not done his story yet.\"\n \"They took us to the school and made us change into scratchy, uncomfortable clothes very different from the ones we were used to. They caused us to lose our language and religion, and now I can only speak English. Me, Dyani, and Catori were separated. We only saw each other during church, where we were punished if we talked.Then one day, Dyani didn't show up to church, and only Catori was there. She had died from this torturous place. We came back home and things were different. Me and Catori could only communicate well with each other, because we'd lost our native language. We'd grown accustomed to the new things we'd been taught and forgotten our traditions. Yet worst of all, we knew everyone thought it should've been us instead of Catori. I still suffer greatly from the loss and the terrible flashbacks of things that happened at the school.\"\n He looked over at the children. Lewis was asleep, Cindy was crying. He wanted to comfort her but didn't know how. He couldn't say, 'It's okay.' Because it wasn't. He couldn't say that he was fine now, because he wasn't. That school had ruined hundreds of lives, including his. It had completely destroyed him, and he would never, ever be the same again." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Devil of Fallujah\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2151\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which an important message is cut off, leaving characters to wonder or puzzle out what was left unsaid." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Sergeant handed the folded American flag to my mother. His stoic ridged face showed no emotion as he stared into the face of the sobbing woman breaking down in front of him. Even though he was very fond of my father, and considered him a friend, he couldn’t let his feeling of loss interfere with his sacred duty. He rose up from his knee and bowed his head towards her arms. Slowly raising his knife-like hand to his brow, he delivered a perfect salute to our flag. Another marine immediately began to play Reveille through his bugle. My heart sank as mother’s sobbing cut through the blaring solemn song. I looked across to the seat next to her and saw my little brother’s sorrowful gaze fixated on the headstone. It read, “William J. Russo, Major, US Marine Corps”.\nMy father was an incredible man. I was truly blessed by his unwavering love and loyalty to my family and I. Although the military took him away for long periods of time from us, whenever he was home, his only mission was to spend time with my mother, brother and I. At least that was before he came home from Iraq last year. But my father’s entire being seemed to change. There were no more family trips or vacations. He spent most of his time in his office except for night time. I was lucky that the memories of my father were mostly before his PTSD and before his downward spiral that would lead him to take his own life.\nFor the weeks to come, time moved very slowly. I would find myself going through old photo albums with my mother and laughing and smiling at the memories, only to be brought back to reality when she would begin to choke up and cry into my arms. My little brother’s presence was almost non existent. He looked up to my father more than I did if you could believe it. Most of his time was spent in his room grieving in his own way. I tried hard to give him his space but would begin arguing with him when he wasn’t around enough for our mother. This lead us further apart from each other. Soon there would be days where we wouldn’t even talk to each other. Worst of all, I could see how much it was hurting my mother. Not long after, the photo albums went away and then his personal belongings. One day my mother asked me to help bring up some of his tools into his office. She was putting all his personal belongings up there in piles and boxes and soon it became a hoarders dream.\nHis office was always a room in the house my brother and I weren’t allowed to play in when we were younger. But when he came back from Iraq, it was strictly off limits. Some nights I would wake up and creep from my bedroom into the hallway to try and find out what exactly he was doing in there. I would tip toe over and put my ear against the door and listen to see if I could hear anything. Most of the time it was just silence. But I could tell his T.V. was on and would hear him take out and replace the VHS tapes over and over again. One night though, a little while back, I overheard him start to cry. I never asked him why, as it would seem suspicious I was listening in on him. Every time I went back into that room to put away another box or pile of clothes, I would look at his old T.V. and wonder what exactly he use to do in here on those late nights. Then I remembered.\nShortly after he died, his best friend James who served with him in Iraq came over one night to have dinner with us. He seemed very anxious and nervous. It was like he was scared to be here. He finished his dinner pretty quickly and asked my mother if it would be okay if he could go into my father’s office. He said he wanted to take a look at his awards and plaques so that he could write up a good citation on his military career for the base to display in his memory. We didn’t think very much of it and of course she said that it was fine. We were still eating when he came back downstairs with a big cardboard box in his hands. When my mother asked him what was in the box he said it was just some old papers and documents that would be better off back at base. Before she could start to question him, he was heading to the door saying he had to get back to his wife and thanked her for dinner. It was rather strange and upsetting for us to see our fathers best friend, someone we considered family, just leave us like that in our time of grieving. Stranger though was that as he was leaving, I noticed on the side of the box written in sharpie said, “Iraq Tapes”.\nI began to wonder if those were the VHS tapes that he would watch in his office alone, and why James would take them. My curiosity overtook me and I would soon find myself looking throughout his office, in and around all his belongings looking for an answer. The most compelling stuff I found were old dusty uniforms and countless military coins, but no VHS tapes. I called James one day hoping to find out exactly what those tapes were. “I’m sorry buddy,” he said, “but I don’t recall Will talking about any tapes he use to watch.” He quickly tried to change the subject with questions like how my mother and little brother were doing. After hanging up I knew for sure he had the tapes. But how cloud I ever get my hands on them?\nFrustrated, I went back up into my father’s office and sat in his big leather desk chair. I swirled around a few times and my gaze kept going towards the T.V. To my surprise, I noticed that the entry flap on the VHS player wasn’t flush with the rest of the box. I quickly stumbled over to it for a closer look. The flap was leaning inwards and I could see there was a tape already inside the device. I pushed the flap against the tape more and the player automatically ejected the tape. The label read, “Fallujah, April 10th, 2004”. James must have taken all of the other tapes and left this one, not having checked the player. I turned on the T.V. and pushed the tape back into the player. It was already rewound to the beginning and began playing immediately.\nThe footage began with a group of marines moving slowly through an Iraqi city with their rifles up scanning their surroundings. Although I wasn’t interested in the military and had no intention of joining, I knew this was footage of the battle of Fallujah, a brutal month long campaign to capture insurgents in the city responsible for killing American contractors. I watched as the marines checked their corners and carefully maneuvered around each other. Even with the brutal video quality, I could make out that James was one of the marines in the front of the squad of men.\nJames stopped in front of an entrance to an alleyway and waited as the rest of the marines stacked up behind him on the wall. The marine behind him squeezed his shoulder. I realized that man was my father. They both slowly turned the corner together and started down the alleyway. Maneuvering flawlessly with tight precision, they approached the first door on their left and stacked up again. The marine in the back ran up to the front and checked the sides of the door for wires or explosive devices. Once he cleared it, he gave a nod to James and kicked the door in.\nThe marines flooded into the room screaming and yelling “get down!” When the camera operator entered, there were two men with their hands behind their heads, laying face down on their dirt floor. Two marines had their guns drawn on the men while the rest of the marines cleared the other rooms. “Weapon cache!” one of them yelled from the other room. The camera operator ran towards the commotion. A large wooden door lay on the ground with a rusty padlock. The men in custody started screaming at the marines. Although I couldn’t make out what they were saying, they sounded terrified, as if they were pleading with them not to open it. “Shut up!” James yelled. “Will, we got to cut through this”, he reported to my father. My father turned towards another marine who was carrying large bolt cutters in his pack. After pulling them out, my father quickly broke the lock. James flew open the door and immediately all the marines covered their faces. There must have been a putrid smell of some kind because they started coughing as if they were about to vomit. My first thought was they must have come across a dead body or bodies. When they regained their composure, the camera operator approached the entry in the ground. What lay ahead of them was a stairway down into pure darkness. “Lets go”, my father ordered, and he lead them down the stairs into the darkness.\nThe camera switched to a night vision setting and the sparkly green contrast flashed a few times before revealing a long hallway at the bottom of the stairs. My father, followed by James and the camera operator, slowly made their way down what seemed to be an endless labyrinth. The corridor started getting wider and suddenly hundreds of human skulls appeared on the outlining the walls. “What the fuck is this?” James said out loud. I watched as the nightmare that my father and his best friend stumbled into sent a bloodcurdling surge throughout my body. Candles started popping into view. At first only a few but then many more, which lit up the maze enough for the camera operator to turn off the night vision setting. They were stumbled upon a large room. Splattered on the walls were diabolical paintings of monstrous beings feeding on humans. These beasts sported large wings of dark gray skin, accenting the white of their venomous teeth. On the back wall sat a large wooden box surrounded by more candles. James went up to the box and gave a horrifying look towards my fathers ghastly face. But even still, he nodded at James to open it. Both of them grabbed a side of the box and slid the lid away. It crashed onto the ground behind it. Kicking up sand and dust about the room. “Oh my God”, James shuddered as the words seemed to barely make it out of him. Inside of the box were padded sides made of purple velvet. A large pillow of the same hue lay at one end with an imprint in the middle as if someone's head was recently laying on it. “What is this?” The camera operator asked terrified. He panned towards my father who was staring at the wall in front of them. He was moving his mouth silently, as to be reading something. The camera operator slowly turned the camera toward the wall. In large sloppy red writing was a message in Arabic. I quickly grabbed the T.V. remote and paused the video. It flickered on the message. I ran behind his desk to the computer and quickly typed in Google Translate. I took Arabic in high school as an elective and knew most of the letters but not the words. After rewriting the message and typing it in the translator, it gave me a result that read, “For the evil that lay beneath, may we halt it’s devastation with our sacrifice of…” before I could finish the translated message, the screen of the computer went black.\n“Shit!” I exclaimed. I looked back at the T.V. The screen was also black. I didn’t turn the T.V. off, I thought. Suddenly, the fan in the ceiling stopped spinning. Then, one by one, the decorative light bulbs beneath it burst into pieces. I fumbled back in my chair almost falling to the ground. The world around me went silent. The pumping of my racing heart beat was all I could hear. Then I heard a long creak of wood coming from somewhere in the hallway. I looked over the desk to the open doorway. A long shadow began to rise from one side of the door jamb to the other. Another creak. Then another. Holding my breath, terror overtook me as the shadow began to grow wings." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Murder on My Mind\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1620\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a silent retreat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I have one goal, one purpose, one destiny.\n Someone has to die. And it’s going to happen today.\nEvents of the past several days have stirred a slumbering malevolence in my soul that I never knew was there. Now, my inner Eldrich Horror has awakened and it desperately needs to feed.\nThrough forced illumination and reflection, my undeniable path is now crystal clear to me.\nI’m going to kill someone. I’m just not sure who yet.\nThere are so many options, so many unsuspecting targets ripe for the picking. They’re all in front of me, moving through their placid days in blissful oblivion with sappy, serene smiles plastered on their faces.\nThey make me sick.\nI want them dead. Every single one. They all deserve it.\nBut there’s only time and opportunity for one. And the only semblance of pleasure I get out of this endless nightmare I’m living in is knowing that I get to choose.\nIt might be “Jenny,” that little blonde woman who bounces when she walks, almost like she has springs attached to the bottoms of her freakishly small feet. The rhythm of her bob-bob-bobbing makes her ponytail swish behind her like a vapid puppy trailing blindly after its master. I don’t even think she realizes it.\nBob. Bob. Bob.\nBounce. Bounce. Bounce.\nSwish. Swish. Swish.\nEvery. Damn. Where. She. Goes.\nWe’ve never uttered a single word to one another, but I loathe her voice. Oh, I don’t need to hear it to know what it sounds like. It oozes from her pores like an acid, melting my eardrums and searing my sanity.\nHer voice has that cheerleader-esque quality to it, all sharp and high and peppy and LOUD, projected with unbridled enthusiasm in a constant, rapid-fire manner in sentencesthatallruntogetherwhileshedronesnonstop until you just want to shove a gasoline-soaked rag in her mouth and set it on fire to get her to shut the hell up!\nYeah, she definitely needs to die.\nThen there’s “Arnold,” or “Aah-Nod,” as I think of him. Big, hulking guy with no neck, bronzed skin, and bulging biceps that are on the verge of tearing their way through the sleeves of his stark-white T-shirts. He buys them in bulk, I’m sure of it. In the past week and a half, I’ve never seen him wear anything else.\nHe sees me watching and raises one of those tree-trunk limbs in greeting. I’m convinced there’s magic woven into the fabric of those shirts, because no material on Earth is capable of resisting the strain of those snaky-veined pecs that ripple across his chest when he waves at me. How much does that guy bench anyway?\nInternally, I hear his thick Austrian accent (I mean, what other kind would he have?) asking me to join him for a strenuous workout to “pump *clap* you up” and release some much-needed endorphins into my decaying psyche. It must be true what they say about endorphin rushes because “Aah-Nod” is quite possibly the happiest man I’ve ever met. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing, he’s always flashing a toothy grin so wide that it blinds you if it catches the light.\nHe’ll probably keep smiling the entire time I’m punching those pearly white teeth so far down his throat he chokes to death.\nI tingle at the thought.\nI could definitely do that.\nOr, I could go for the two-for-one special of “Charles” and “Diana,” the better-than-everyone-else aristocrats with the slick British accents (that one’s a no-brainer) and their noses lofted so high in the air they’d drown if it ever rained. They traipse in here like royalty with their old money that bought their way into this hellish compound, some obscenely sizeable donation to implement “sensory spiritual cleansing” into the curriculum.\nDon’t even ask me what that means, because I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you even if I knew. From what I can gather, it’s just a bunch of hoodoo-voodoo nonsense designed to detoxify chakras or awaken one’s inner child or some such bull-butter that makes me want to rip out my rotted soul and use it like a garrote to strangle the both of them.\nI almost smile at the mental images of red-tinged saliva bubbling over the corners of their perpetually cheerful grins as their faces turn a lovely shade of blue and their heads explode in a shower of blood and gray matter.\nAlmost.\nBut I’ll save my inevitable last-laugh smirkfest for Dick – yes, that’s actually his real name, although it’s also as good a description of his personality as anything I could drum up on my own.\nThis circus clown is the reason I’m in this predicament, contemplating the most brutally satisfying way I can to thank him for his bullshi-caca suggestion that I follow him on this ridiculous quest for mindfulness and inner peace.\nTwelve days ago, he approaches me with his thick, nasaly Bronx dialect (that I’ve heard a million times and it always makes me cringe when he starts off with “Yo, bro …”).\nBefore I can stop him, Dick launches into some lengthy spiel about me joining him in a quest of meditation and communing with nature and cleaning out the dark cobwebs lurking in my brain to let the light shine in or some such hippy-dippy crap that said brain barely has time to register.\nThat day, when I was still allowed to speak to him, I rebuff his ridiculous offer with a polite, “No, thank you. I’m going to have to pass.”\nBut Dick has never let a perfectly good “no” stop him.\n“It’ll be good for ya, ya know?”\n“I appreciate it, but, no.”\n“Don’t knock it till ya try it.”\n“Still no. But, you go right ahead. Let me know how it turns out.”\n“A lot of my friends have done it. They’re changed men. For the betta.”\n“I’m happy with myself the way I am. I happen to like the inner me. Go away.”\n“But you haven’t even seen the brochure. Here. Take a look.”\nAnd before I can give him my best, “If you don’t get out of my face, I’m going to beat your face in,” he grabs my hand with his meathook and thrusts this crumpled, tri-fold pamphlet into it, refusing to let go until I “Just give it a once-over. You’ll see.”\nCalling forth all the self-control in my body to keep from grinding his face into the concrete sidewalk where we’re standing, I suck in a deep breath and turn the leaflet over. The front cover shows a picture of rolling hills and green trees and a sunset-filled sky beneath the words “Surrender Yourself to the Silence.”\nFor some reason that I still can’t fathom, I open it. It’s even worse on the inside.\n“Leave behind the chaos of the outside world and join us for two weeks of personal reflection in this tranquil mountain complex where participants channel their thoughts and calm their souls as they travel the path towards spiritual enlightenment and illumination, all wrapped in the comfort of blissful silence.”\n“See, it looks nice, don’t it?” Dick says. “Real peaceful-like and everything. You’re gonna love it. I already signed us up. We leave first thing in the morning. I’ll be ’round to pick you up at 7.”\nAnd then he’s off.\nAnd then it’s morning.\nAnd, somehow, I find myself in his rusty old beater headed towards Camp Mystic Soul Sucker something-or-other where, for 11 days, I’m surrounded by bare-footed bohemians wearing tunics and flowy pants (and “Ah-Nod” in his tight, tiny tees) walking aura-deep through the wilderness, enthusiastically taking part in “mindful meditation,” “hallowed soul yoga,” “Tibetan throat humming,” and the “Royals’” sensitivity spirit showers – all in bone-dead, mind-numbing silence.\nSince. Day. One.\nI watch them pray. I watch them fast. I watch them twist their bodies into inhuman pretzel-like positions while reaching for the “light” I guess they thought would shine out of the butts they thrust high into the air.\nAnd through it all ... Every. Single. One. Of. Them. Smiles.\nAnd they never stop.\nAnd all I want to do is to rip those twisted lips right off their stupid faces and turn them back into the cannibalistic carnivores they are truly meant to be.\nMy “task” at this silent retreat is to reach deep inside myself and “find my higher purpose.” It’s all I’ve thought about since I arrived and was stripped of my phone, my voice, and my dignity.\nWell, I have discovered it all right. My “purpose” is to rid the world of these drum-beating, kale-eating freaks so that no one ever has to endure torment like this in the name of friendship.\nAnd, the instant they allow us to speak again, the first person I’m going to find is Dick.\nMy new \"enlightenment\" is his fault, after all.\nI won’t actually say anything to him. I think I'm getting the hang of this silence thing. I’ll just turn on the smile I’ve been saving up and shove this damnable brochure right down his gullet and shred his vocal cords so that he never utters another insane suggestion to anyone again. Ever.\nHe’ll get the message loud and clear as he bleeds out onto the earth that he's so eager to become \"one\" with.\nI finally spot Dick over by the “PositiviTree” where we tack little notes of affirmation for each other. I mold the camp leaflet into a tight cylinder and twist the end to the sharpest point possible. He notices me and gives me a nod and thumbs-up, beaming from ear to ear. I nod back and start walking his way.\nHe has absolutely no idea what’s coming\nYeah, I’ve been “illumed” all 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 Warrior\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2274\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who doesn’t want to go to sleep." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "NOTE: This story and the characters in it are fictional. As are their thoughts, and their findings. HOWEVER, the threats to indigenous land by the Brazilian government are very much real. As is the suffering of the Awá people and the suffering of other indigenous peoples of the Amazon at the hands of illegal loggers.\n\n\nNight had fallen on the Amazon Rainforest.\n\nIn a small clearing two days away from the nearest city, a seventeen-year old boy lay awake, staring up at the starry sky above. The other inhabitants of the clearing - sixty of them, the last of their once-thriving community - were all asleep.\n\nThat was what the boy had been waiting for.\n\nThe boy's name was Ubirajara - in his language, it meant lord of the spear. He had earned that name - he was the best and only warrior left in his tribe. Which was why he could not sleep now. He had to take action.\n\nThe boy remembered vividly the events of the last day. He had overheard the council of his elders speak...he had been horrified by their words. The news they bore should have been expected - yet it had still taken him by surprise. He remembered what his father had told him, once he had found him eavesdropping in the bushes. Jara, the old man had said. Do not take rash action. Rash action begets consequences. Jara had wanted to scream back.\n\nAnd inaction brings the deaths of all of us!\n\nNow under the cover of darkness, the boy named Jara stood up and slunk through the shadows...making his way through the dusk. His tribe was asleep, yet the forest was still wide awake. The great river still gurgled as its waters crashed along its bank; the wind whistled as it brought a chill to the cool night air. The scurrying of small animals like the kinkajou brought an unlikely smile to the boy's face...but the prowling of larger animals, such as the black caiman and the ever-present jaguar, caused him to grip the javelin in his hand tighter. Still, Jara walked on, picking up his pace to quickly travel the six-kilometer distance, stopping only once he heard voices in the man-made clearing.\n\nThere they were.\n\nJara's well-trained eyes spotted the figures in the darkness - burly men wearing camouflage outfits, clutching AR-15s in their arms.\n\n\"Tudo isso precisa ser limpo pela manhã.\", one man spoke, giving commands to the others in rough Portuguese. Jara spoke little of their language - his tribe still preserved their culture over that of the invaders - but he nevertheless understood what they were saying. They want the whole area cleared by morning.\n\nThey have been taking our land for centuries, Jara knew.\n\nJara's tribe was the last of what remained of the Awá people - a people of the Amazon Rainforest. Since the 19th century, European settlers had encroached on and destroyed Awá land. In the 21st century, things were no better. Illegal loggers - companies that violated laws in protection of biodiversity and indigenous rights - had taken more and more land over the years. Those who tried to stop them faced violence. Jara's blood boiled as he remembered the stories...the loggers had killed Awá people as young as eight.\n\nJara moved quickly through the darkness, circling in on the loggers. His lack of a plan now came to him...what could he do against men armed like soldiers? He wanted badly to kill them...to make them pay after all the suffering they had caused him...but somehow he held back. The fear and pain of taking a human life stopped him. Jara looked at the figures - the loggers were silent now. As long as he remained hidden, he had time to think. Time to decide what action to take.\n\nYet, just as Jara had began to process his situation, he felt the click of an automatic weapon as a rifle's searchlight illuminated his back.\n\n\n\n\n\n\"Mãos no ar.\", spoke a pale, rugged man with a V-shaped scar on his face, as he cradled the rifle in his arms. Put your hands in the air.\n\nVictor Madureira was a logger by name...but an assassin by nature. It was what his company hired him to do. Protect their secrets. Take out those who opposed them.\n\n\"Largue sua arma.\", Madureira commanded, and the boy in front of him fearfully placed the spear he held on the ground. Drop your weapon.\n\nMadureira felt a tingling in his body as he cocked his weapon...a tingling he always felt before taking a life. It was that sadism...along with his undying loyalty...that had made him such a valuable asset to his employers. His willingness to go any lengths to get what was asked of him was what had allowed him to be tasked with guard of his company's greatest weakness. Secrets that could destroy them if they were ever leaked...\n\n\"You'll go to hell for this.\", the boy before Madureira spoke in broken Portuguese, his voice shaking with anger.\n\n\"You sound like someone I killed once.\", Madureira sneered. \"You look like her too...but you should know that I had her fed to crocodiles...\"\n\n\"You're a monster.\", the boy spat. \"All of you are. You take our land, you kill our people. All for your money.\"\n\n\"Money makes the world go round, my child.\", Madureira drawled. He was growing tired of this conversation...there was an air to this boy that he did not like...\n\n\"You'll pay sooner than you think.\", the boy insisted. \"Look.\"\n\nBehind him, where the boy pointed, the bushes rustled with movement; Madureira turned quickly to the source, pulling his gun away from the child. A pig-like mammal emerged from the greenery, and Madureira cursed. A tapir.\n\nMadureira quickly turned back to his captive, but it was too late. The boy had already lunged for his spear, and the weapon slashed across Madureira's shins. The assassin crumpled to his knees, and the boy sprinted away, disappearing into the bushes. Despite the fiery pain in his leg, Madureira excitement rushing through him. He had not chased a victim that had fought back in a long time.\n\nThis would be fun.\n\n\n\n\n\nJara sprinted through the bushes, followed after only a few seconds by a beam of concentrated light and a series of indiscriminate gunshots. The scarred logger could fire his gun as many times as he wanted - after all, no one was nearly close enough to hear him. Bullets cut through the trees and bushes around him as Jara ran, but he pumped his legs as fast as he could to stay under cover from the fire. Jara knew where he was going - he knew this jungle far better than any logger. Weaving through the trees, careful to avoid the roots and vines on the ground, Jara could run faster than his pursuer could - giving him time to gain the element of surprise.\n\nReaching a tree with low-hanging branches, Jara quickly climbed, pulling himself up to the canopy. The gunshots grew nearer, and the searchlight beam came into view. Jara waited, watching as the assassin stepped directly under him - then, he leapt into action.\n\nSpringing from his branch, Jara landed onto the scarred logger from above knocking him to the ground. The rifle flew out of the man's hands, and Jara landed a blow to the logger's jaw. Standing up quickly, he positioned his spear over the assassin's face, daring the man to move. Part of him wanted to kill the logger where he lay...but first, there was something he needed to know. Something the man had said...\n\n\"The woman you mentioned.\", Jara snarled, the anger and anticipation in his voice almost drowned out by a sudden rushing of water. They were near a cliff...where the Amazon River took a twenty-foot drop as a waterfall. \"The one that you fed to the crocodiles. What was her name?\"\n\nThe assassin's mouth twisted into a malicious grin. \"So you do know her...I knew you looked familiar...\"\n\n\"Tell me.\", Jara growled, much louder now. \"Who was she?\"\n\n\"You know her, then....how heroic you are, avenging a death-\"\n\n\"WHO WAS SHE?\", Jara roared.\n\n\"The chief of the Awá tribe.\", the assassin breathed.\n\nAnd suddenly, rage filled Jara unlike any other. He was an eight-year-old boy once again...his mother leaving to negotiate with the loggers who were invading their hime. She had never returned...and only her jewelry had been found, washed up by the side of the river. His mother...the chief of the Awá tribe. His mother...murdered by the monster who lay inches from his spear's tip.\n\nLetting out a yell, Jara plunged his javelin down, but missed. In his moment of rage, he had let the assassin had gained the upper hand. Jara felt himself forced backward by powerful arms as the man stood up...his grip on his spear loosened, and his weapon clattered to the ground. The logger grabbed him now, lifting him into the air and carrying him towards the cliff's edge. The assassin stopped near the waterfall, hoisting the struggling Jara onto his hulking shoulders.\n\n\"Like mother, like son, I suppose...\", the logger drawled, as Jara glimpsed the river at the bottom of the waterfall. Greenish-black scales moved through the water...crocodiles...\n\n\n\n\n\nVictor Madureira laughed as he stood at the edge of the cliff, holding the struggling Awá boy in his arms, preparing to heave him into the frothing waters. Like all his victims, the boy's efforts at fighting had been futile. The tribes of the Amazon had been fighting his company for years...yet each time, they failed. Each time, he only took more of their land...each time, he only watched as his company's profits grew...\n\n\"JARA!\"\n\nMadureira whipped around to see an Awá man standing only feet away from him, a pistol in his hand. The boy on his shoulders yelled back.\n\n\"Father!\"\n\nAt the boy's sudden increase of struggle, Madureira felt his top-heavy body tilt backwards. He stumbled to remain on his feet, but he was slipping. The Awá man dropped his pistol and ran forwards, his hands outstretched - but he was too far away. The boy still on his back, Madureira reeled over the cliff's edge, letting out a guttural yell as he fell towards the waterfall...\n\n\n\n\n\nJara felt the cool water wash over him...he was plunged into darkness, but surfaced to take a breath...he could feel the logger somewhere beside him, but he did not care...he was more concerned with what was in front of him...\n\n\"Jara!\"\n\nJara barely heard his father's yells as he reached the waterfall's edge...the current carried him towards the twenty foot drop...his muscles too tired to resist...\n\n\n\n\n\nMadureira screamed as the huge force of the water brought him crashing to the ground...but as the current sweeping him grew slower, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had survived the waterfall.\n\nA flicker of green suddenly appeared in the water around him, and Madureira froze. No. He could not face such a terrible fate. But icy-cold terror flooded the assassin as he saw it...a pair of green eyes atop a V-shaped snout...\n\nMadureira had never believed in karma as long as he had lived. Now, it seemed, he was reaping the seeds he had sewn.\n\n\n\n\n\n\"Son!\"\n\nHe was dry now...there was ground under his feet...but his father's yells still seemed a world away to Jara. Every muscle in his body ached...he was not sure whether the world was coming back to him or slipping away...\n\nAt the very least, Jara now knew where he was. The current had swept him onto the river's bank. His swirling vision located a silver disc on the rocks...it had come from the logger, no doubt. Jara pocketed it.\n\nBut as he did so, he could feel the swirling colors around him beginning to dim. His people believed in the afterlife...so as Jara lay on the rocks, he prayed. He prayed that he would see his mother again...\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFive days later, a man named Charles Gillman - a Reuters reporter - stood in the Amazon, two days away from the nearest city. One thought filled his mind.\n\nThis was one heck of a story.\n\nHe had gone to the Awá settlement for a follow-up story after a 2019 interview of the tribe's members and activists. What he had found - news of a conflict with an illegal logging company - a company that seemed to hire literal assassins.\n\nGillman had spoke with a seventeen-year-old named Ubirajara, better known to his community as just Jara. The boy had told him that a logger-slash-mercenary had attacked him...had caused him to plummet down a twenty-foot waterfall. The fall had nearly cost Jara his life - but that was not all. Jara had recovered a flash drive from the assassin. Gillman had looked at its contents...and the results had astonished him.\n\nRecords of bribery, illegal logging on indigenous land, and even funds to pay for killings of tribal activists and leaders, had been listed in rows and rows of data tables. All of it could be tied to the logging company the assassin had been part of - as well as several other complicit organizations. It was enough to take the company down for good.\n\nAs he had sat down with the Awá members, Gillman had been inspired. They had gone through so much. Yet when they spoke, it was with pride. With resilience. With joy, that one of their children had protected their land. It had made him realize something.\n\nThere would always be trouble. Always be danger and oppression to fight against.\n\nThere would also always be warriors who fought that fight." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Home of the Brave\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1279\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a casual act of bravery." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A mom’s job is never truly finished—Elise knew this instinctively when her son was born. For at least the hundredth time, she sat next to his bed in that chair mending his quilt. There was no way of knowing, the day she bought it at a flea market, that it would become her son’s most valued possession. \n\nTo call it a quilt stretched the definition as it was nothing more than a thousand pieces of oddly shaped swatches stitched together, layer after layer, until the whole of it was thick enough to hold in the warmth of a small boy's body as he drifted off to sleep. The person who pieced together this labor of love must have spent countless hours shaping the useless remnants into a usable blanket. Elise felt it was her duty to repair the inevitable rips as an homage to the unknown creator and as a manifestation of her adoration for the little boy who cherished it.\n\n“I love how cool it feels when I first get into bed,” her little man observed the first night he wrapped himself in the old quilt. “But before long, it warms up, and I’m snug as a bug in a rug. Where did you get it?” \n\nThe question was one whose answer was too mundane to inflict on a wide eyed little boy, so Elise stretched the truth just a little. “It was brought over on the Mayflower by the Pilgrims,” she answered to her son's delight. “It’s made from pieces of fabric from all over Europe and is the first blanket used by the first Americans.”\n\nIt was just a little white lie, but it was also the beginning of a cherished tradition. As stitches unraveled and as tears ripped the quilt and the little boy's heart, Elise sat by his bed and mended the heirloom. Then she would continue the \"true\" story of how the quilt had found its way to her son. \n\n“During the Revolutionary War, your quilt was captured by General Cornwallis and used to keep his legs warm on the cold winter nights.” Elise said, weaving a story as intricate as the blanket itself. “It wasn’t until the surrender at Yorktown that it was returned.”\n\n“Yorktown?”\n\n“Yes, Yorktown,'' she said smiling, “George Washington took it from Cornwallis and used it during his eight years as president.”\n\n“You mean my blanket has been to the White House?” \n\n“Of course it has,” Elise answered with a wink. “But not because of George Washington, silly. John Adams was the first president to live in the White House.”\n\n“Who then, Mom? ``The little boy asked., “Who took my blanket to the White House?”\n\n“That’s a story for later,” Elise replied, kissing her son on his forehead. “Now you get some sleep, and I’ll continue the story next time.”\n\nElise, unfortunately, had far too many opportunities to continue the blanket’s tale as her son was given to debilitating headaches. At first, the doctors thought he was prone to systemic migraines, but the truth was much worse. Many nights, too many, the little boy would curl up in pain, his teeth clenched in a faux smile. The headaches were excruciating, only soothed by a cold wash cloth, his mother’s gentle voice, and the telling of the quilt’s tale as he drifted off to sleep. \n\nThere were also many a night where Elise would sit with her son as he slept, meticulously piecing back together the tears that threatened the blanket entirely, wishing there was a way she could also mend her son. The room would be completely quiet save for the sound of Elise’s song. It was something she had done since she was his age. Inadvertently yet intentionally she would let the air slip through her lips, creating a tune just for him that would live for that moment, replaced the next time by one equally beautiful and equally unique.\n\n“As it turns out, the first time the quilt made it to the White House was just after Abraham Lincoln was elected president,” Elise said the next night, continuing the story from where they’d left off. The pain had become more frequent and more intense, requiring more chapters more often. The story's continuation, however, had the desired results, a distraction and a smile.\n\n“Abraham Lincoln, he used my quilt, too?” her son asked, too young to doubt his mother. \n\n“Of course he did,” Elise responded, tickling her son just to hear him laugh. “It’s a little known fact, but Mount Rushmore was actually created to show all of the presidents who used your blanket.” \n\nElise always had a basin of cold water by her side whenever she sat with her son. Very early on she learned that the coolness of the cloth would help quiet the pain in his head. It was her greatest joy to moisten the cloth keeping it cold throughout her story. The little boy’s head still throbbed, but while his mom was telling the story she would gently wipe his forehead with the cold cloth, and it was almost as if he forgot the pain for a time. If all went well, he would fall asleep listening to the tale of his blanket, as sleep was becoming his only relief from the pain.\n\n“Did you know your blanket went to the moon?” Elise asked one day when her son seemed particularly down. “Neil Armstrong may have been the first man to set foot on the moon, but he laid out your quilt so he and Buzz Aldrin could have a picnic.” \n\nThe idea of two astronauts having a picnic on the moon resulted in spontaneous laughter for both mother and son. \n\n“Is Buzz Lightyear named after Buzz Aldrin?” he asked his mom, as both continued to laugh.\n\n“As a matter of fact he was,” Elise replied with a smile. “If you must know, Buzz Aldrin presented your quilt to Buzz Lightyear as a gift which means your blanket has been…”\n\n“To infinity and beyond!” \n\n“Exactly,” Elise confirmed as she refreshed his cloth and placed it back on his head.\n\nDay after day she would take her boy to doctors and then specialists and eventually to the hospital. Then, night after night, she would sit by his bed and tell the story of the quilt. Elise did everything she could to stretch out the story, and as each new adventure was passed from mother to son so too was hope, in the only way she knew how. \n\nThe night that she finished the story was, in so many ways, just like most of the other nights. Elise was home in her favorite chair next to her son’s bed. Her breathing was labored and her voice unsteady. “And then I stopped by a flea market on my way home from the store and there it was, your beautiful, wonderful blanket. I knew you must have it, so I scooped it up, paid the nice woman, and brought it home to you.”\n\nTears filled Elise’s eyes as she sewed the last stitch on the old quilt. Holding it up, she remembered the first time her son covered himself with the blanket. I love how cool it feels when I first get into bed.\n\n“It’s finally fixed. It’s perfect.” Elise said out loud, tears continuing to flow. “I love how cool it feels, too.” \n\nSummoning every bit of her strength, she lay the beloved blanket on the empty bed in front of her. \n\nBeing a mom is a job that is never truly finished, at least she had hoped so. With nothing else left to do for her son, she sat back in the chair and silently sobbed." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Jimmy and the Dogman\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1033\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Weeeeeoooooooot\n\nThe sound came again, like the trill of a beached whale drying up amongst creosote and sagebrush.\n\n“What the hell is that?”\n\n“No doubt some kind of flying insect or other,” Jimmy tried to reassure his wife, Deborah, who was half-covered by a quilt, hair threaded through pink plastic curlers.\n\n“It’s driving me up the wall. Can you make it shut up?”\n\nJimmy pivoted off the bed. He pulled his legs through a pair of Levi's, securing the buckle of the belt he’d left inside its loops. Given the nature of mountain lions and dope fiends – he opted to bring his .38 Special.\n\n“If you don’t come back in a half an hour,” Deborah joked, “I'm sending Search and Rescue.”\n\nThe clock read ten fifteen, and apart from the occasional hoot of an owl or chirp of a cricket, the night had fallen into a hush. Deborah was starting to feel anxious about her husband going out into the darkness, given his age and frail condition.\n\n“I better not find you rattlesnake-bit,” Deborah scoffed, as if a simple fall wasn’t her husband's greatest threat.\n\n\"Woman, I have made it to 82 with nary a broken bone. Go back to bed.\"\n\nFeeling slightly patronized, Jimmy flashed her a crooked smile, and slid his slippers on. He was suddenly a boy again, preparing to stalk cicadas parked on fence posts.\n\nAfter a period of pacing, and finally parking himself on an aluminum lawn chair, boredom began to set in. In order to quell it, Jimmy started kicking over rocks in hopes of discovering scorpions or lizards. However, there were only beetles and ants to be found. He then took to spotting constellations scattered against the tableau of the desert sky. He was ready to call it a night and head back to bed when someone walked into view.\n\nJimmy and Deborah's long driveway spilled across their acreage like ribbon unwound from a spool. A streetlight lit up their mailbox at the intersection of the driveway and the dirt road. There, bathed in light and dust, stood a figure resembling the bastard child of coyote and man. Draped over its chest was a vest composed of beads. The kind carved out of bone. It stood upright on two legs like Anubis of old.\n\n“What in the goddamned hell?” Jimmy whispered to himself, the hair on his arms perking up and eyes squinting to get a better look. As he advanced in the direction of the brute, making every effort to stifle the sound of crunching quartz pebbles, he looked back to make sure the doors and windows of his home were closed. That Deborah was safe.\n\nThe air was heavy with the pungent odor of Trees of Heaven that bordered their driveway, reminiscent of burnt rubber smeared with rancid peanut butter. The beast's snout quivered as if to catch a whiff. Jimmy recalled his grandmother's tales of supernatural beings such as these, though he had always assumed the stories were intended to scare children into returning home before dark.\n\nWith a twist of its form, the thing arched its head backward, jaws gaping wide to the point of dislocation. Jimmy expected it to howl like a wolf, but instead, like a banshee, it issued the call he'd been sent to silence:\n\nWeeeeeoooooooot\n\nIf he hadn't been watching the scene, he might have assumed it was steam escaping from a teapot or the distant whistle of a freight train. As he inched closer, adrenaline surged through his veins and his bowels knotted up inside him.\n\n\"Has the Devil come for me?\" He wondered, \"Would it do me any good to shoot it?\"\n\n\"We wrestle not with flesh and blood...\" Jimmy thought as he stood motionless, his fear heightened by the drumbeat of his own heart pounding in his ears–\"...but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.\"\n\n\"What if I miss?\" He pondered. With his hand poised on the trigger, Jimmy stood ready to discharge his firearm in the event the monster lunged at him.\n\n\"And what if there's more of them than I've got bullets for?\"\n\nJimmy's eyes widened as he realized the fiend was clutching a lifeless mammal—possibly a squirrel—in not a paw but a hand bearing four primate-like fingers and an opposable thumb. The head of the small prey had been gnawed on to the point where only a skull remained atop its body.\n\nHe took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and under his breath muttered a prayer, \"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High,\" he whispered, \"shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord,\" he continued, \"He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.\"\n\nSuddenly the canid pricked its ears and cast its gaze in Jimmy's direction. The beast's expression, whether smile or snarl, was indistinguishable to Jimmy. All he could make out was the display of bared teeth, and the fact that he'd been spotted.\n\n\"Do you want to play?\" It croaked.\n\nJimmy pulled his gun from its holster and fired two bullets in the entity's direction. Startled and unable to discern if the bullets found their mark, the shots proved effective nonetheless. The being dropped its prey, lowered down on all fours, and took off running, pitching a wake of dust into the air. No longer illuminated by the street lamp, the creature vanished into the darkness beyond Jimmy's line of sight.\n\nJimmy stood in shock for some time, his senses alert to every sound and movement. Eventually, he managed to rouse himself from his daze to sit down on the stoop. As the minutes stretched into an hour, there was no sign of the Dogman's return. He decided it was safe to go inside.\n\nJimmy clicked the bedroom light on, waking up Deborah.\n\n\"What was it, Jim? Did you get it?\" She rubbed her eyes.\n\n\"I didn't see nothing, Deb. Must've been some heartbroken half-wit drunk on his daddy's aftershave, but I wasn't about to go followin' him into the—\" Jimmy fell silent. Deborah had already drifted back to sleep." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 his Religion\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1403\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character is exploring their religious or spiritual identity." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Max came from a very religious family, but the beliefs that his parents held so dearly were not such that he wanted to claim as his own. They were both deemed ‘survivors’ of a residential school that was run by strict Christian missionaries who strived to drive the Indigenous beliefs out of the hearts and minds of their students. That had worked with his parents, but not many others of their generation. They were regular church-goers who had forced him as a child to attend church services at least twice a week. \nOne Friday, when Max turned sixteen, they told him that it was time for him to exercise his choice as a young man as to what his religion would be. While he reckoned that they believed that he would make a choice that followed their beliefs, he was still rather surprised that they would let him choose on his own.\nThere were people in the community that lived according to the ‘old ways’ as his parents called it, clearly speaking of something that they did not fully understand. There was one old man in particular, who lived on the outskirts of the reserve, an Elder, whom Max knew that other people would go to for knowledge about their traditional culture. He was not known by his ‘colonial name’ of John Harvey. No one called him that. People simply called him Maskwa, which meant ‘bear’ in the traditional language. \nSo, on Saturday, Max went to see him, bringing tobacco as a gift, as he had seen people do that when they wanted to learn something from an Elder. Maskwa gave Max instructions as to what he needed to do to find his religion. \nMax Tells His Parents a Lie\nNot long before supper time, Max came home to tell his parents that he was going to his friend Jim’s place for supper and to stay for a few days. This was not a usual practice with him, so they wondered about it. Still, they said nothing about it, didn’t ask him any questions. They knew that Jim’s family were Christians. And they knew that Max did not like to explain to them why he did what he did. Max quickly gathered up a knapsack full of stuff, strapped it on, and left with only a short ‘goodbye’. After he was gone, they noticed that he had left his cell phone behind. This too was unusual.\nThe next morning, it being Sunday, Max’s mother Mary called Jim’s place to see whether he would be going to church with them. While he didn’t often do that these days, in his parents’ hopeful minds, there was always a possibility that he would. When she called, she spoke with Jim’s mother, who told her that Max had not had supper with them, and that he wasn’t staying with them.\nMax’s parents became worried. They knew so many stories about Indigenous youth, even some of the kids in their community, who started taking drugs, then disappeared or died. When they went to church that morning, their prayers were for the safety of their son.\nMax on his Own\nMax was on his own in the woods. He had never fasted before, but it was what Maskwa had told him to do. Now he had gone over a day without eating. He felt that all his senses were incredibly vivid. Maskwa had told a story to him of how he had gone on a vision quest when he was about Max’s age, and has ‘seen his future’, as Maskwa put it.. Max wasn’t sure about whether or not he would have a vision. And what could it say about his future?\nIt was morning now, and although he had slept little the night before, he felt wide awake. He was glad that he had been able to find the spot that Maskwa had told him about – at a curve of the river, where there were a few fallen trees with their roots sticking out. After describing the place, Maskwa told Max that the young man’s grandfather had been a carver of figures of small animals. His parents hadn’t told him much about his dad’s father, who died when Max was too young to get to know him. Max had long admired the carved figures that were around the home, but never was told and never had asked who had carved them. After Maskwa had told Max about this essentially invisible grandfather, he handed him a knife, saying ‘See what you can do with this.’\nMax had thought that strange at the time. But having nothing else to do, and to distract him from his hunger and his wondering whether he would have a vision, he cut off some roots. Then he started carving, with no particular shape or object in mind for him to form. It occupied his mind and was kind of fun. He was just enjoying the process, something of a surprise to him.\nThe next morning, he felt his senses enhanced even more. As he sat down on a log, beginning, before he began to carve, he heard something, a kind of rustling in the bush. He would swear that he could smell it as well, the pungent smell of fur. At first, when he looked, he saw nothing.\nThen he saw a black object that he could gradually recognize as a bear cub. In one of the few words that he knew in the traditional language of his people, it was called maskosis (‘little bear’). He could see it clearly now. It seemed to be looking directly into his eyes, like it was trying to read his mind. It kind of unnerved Max, so he closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them again, the bear cub was gone. But the sight of the maskosis filled his mind. It gave him an idea. He would try to carve a figure of the little one. He worked and he worked at it, with the picture in his mind guiding him along the way. When he completed his carving, he was happy with what he saw in front of him. That would be the first. He carved two more that day, all guided by the mental picture of the maskosis.\nFeeling a sense of completion, late in the afternoon he headed to Maskwa’s place. The Elder gifted him with a great smile when he saw the little carved bear cubs. Max gave him the first one he had done. Then Maskwa said to him, “Your new name will be Maskosis. Now go to your parents and tell them what has happened to you over the last few days.”\nMax’s Parents and Their Concern\n Max’s parents had grown more and more worried as the time passed without their seeing or hearing from their son. He had been listless and lost over the last few months, and they were concerned that his life had held no direction. That was why they had told him that it was time for him to find his religion.\n Then he appeared, a smile on his face, and two objects in his hands. They were happy to see him when he arrived back home. They could even see that a change had taken place, a change for the better.\n Max handed them the remaining two carved bear cubs. His father, Michael said, “You have inherited your grandfather’s skill”. Max could not remember the last time he had heard his father speak of his own father. The couple were initially very quiet and somewhat straight-faced when he told them of what he had been doing, and why. It was a practice that had been harshly condemned at the residential school that they both had attended. But Mary, after thinking of the opening lines from one of her favourite hymns, faced her husband and mouthed without speaking: “God works in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform”. She then turned to her son and said, “It appears that you have found your religion in the ways of our ancestors. It has done you good. But that does not mean that you can’t go to church with us some Sundays. There we will call you Max, but we will use the name that Maskwa gave you, Maskosis, when you are carving here at home. It is your God-given gift.” \nTop of Form" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dangerous Times and Dog Crimes\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2949\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A weary, bowing forest framed the dwindling lake, which presently still served as a mirror, for those tall, failing trees; they seemed to gaze at their undisturbed reflections with a hushed acceptance of their desperately aged appearance. \n\n Breeze was absent and the oppressive, unrelenting heat battered Tanvi’s shoulders while she slowly bent forward on her branch, observing those still trees across the ebbing lake and the sanguine surface of its water. \n\n The loaded air was absent of sound.\n\n She breathed in deeply then exhaled, pursing her cracked lips as though she were blowing a giant bubble with a mouthful – sized blob of good old gum.\n\n It was time to leave the old shed she’d hidden in for three whole days and nights. Gradually, she unfolded her arms , stretching her hands out in front of her, checking for a quiver or jerk.\n\n ‘That’s odd,’ Tanvi whispered into the suspended atmosphere. ‘Not even a tremble anymore.’ \n\n One last survey of her view, before she swung her way through the sturdy branches, down, down, down, then drop! The most muffled thud came, as her feet plunged into the tufts of long grass. Her position remained low and bent forward, her eyes scanning left to right as she trod one long stride at a time. Tanvi tutted quietly, frowning at those stems of grass that cracked under her feet; well- they’d dried up because of the unrelenting heat. \n\n Pulling her compass from her blouse pocket, she studied the position of its friendly needle that already pointed northward. Thankfully, north was not across the lake.\n\n Looking swiftly at the pool of water one last time, she wondered, ‘Could that be alright to drink from?’ She licked her lips and longed for a sip.\n ‘Nope,’ she whispered as the idea fleeted through her mind . ‘Poisoned,’ she affirmed. Truthfully, she didn’t know for certain - she could’ve always checked for floating dead fish, yet the risk of heading out into the clearing would’ve been greater than any reward. \n Before starting off, Tanvi reminded herself again of Wally Bracket’s words: ‘There’s safe communes in the north,’ he’d croak. ‘Heard it said.’ \n\n ‘Who-who said?,’ Tanvi would question him. \n\n ‘Oh, you know dear. Them that are clever. Them peoples have already moved northward - the air is clearer up there my dear. No point hanging about with an old feller like me now, is there,’ he’d chuckle- then cough - then chuckle again. Poor Wally Bracket. Tanvi sensed a tug at her heart and was certain it hurt when she imagined Wally’s face, all tight and white and dead; she scorned herself for thinking this way. She couldn’t help it though. It was just there. \n\nShe adjusted her mask to fit properly over her nose and mouth .\n\n Quietening her doubts, she knew she had to move. The sun had begun to ease towards the west. Still, the heat felt just as intense, if not worse than earlier on. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, then set off, still bending low behind the tall grass stems, until she was almost certain she’d be out of sight. \n ‘ Just keep north, just keep north. Don’t doubt it, never shout it, just keep north,’ Tanvi sang softly and nervously, as she began weaving through the gargantuan trunks. She wondered how far she needed to trudge before reaching another clearing; or even better - discovered any signs that could help her remember where on earth she was: It still looked like England but the landscape was gradually dying: flowers were not holding their colours, turning a frightening shade of grey before disappearing into piles of ash. Trees were beginning to break and bend, once they prematurely shed most of their summertime leaves. Even the evergreens looked as though they wouldn’t last. That faint, insidious, yellow powder wafting in the acrid air was a deathly poison, as Tanvi well knew. As for where it was coming from, nobody knew.\n\n Getting through the forest, Tanvi thought, was as maddeningly slow as wading through water: the masses of fallen leaves and clods of thick, grey mush underfoot slowed her progress and after an hour or so, she became all too aware of the faint, sharp scent of poisoned air, despite her mask being as close to her face as it could be. Nevertheless, a quick adjustment wouldn’t hurt. ‘Hmmmph,’ she moaned, feeling the droplets of sweat gathering under her gardening gloves, rolling down her upturned forearm. ‘Just rain, why won’t you rain?’ She mumbled futilely. \n\n By dusk, Tanvi hadn’t made it to an exit. Her movement had near - halted - her exhaustion was overbearing. Her eyelids would most likely close on their own very soon and she’d still be stuck on the forest floor, asleep and exposed to the PV24 Dogs. \n\n She would give up on the trek for now, so searched for a suitable, stable tree at once - thankfully this forest had many old oaks and they appeared to be more resilient to the decay. They also had useful, low hanging branches which she could haul herself up onto and then ascend into the higher branches for a safe night ahead. The tree she chose had been relatively untouched by the wicked air. ‘You’ll do,’ she said, circling its reliable - looking trunk, tapping the bark gently with her gloved hands. Securing her heavy rucksack and tying her shoelaces was next. Then upwards, she hauled herself. \n\n Before conceding to the heaviness bearing down on her eyelids, Tanvi had one last task to tackle: tying the piece of rope unraveled from her backpack, tightly around her waist and around the section of trunk she now hunkered down upon. This was not optional , as mild tremors still came every now and then and the ground would move as though the earth were pregnant with a restless little monster in its belly. \n\n The first tremor was the worst; Tanvi indulged in lucid images from the afternoon that changed the world. She would replay it nightly, to train her brain never to forget what had happened. She didn’t trust it at all (her memory) as other parts of her past had disappeared altogether on that day too. And when she tried to remember her mum, dad, or even where she lived, it was like trying to make sense of things underwater, without goggles. All smudged and smeary. More than that; it wasn’t only her. It had been everyone in her class. They no longer knew one another at all. The terror and panic followed.\n\n ‘The shake happened as I was walking along the corridor to a lesson of some sort; the bad, bad headache; then the weird silence; the next tremor; then the dust filling our lungs- then the return of the dogs.’\nTanvi rugged hard at the tied rope around her waist, swaying left , then right, making certain she wouldn’t fall. \n\n By now, the sun was setting as its rays threw themselves sideways, thrashing through the slowly dying branches and disappointingly, the vile air stayed thick and close. \n\n ‘The dogs; those poor dogs,’ she sighed. \n\n Only a short while before the first tremor, she recalled the terrifying news reports and social media uploads on every platform, showing awful changes in the behaviour of pet dogs. It didn’t happen all at once; it was a steady worsening as weeks went by.\n\nTanvi closed her eyes tightly, as she heard shrieks of grief cutting through the almost abandoned streets – it came from the stricken dog owners and the quick yelps of the sick beasts as bullets ripped through their furs; nightmarish memories coming at Tanvi like darts. The government soon set into force the slaughter of all canines - there had been constant parades of massive army trucks driven by sombre - looking military men and women, whose mission it had been to haul piles of massacred dogs from their homes to the enormous pits dug on the edges of towns all over the country. The ‘Dog Holocaust,’ they called it. These sickening acts seemed to be carried out in such a disrespectful way as carcasses were left behind.\n\n ‘It made me think how the garbage men used to perform when emptying rubbish into the throats of their ugly,noisy lorries ; allowing bits of fallen litter to make a run for it with help of a good wind,’ Tanvi protested one morning in the car, while accompanying Wally on a tin – food/alcohol run.\n Despite her desperate situation, she always recalled her conversations with this dear old man (who had been a stranger only a while ago), with such affection. Sadness too.\n Wally laughed. ‘You, young lady is very clever with those words of yours. Just like the litter runnin’ about,’ he repeated, shaking his bald head kindly, coughing until he had to stop the car and reach for a hankie to contain the blood.\n\n A few days after dogs began attacking humans, Scientists discovered a new disease in that was causing them to becomedangerous: ‘PV24’. At first, heavy tranquilisers were trialled – it was more effective with the smaller dogs, but anything bigger than a cocker spaniel, was a real threat. In the end, it was decided to begin mass slaughter – even the tinier dogs, once the tranquilisers wore off, were as vicious as ever.\n\n Tanvi was relieved she hadn’t owned a dog, only to have it shot - or had her parents bought one? And did she have parents anymore? ‘I can’t remember,’ she groaned, pulling out a warm can of Pepsi from her rucksack. She had four left, but now she didn’t care. Her thirst spoke louder than her rationing. Hastily, she peeled a plastic straw from the front pocket of her bag and spritzed open its lid. She adored that sound. \n Leaning back on the wide girth of trunk, Tanvi slipped the bent end of the straw beneath her mask; the other end into the fizz of hissing bliss. Tanvi’s burdening thoughts popped like spent bubbles as she slurped away.\n ‘Ice would have been nice,’ she reminisced, then smiled a little.\n\n It was as she finished the Pepsi that she heard it. A screeching howl, coming from below!\n\n Instinctively, she grabbed the branch in front of her, dropping the can and straw. She couldn’t look down, sitting frozen, as the tin danced and swirled its way through the branches, plunging into the delicate evening haze. Her heart boomed in her chest and she struggled to breathe. Terror gripped her once again – who knew how long for? Last time it lasted a week but she had had Bracket to take care of her then.\n The shaking began, just as if someone had flicked some electrical switch in her body. Putting her head on the jagged bark of a branch, with her eyes firmly averted from the direction of that awful howl, she thought, for a second, how peaceful it might be to open the little blue medicine box tucked firmly in her upper pocket that had the press stud secured. Wally had given it to her, just in case.\n\n ‘You’ll just…. just go to sleep, peaceful like,’ Wally explained, his faded blue, cataract – covered eyes searching for her gaze. ‘You’re leavin’ and I don’t want you to be somewhere – anywhere that you might be in pain and there’s no way out. I… I can trust you now, can’t I? Not to take the pill unless you have no other way. Promise me Tanvi! Cos once it’s been chewed, well, that’s it. There’s no …..,’ He was too overcome and breathless, yet still holding both her hands as he sat in front of her. \n ‘What about you Wally? What if it becomes painful for you – the poisoning I mean. What if you need….’\n ‘Hush hush now!’ he retorted. His head nodded towards his alcohol -filled glass cabinet. She realised that would be his way out.\n\n ‘ Alright.Thank you Wally. I shan’t ever be able to repay you. I will never forget you Wally.’\n She hugged the wizened, selfless old man tightly, wondering if this might be the very last hug either of them might have. Tears flooded from Tanvi’s eyes, crying as quietly as she could into his old cardigan that reeked of tobacco and mint.\n ‘ Knowin’ what’s happenin’ with our poor noddles. I reckon you will forget my dear,’ he chuckled, returning my squeeze all too feebly; he was so sick.\n‘I shan’t forget you,’ were her last words to Mr Bracket. ‘I won’t let myself!’\n\n Still struggling for air, Tanvi had to remove the mask from her nose.\n\nAnother noise came reeling towards her, yet it was more of a whimper. It was indeed a large dog, from what she could see in the early evening light. It was a full moon and clear skies so she made out its shape at least. A greyhound perhaps? Or Doberman? She couldn’t be entirely sure. It kept circling in on itself, as if it were trying to grab its own tail. But she realised soon enough that it wasn’t well. It whimpered again and again, then at last, it appeared defeated as its long legs keeled over among the dead debris. Despite the shakes, Tanvi turned her head as far as it would go, to see if any other dogs were nearby; perhaps this one below had gotten into a fight with another dog and it was being followed. Or had it been fought off by a human?\n\n Tanvi could taste the bitterness of the dangerous air, as it began coating her tongue – the powdery poison that looked as innocent as custard powder but tasted nothing like it. She flipped the mask immediately back over the bridge of her nose and couldn’t stop herself from sneezing violently into it.\n\nShe waited.\n\n The hound didn’t move. Perhaps it was now dead? No – it gave out another soft whimper.\n\nSteadily, Tanvi sensed her terror began to free its grip on her and something else replaced it: she was feeling pity for the injured animal lying so helpless, just metres from her. ‘Not my problem, not my problem, not my problem,’ she sang ,trying in vain to soothe the rising guilt invading her heart.\n ‘You have to help it,’ insisted her conscience.\n ‘Not my problem. My life is worth more than that beast,’ she told it.\n ‘Is it?’ her conscience continued.\nIt was always like this. The battle inside. Tanvi knew her conscience was going to win.\n\n She steadily unhooked her loaded rucksack from a branch nearby and sat it carefully on her lap; she dug out the knife she’d taken from a supermarket, while looting with Wally. It was long and sharp enough to kill anything, she assured herself, brushing the edge lightly with her finger. She could slip it through her skirt belt – yes, then she could reach for it quickly if she was going to be attacked.\n\n As she slid it through the leather belt around her little waist, her focus shifted to her lungs. They were starting to burn. She’d felt this pain before now - after she’d take off her mask. It would ease off, she reminded herself. It wouldn’t take long, and she’d be alright again. She nodded, then hurriedly untied herself from her good friend, the tree.\n\n Once nearly next to the animal, she heard its quick, desperate breathing, as it lay on its side among the shed leaves and bleak undergrowth. As she crept forwards to get a closer look, she noticed the thing’s eyes were open. Her hand felt for her knife that hung from the right side of her hip – it was all that stood between her and death. The heat became too humid and even though her hair sat in tight plaits, Tanvi could feel sweat pouring from her scalp.\n\nIt whimpered again as its marble – dark eyes saw her. More loudly and with more effort.\n ‘Hello,’ she whispered, smiling widely, hoping it would understand she was no threat. ‘ Are you hurt? You poor darlling.’\n\nThe dog let out a diluted growl.\n\n Telling herself it was because the dog was defenceless and fearful, helped keep her nerves at bay. And despite her inner fears, Tanvi gingerly knelt in front of it, making certain it could see her: so, it wouldn’t be startled at all. She reached out her almost steady hand and lightly stroked its silky head and it seemed to react by nuzzling its long nose into her palm.\n\n The moonlight quickly reflected on the injured greyhound’s collar – it was a dog tag!\nTanvi gently lifted the silver circle and manoeuvred it so the light would catch the writing imprinted on it:\n\n ‘L – I -M -P – I – T,’ she read aloud. ‘Limpit.’ The address was there too – not that it mattered now - still, where it had come from?\n ’29 Merrimeade Close, Hythe, Southampton, SO42 6ZX.’ Flipping the glinting tag over, there lay the words: ‘Belonging to Tanvi Tattersall.’\n\n ‘Oh my god!’ Tanvi shouted, leaning down, brushing her face against the dog’s. ‘I remember you now! You’re mine! Let’s…’\n\n Tanvi said nothing more.\n\n The canine revived itself with such ferocity that she didn’t have a moment to feel fear. The knife dropped from her belt as the diseased dog sunk its enormous jaws deep into her side. Tanvi never knew how the rest of the pack had been waiting nearby, while Limpit deceived its owner.\n\n But all was not lost.\n\n Limpit’s life ended straight after Tanvi’s, as he bit down on Wally’s deadly cyanide pill that still resided in her upper pocket." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Indio\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2945\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the arrival of a new person in a town full of gossips." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "We remember when he first came to town. The way his shoes were polished, shiny even. But it wasn’t his shoes we noticed first, it wasn’t the way his hair spiked up in the back or how he grimaced when he laughed so he didn’t show his crooked front tooth.\n\"Indio,\" is what we whispered when he walked through the glass doors of John Adams Middle School. We had never seen a Mexican so dark. We knew he heard us whispering, when he walked in, but we couldn’t hide our disbelief. So dark, his skin the color of soil after a rainfall.\n “Is he black? '' We asked each other. “Un negrito dominicano?” \n“No, no tiene el pelo rizado,” one of us answered. “And he’s Mexican. His parents are from México.”\n “So his skin is black, but he’s not, that doesn’t make any sense.” He glanced up from his desk then, brow furrowed and we wondered if we’d spoken too loudly. He was probably used to the comments. The speculation was nothing new to him. Still, he kept his eyes on his page as he worked, as if afraid our gaze would cause him to melt into a puddle on the floor. Soon the teacher asked us to pull the blinds up and rays of light pierced our necks, pricked our skulls, sunk into our ears and stayed there.\n“We have a new student,” Mr. Moreno said. “Tenemos un estudiante nuevo. De donde eres?” The new kid jolted in his seat, and looked at the teacher. \n“México,” he said. Mr. Moreno smiled. We were all from México, or at the very least our parents were. Saying you were from México in Texas, in a town just a few miles from the border was about as useful as saying you were from the moon. Seeing Mr. Moreno smile, gave us permission to do so. We shared glances behind our green and yellow natural sciences book, eyebrows raised, eyes wide. There was a pause as the teacher waited for the new kid to elaborate and when he didn’t he cleared his throat and tried again. \n“I know you’re from México, what I meant was which part?” The Indio scratched his head. He had two fine white scars on the back of his hand. \n“Guadalajara,” he said in one rushed breath. He said it like a prayer he couldn’t get out fast enough. As if there were too many syllables and not enough time. We supposed there were. \n“Alright,” Mr Moreno said, “everyone make sure to give Jimmy a warm welcome.” At first we didn’t know who he was talking about. We turned in our seats looking for a Jim, a Jimmy, that we had missed before. Someone that would wave at us from the corner of the room as if they’d walked through a wall, burst through the metal pipes like water. But there was no one in the corner. A tiny piece of the already chipped wall paper disintegrated into white dust. That’s when our skin started prickling and the room took a collective breath as we turned our attention toward him. It couldn’t be. Not the gringo name for the Indio. Did his parents think the name was going to make him blend in? That it was going to help him on the other side? One of us let out a giggle, his fingers stuffed in his mouth. That was it. We were all dying. Chairs were squeaking, books were dropped and our throats ached. We only stopped to catch our breath. “SILENCE” the teacher yelled, but he was smirking too.\n At recess we asked the Indio over and over again what his name was and he said “JEEMEE” with one of the most aggressive latino accents we’d ever heard. Hearing that gringo name with the Indio’s horrific accent sent us over the edge every time, pounding our fists, gasping for air. \nEven now, we’re not sure when the rumors about the curse started. But they trickled in slowly at first. The way the Indio barely spoke. Could he even understand English? Yes, we decided--he followed directions when Mr. Moreno asked him to get out his notebook to get up out of his seat. But that was it, he didn’t speak to us. To make matters worse, at recess he seemed to disappear altogether. We would walk out of class in a stream of laughter. Somewhere between the pounding of feet in the hallway the Indio vanished. He was there one minute and gone the next. We asked each other:\n“Did you see where he ran off to? He was right behind you, right?” But no one knew anything. When recess was over he’d be waiting next to the door of our classroom. Back against the concrete, shoes suspiciously shiny, his mouth quirked up to the side. He looked amused, and that infuriated us even more. \n“Where did this little Indio get off?” We whisper-shouted as we walked into class. We knew he could hear us too, because his smirk widened, creeping up the sides of his mouth like a thorny weed. He had his chance, we told ourselves, we asked him his name, and tried to find him at recess. There was no excuse for the self indulgent smirk, the knowing sheen to his brown-black eyes. \nWe sat under the shade of the ash tree in the field next to the schoolyard, the grass pin straight and bleached yellow by the sun. We agreed that one of us would follow him every recess--we needed to know where he went. \nListening to Maria’s footsteps was like listening to the sound of trees growing. She walked as if she was always suspended thousands of feet in the air by a giant tightrope. It was a unanimous decision. Maria would go first. \nShe gave us a furtive nod the next day as we headed out for recess. We awaited her return with an uneven breath, half hoping that she didn’t come back so we could know for sure. So we could tell someone that the curse had taken her too. \nWhen we saw her coming down the grassy hill at the far corner of the field, we rushed her. A stampede of feet and dirt that didn’t destroy the gnawing feeling we’d felt in the bottom of our stomachs for weeks now. Maria seemed to enjoy this. Her teeth, straight and white, were crowding her face. \n“He had no idea I was there,” she told us in a hushed tone. “No way, I was hiding behind trees and, and the wind was so loud it sounded like bones breaking. The grasses that looked more like straw were pushed flat to the earth by the intensity of the wind.” We shared glances, anticipating what was coming next. Maria had a flair for the dramatic, and when she got attention she liked to hold onto it as long as possible. \n “He walked over this hill,” she gave the earth a little pat. “And then when he headed down this dusty road, nothing but grass and cattle down there, he whipped his head around and started chanting in a language I didn’t understand. It wasn’t Spanish or English.”\n She paused. \n“Probably one of those Indio languages,” Lucia asserted, her green eyes solemn. We all nodded, brows furrowed. \n“Then what happened,” one of us asked. \n“That’s when the wind started to change,” Maria murmured, the whites of her eyes more visible than ever. “Big gusts blew the dust up from the road and it all swirled around us. It sunk into my eyelashes, got stuck in my throat and I couldn’t see him any more. He was surrounded by a whirlwind of dust. If I stayed any longer, my lungs would have filled up. So I ran,” she said. I had to.”\nA tense silence coated the classroom like wallpaper when the Indio returned, the same toothless smile glued to his face. We studied his hair, not even the slightest bit of dust coated his ink-black locks. We examined his shoes, no mud, or dust, polished and glowing--like always. \n“Brujeria,” we muttered into our matematicas textbooks. \nMaria’s story had only made us more curious. We had to know more about what he was up to at recess. We decided that Hector would follow him next. Hector, who always walked on his toes, as if he was afraid the ground would break like glass if he let the entirety of his foot touch it. \n“I saw him scale an ash tree like it was nothing,” he told us, “like it was as easy as climbing up the stairs. He was a blur, no human could have done it that fast.”\n We sat in a circle, legs crossed.\n“He probably learned that in the jungle,” one of us said. No one laughed. \n“But here’s the thing,” Hector continued, and waited until he could hear our skin crawl, until he could hear the sound of the sun inch lower in the sky. “I walked up to the ash tree, the one where the bark has almost peeled off. I got to its base, where the soil swallowed the bottoms of my shoes, where I could smell the dew clinging to the grass. I placed my hands on the tree and looked up.” We waited, some of us uprooting grass and tearing it apart, our eyes never leaving Hector’s face. \n“Well, keep going then!” one of us urged. Hector smiled. \n“I checked every branch,” he said at last, “but the Indio wasn’t in the tree. It was impossible. It was as if he’d gotten to the top of that ash, bits of peeling brown bark stuck to his shirt and pants, and kept climbing until he reached the clouds.” Maybe the tree did keep going forever. Maybe he was sitting on a cloud somewhere, laughing at us. \nWe crossed our hearts, the way we’d seen our mothers do it at mass. One tap on each shoulder. How futbolistas on the tele did it. All drama. A sustained glance at the sky, faces solemn. For a while no one said anything. The bell rang out, and even then we stayed seated, knees touching, our legs sticky from sitting in the grass. One of us got up slowly, and then we all followed, waking up from a stupor. From visions of a little boy climbing the sky. When we walked into class that day, he was already seated, writing something in his notebook. He didn’t even look up as we entered the room. \n“Alright,” Mr. Moreno said, “let's begin in chapter three of your science textbooks.” \nNo one followed him during recess after that. We agreed that day, as soon as the last bell rang. We would stay away from the Indio for a while. It was getting too spooky, too dangerous. There was no telling what he was capable of. \nBut then parent teacher conferences came around. Mid October and the earth was still so hot it made the bottoms of our feet ache. When the Indio walked in with his mother it was impossible not to look. We forgot about upsetting him, about the magic, about what he would do to us. There were no thoughts left in our heads as we stared, open mouthed, at the gym doors.\nThe Indios mother was white. Not Mexican white, with pale skin but dark eyes and pin straight black hair. No, she looked like a white woman, like she came over on the freaking mayflower. All light brown hair, that glowed golden as she stood in the doorway, backlit by the sun. She looked expensive too, we noticed as she drew closer. Her eyebrows were perfectly manicured, ending in sharp points. Though the outfit she wore was simple, a t-shirt and jeans, little things caught our eye. Gave us clues that she came from money. \nWe’d spent weekends in thrift stores with our aunts and mothers sorting through racks and racks of costume jewelry. We knew what real gold looked like. And her earrings, rings and necklaces all had the sheen of truth to them. Her black boots had a subtle block heel that echoed across the gym. They looked like they were real leather, like they still had that fresh smell that was reserved for things that had never been worn. We thought about the last time we’d smelled something new--that smelled like the store it came from. A shirt from a birthday a few years ago. New packs of underwear, socks that our mamis gave us from the clearance aisle. We looked again at the Indio’s shoes, shiny and black and true. And glanced down at our own feet. At our faded hightops that were comically large, a hand me down from an older sister. At scuffed brown boots, with the plastic, imitation leather starting to peel away at the heel. How had we not noticed before? How the Indios’s hair always looked freshly cut. That his shirts fit him perfectly, that his clothing looked intentional. Like they were bought especially for him. Not a haphazard collection of items from older siblings, cousins, neighbors. We felt pinpricks of heat emerge in the corners of our eyes. \nWithout even realizing it, we’d invented parents for the Indio. We imagined them poor, maybe in colorful clothes from a traditional Indio village. We imagined their faces to be a guant, their skin dull. Their brown-black eyes, glassy and haunted. Their carpeted floor would always have dirt tracked in. One look at his mother, all this theorizing evaporated. There was no dirt embedded in the Indio’s carpet. No strange stains that never seemed to go away. No, the Indio probably had wooden floors, so clean he could see his own muddied reflection in them. \nWe expected the Indio to look smug, satisfied, at this revelation. But his gaze was trained on the ground, his shoulders slumped forward, his hands disappearing into the pockets of his jeans. The hush that had fallen across the room, when the Indio had walked in with his mother, was broken. In a rush of sound, teachers and parents approached his mother. Manuel’s mom, a short woman with a round face, spoke first. \n“It’s good to meet you, Miss…” She trailed off. When she was nervous her English got worse. We looked around the room and saw Manuel smooth his shirt repeatedly. It remained creased. The Indio’s mom raised her perfect eyebrows so high they almost disappeared into her blowout. \n“¿Por qué estás hablando en inglés? Somos mexicanos, sabes.” Her Spanish sounded odd, coming from a mouth like that, eyes like that. But then again, it wasn’t so unusual. We’d seen faces like that speaking Spanish on the tele, hosting a talk show or in a telenovela. But we rarely came across those people in real life. We had begun to think that they only existed on our tv screens, their faces beautiful and tragic at the same time. Looking off into the distance, as the music swelled behind them and the credits rolled. \nSoon, the Indio’s mom--or Valeria, as she urged us to call her--had drawn a small crowd of teachers and parents alike. Every so often, we heard laughter erupting from that corner of the gym. The Indio was nowhere to be seen. It was as if he’d sunk into the floorboards themselves. We crowded around the food tables, pretending to help ourselves to another plate of Lucia's mom’s tamales. \n“He’s probably off polishing his shoes somewhere!” one of us said.\n“Getting his shoes polished, more like” Hector muttered, stroking his chin and narrowing his eyes. “Oh dear,” Hector continued, this time in a fake British accent. “It seems my shoes do need a bit of a shine.” He pretended to study his faded hightops, his hand on his chin. Then he placed his shoe on a foldout chair in front of him. “Manuel, why don’t you help me out?” We watched Manny give Hector an amused look as he got on his knees, taking a piece of imaginary cloth out of his pocket and rubbing it horizontally across Hector’s dirty sneaker. As Manny got up, Hector called “You missed a spot!” Manny threw up his hands and we all laughed, the sound echoing across the gym floor. Only Maria didn’t smile, her arms crossed. \n“Let’s go find him,” she said. “Mr Shiny shoes himself.” \nWe checked every room of the school. Finally we spotted him behind the heavy velvet curtains of the theater. He was lying down, reading a book, its pages dogeared and the cover faded. Couldn’t he afford a new copy? He glanced up when we approached and raised an eyebrow, like he was expecting us. \n“Are you adopted?” one of us blurted. We hadn’t gone over what we would say when we found him. He let us wait. Let us watch him turn his head from one side to the other, as if deciding whether or not to respond. \n“No, I’m not,” he said at last. There was an edge to his tone that hadn’t been there before. And when he looked up, his chin jutted forward. Then he smiled. “Are any of you?” There was a pause. \n“Are any of us what?” Lucia said. \nHis smile grew wider, and he laughed at our expressions. His crooked front tooth in full view. As if he’d forgotten about it completely. As if he’d never been ashamed of it at all. He walked forward and we parted for him, his smile still shocking us into silence; even as his shadow lengthened down the narrow aisle, and his shoulders vanished from view." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Our Crazy Mother.\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1993\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a group of sisters, or a group of brothers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "This context contains sensitive material that refers to Mental Health, Abuse and Trama.\nThere was a time in my life when I thought I had lost her forever; my mother Shannon was diagnosed with bipolar 2 disorder at the age of 18 right after giving birth to me. Which explains why there are five of us. Her impulsiveness led her to get pregnant four more times. I have always wondered how my life would have been if I was an only child. As an adult I have come to terms with the fact that I indeed had to share my life with four other humans,\nGrowing up in a home with a bipolar mother was, I want to say exciting, but traumatic is a better word for my brothers and my up bringing. We would have a few weeks of what we called the good mom, where everything was organized, and we were on time for school. Our lunches would be packed, breakfast made, there was order. We also loved good mom because she loved to take us on what she called adventures.\nWe would all pack in our large Astro van and drive endlessly into the night, listening to music playing car ride games and enjoying each other, never knowing where we would end up. Most of the time we would end up in the far Suburbs of Chicago. If mom was really happy, we end up in another state. What was sad is we all knew it would end soon and Sad Mom would return.\nSad mom would return overnight. We would wake up and there wouldn't be any breakfast. There wouldn't be lunches packed. Mom would be laying in her dark room crying. She was unable to pull herself out of the thought of wanting to die. She would cry about not being good enough for us. She would say she hated being sick and that we deserved better. We knew that until she got better, we would have to basically, fend for ourselves.\nI was nine, my brother Anthony was 4, Mark was 3 Jeremiah was 2 and Jacobb was only a few months old. I hated that she had another baby and I hated that she married someone who didn't give a shit about us. When mom was sad mom, we would be forced to eat frozen pizzas every night of the week. We were treated like dirt. We weren't allowed to be kids. The rules and the consequences were, in my opinion, a form of abuse.\nMy brothers and I would stay up late at night planning our escape, but never could go through with the plans because we knew Good Mom would return and things would get better. As presumed Good Mom appeared. We had no idea how different things would be this time. At first it was back to normal. Order returned and we were happy again. This time mom was overly happy. I noticed when I woke up at 7 am and there was a couch in our tiny kitchen. Mom was packing things in boxes and chanting \"if I pack, we move\".\nHer husband Carlos suggested she see a doctor and that was the first day I saw her have a psychotic episode. She started laughing uncontrollably and fell to the floor. My brothers were just waking up at the time. I tried to get them to go in the other room because I knew something wasn't right. They weren't listening. Carlos yelled at us to go to the other room. We went by Jacobb who was still in his crib crying. Anthony was also crying. I told them everything was going to be alright.\nAs my brothers and I watched my mother kicking and screaming at the paramedics and Carlos standing there crying begging her to stop we all felt our lives about to change. They finally got her to calm down and strapped her to a stretcher. She looked zombie like as she looked at us and said she loved us with all of her heart. I started to cry. I thought I was going to lose her forever.\nThis was the first hospitalization that we witness and sadly wasn't the last. Every episode was dramatic. If she was depressed, we dealt with suicide. If she was manic, we dealt with impulsive relationships, and relocations.\nGrowing up in the city of Chicago under those circumstances wasn't easy for any of us. We never built strong, healthy, long-lasting, friendships or relationships. We built a wall against the world to protect each other and our mother. Until the last Straw.\nI was now 16. My mother had chosen once again to be in a relationship with someone who was detrimental if she wanted to be the good mom, she claimed she wanted to be.\nThis relationship got so bad she decided we were all moving to a small town called Normal. Three hours away from Chicago. I put my foot down. I was sixteen years old! No way was I moving to some hick town. My younger brothers didn't have an option. She forced them to move. My anger towards my mother was bubbling inside of me. For all the times we've been through hell because she didn't want to manage her mental health. But I couldn't tell her, instead I watched them drive away leaving me behind with my alcoholic Grandmother.\nI kept in close contact with my brothers. My mother was getting worse. They were afraid she might need to go to the hospital again and being three hours away from a single soul they knew. I knew I had to do something. I had my aunt drive me too Normal. As I had thought my mom needed hospitalization. They lost everything. She had to move back with the man she left to go to Normal. I was glad they were back. It was safe for us. My mother wasn’t safe. He had been hitting her.\nWhen my brothers and I found out we confronted him. He blamed her using all her psychotic episodes as an excuse. Maybe it was because we were all so tired of getting all the consequences from my mother's behavior or maybe it was because we saw her do some really shady things in the past, either way we sided with him. That day almost killed my mom. She got completely intoxicated. It looked like it was hospital time for her but before we had a chance to call the paramedics, she took off in a car, we had never seen before. Little did we know she was running back to Normal. She sent me a text message that said. I’m off to Normal to finally be Normal.\nMy mother’s ex-boyfriend took us all in and tried to raise us as his own. He showed us how to be men, he made us believe that my mother hated us. He was an ex-convict and had just gotten out of prison, so in actuality he was teaching us how to be institutionalized. He was teaching us how to hate. I know I missed my mother but was too afraid to admit that to my brothers, in fear of being “weak”.\nIt had been a couple of weeks when we finally heard from mom. She sounded good but we knew it wouldn’t last. Next time she contacted us she hated all of us and never wanted to talk to us again. This went on for months. We stopped answering eventually because we didn’t care to hear it and we were busy becoming engulfed in the city street way of living.\nOne day she showed up at our door. She looked different. She looked happy. Not her normal manic happy but a genuine look of peace or joy. I couldn’t figure it out, but I knew it was strange. My brother Jeremiah started crying, apparently, he missed her too. Anthony ignored her and Mark just sat there starring at her blankly. My mother looked at all of us and said, “boys I’m better” Anthony laughed and said, “yeah we’ve heard that before.” Jeremiah looked excited like he believed her, and Mark just walked away. I said to her that I didn’t care and even if she was better, it was too late.\nNormally she would have flown off the handle but instead she said she understood. She asked Jeremiah if he would return to Normal with her and he said yes. We were all surprised by his answer but had built another wall of hate that we just made fun of him as he packed his things and left. A few months pass and my brothers and I have gotten more involved in the street life. Doing things that definitely could have got us put in prison or killed. My mom and my brother show up, this time my brother vouches for my mom. We still refuse there offer to live in fairy land. Jeremiah looked disgusted with us as he left that day.\nMy brothers and I started having serious problems with Mickey. My mom warned us that he was a psychopath. We never believed her because she was the one in and out of mental hospitals our whole life. Mickey got another girlfriend. He also abused her. I hated seeing it. One day I stood up for his girlfriend. He punched me in the mouth. I wanted to go back with mom. I told Anthony and Mark I was leaving expecting them to follow. Anthony who had always been self-centered said “I’m not going, Mickey hasn’t done anything to me.” Mark responded, “I can’t leave Anthony.”\nI silently cried as I packed and waited for my mother.\nI had only been in Normal for less than a week. So far so good, my mom was that loving good mom again but different in a good way. I was about to call Mark and tell him how I seen the difference in mom when my phone rang. It was Anthony, Mark had been shot at. My mom calmly grabbed the keys for her car and rushed us back to Chicago. Mark was hit in the leg. He was shot at because he was trying to rob an older man who obviously carried a pistole.\nMy mom in the calmest tone I have ever heard said. “Boys you are all coming home to Normal to finally be Normal. At this point we all had no choice but to believe in our mother once again. It was of course difficult and hostile in the beginning, but my mother remained calm. She told us all that she had found a new way to live and promised she was going to do everything right this time. She said she learned how to control her mental illness and how not to let it control her.\nI am still in disbelief. My other brothers were intrigued by my mom’s new aura. Jeremiah told us about how mom would meditate for hours and listen to vibrational beats. She spent all of her time reading about religions such as Tao and Buddhism. He seemed excited about it which in return got us excited.\nI’m not saying we all turned Buddha or religious in any manor, but this experienced opened up our minds spiritually.\nWe are all adults now and my mother is still doing amazing. We have all had our ups and downs in life and have had to unlearn so many cognitive beliefs about ourselves and life. We have struggled in our relationships and some of us struggle with social interaction. Regardless of what our life’s have become we all have learned Loyalty Perseverance and Integrity. We all have the mind set to climb a latter to greatness. We were taught to never give up. We live in light because of all we’ve been through, and all agree we can thank our beautiful crazy mother." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: What Happened\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1014\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where the laws of time and space begin to dissolve." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "What Happened!\nI exist as the planet exists. I am part of this living world. I was created as the planet formed; molten. I watched with interest: as the planet cooled, seas formed, and the land was barren. I continued to watch as the plankton to large fish eat each other, reproduced, and multiplied. I rose out of the sea to become land. I watched it become covered with creatures large and small from one celled life to insects, amphibians, reptiles, birds, mammals. It was interesting to sense what everything was doing.\nDespite my small bit of Giai existence, I was happy. I found it interesting when bipedal sentient creatures came to my place of existence. They knew me and worshiped me. I was important to them. I liked it as they worshiped, fought, feasted, played, and mated.\nThen pale skinned men came. They could not sense or know me. They built homes and farmed. There was tension between my people and the others. My people prayed to me that the others would go back from whence they came. Out of the ground I encouraged an illness against the pale faced ones, but my people took sick too. I made a mistake. My people left me.\nI was left to observe again. A small group of pale men, women, and children tramped over me. A number of dark-skinned people followed. These other men built themselves small wood homes, and a large lovely house for the pale men and their family. The dark-skinned people worked the fields while the pale ones watched. One day two of the men from the big house got together and fought. One screamed about loyalty to the king and the other about freedom. I observed with relish as one knocked the other down. He then stoked off to join the king’s army.\nA hundred years or so later an army camped over me. They were attacked by their northern brothers. One man was so afraid he wanted to run away. I fed his fear. He froze and was killed. This was fun. The slaughter was grand. The dark-skinned people ran away.\nA town was built near me. They cut down the trees. Many homes were built from those logs. One home was built right over me. They built a big building out of brick and called it a cotton mill and the houses, mill houses. All I could feel was a few bugs, mice and other such things crawling back under the house. I was depressed. I was bored. Where was the diversity of forest, and animals, and people killing each other. Out of desperation I seeped into the house and haunted the corners. I was a gloomy, mostly benign entity.\nI did nothing but observe. Several families came and went. The first was not happy with mill life. They wanted to be in the fields and hunt. I whispered in their ears, “go back.” They did. The next family was deeply religious and read the bible every night before bed and did long prayers at every meal. The youngest adult was a bright young man. He was touted as doing so well at the mill; he was promoted as manager over something. The family was proud. I was disgusted with them pounding on a book and praising a dead man that ruled over their souls.\nSome of his young friends took him out to celebrate. His father, a pious churl of a man, warned him to be an up standing Christian man. It was late in the night when the father was encouraged by his wife to look for him. The churl could hardly get out of the house fast enough to go look up a loose woman. He did go and look for his son, after he took his time with the woman. It was rumored that he got beat up for insulting honest men having a beer and playing darts. The father could hardly drag himself home. On the porch he found his son had passed out.\nEarlier the young man’s mother had greeted him at the door screaming at him for drinking. Being bored I had fun with the young man. Someone had given him a jar of white lighting. He had carried it home with him. After his mother’s tirade he sat on the porch steps. I was fairly certain; I could get him to drink it. So, I started to whisper in his ear. “You should drink your gift. You are already in trouble. What difference would it make if you have more.” This last bit swayed him. He took the lid off and drank it in gulps. He soon fell on the porch floor. The next morning, he screamed “I can’t see.” By nightfall everything they owned was on the street. The mill did not take a blind drunk and a dad to beat up to work that day.\nA number of families later, one moved in with a pregnant woman, several older children, grown daughter and father. They all worked in the mill except the grown daughter and mother. They kept house.\nThe woman had a baby. It cried all the time. A week went by and everyone in the house was cross. They could not sleep. I was thrilled. Finally, the daughter went to get a doctor. I whispered things to the baby. It keeps crying. The mother started dinner stirring and chopping. She could not stand the crying and went to the baby and screamed. “Stop, stop!” With my encouragement she raised the knife in her hand and yelled. “Stop!” It did as its life blood ran out of it. In a silent house the woman looked fixedly in horror at what she had done. She got hysterical, yanked out the knife and tossed the baby across the room as she fell to the floor on the up turned knife. I think I had managed to turn the knife on her. I thought it would be wonderful for her haunt to come keep me company. Instead, I learned about misery." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Rice Moon\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2139\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with a character crashing into something (or someone) while skiing." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Skish, skish. Skish, skish. Skish, skish, shkizzz. He strained his leg muscles against the fine layer of ice that glazed the snow. On powder, balance was easier, but on ice, he was able to glide further with each push. His aunties laughed at him. Skis were for white boys. Natives snowshoed. His mother hushed their taunts. She was proud that he felt such connection to the land, and to the fish who gave their bodies to nourish people during the cold and hungry depths of winter. In the abyss of morning, the spruce and birch that surrounded him were a wall of black against the purple sky. The crest of the sun was breaching the horizon at his back, its blood red light granting the trail a faint sheen that allowed him to read the contours of the path ahead. Nearing on the frozen lake, the land fell, bowing to the water, and speed came to Grayson. He bent his knees and tucked his poles against his ribs, giving himself over to gravity, the cold bite of February finding his cheeks and lips despite the wool mask covering his face. Breath fogged his goggles with every exhale, and so it was that the snow covered mass in the center of the trail was invisible until he couldn’t possibly avoid it.\nGrayson cut his hips hard to the right, his skis, instantly perpendicular to the trail, hit the frozen lump broadside, throwing the weight of his upper body forward while his feet were launched high into the air. Hitting the ground with a great release of wind, Grayson landed on his neck and shoulders, his poles rocketing from his hands. Momentum sent his legs tumbling after him, and his skis hit the Earth with a tangled mess of sound, plastic and metal clattering and echoing in the vacuum of dawn.\n“Goddammit!” He yelled.\nDammit! Dammit! Dammit! The forest air teased back.\nGrayson lie motionless but for the large huffs of air he sucked and released through the moist fabric covering his mouth. The sky overhead was still deepwater blue, and through the glass shielding his eyes, pinpricks of remaining starlight hushed his mind and slowed his heart. He sat up carefully, unwinding his legs until he could release his thick boots from their skis. After shaking his arms free of his pack straps, he was able to stand. Brushing the snow from his limbs, Grayson silently cursed the forest service for leaving a downed tree across a ski trail. He stomped back to the buried obstruction to collect his poles, and bending to retrieve them, he froze. His chest was a steady bellows, lifting and dropping his shoulders, pumping long draughts of smoke from his face. Grayson fell forward onto his knees, ripping his goggles from his head. The crash had broken loose some of the frozen snow that otherwise shrouded the mass. Reaching towards the object with his thick black glove, Grayson’s two forefingers delicately brushed away snow where a few thin strands of red hair now danced on the wind. Dropping his hand, he looked into the window he had made, and was hypnotized by the icy emerald eye that was staring back at him.\nSomeone gave him coffee from a thermos. A detective called him “bud.” Twice he was asked to relive his morning from the time he woke up. An EMT asked if he was alright. A ranger asked to see his fishing license. Investigators strung yellow tape around what they all called “the scene.” The medical examiner’s man took pictures when her blanket of snow had been brushed away, and the sun had fully risen. The news lady from Duluth asked, “how did you feel when you found the pregnant girl?” \nSleep was uneasy the first week. Then again the following week, too. He fell into dreaming well enough, only to meet her again, and again, and again. The red haired girl with her enormous belly, but no jacket, and no hat, and no gloves, out there in the cold dark. Sometimes she spoke. Sometimes she sang. Sometimes with nothing but a wicked grin, she told him that the baby was his. Always she was there. Between him and the lake. Between him and the place of fish and rice. Death where the world gave life. Haunting his restless nights. Haunting his tired days.\n“This is Detective Lancaster.”\n“Hi, this is Grayson Bearheart.”\n“How can I help you?”\n“You gave me your card and said to call you if anything came up.”\n“Yeah?”\n“I’ve been leaving messages.”\n“For what case number?”\n“I, I don’t know. I’m the guy who found the pregnant girl in the Fon Du Lac.”\n“Oh, right. Bearheart. How can I help you, bud?”\n“I was just wondering if there is any information about her. If you guys found out who she is yet?”\n“Nope. She’s still a Jane Doe.”\n“So you don’t know why she was out there?”\n“No idea. Medical examiner is calling it a suicide.”\n“Suicide? Why?”\n“Nature of the scene. Finding her coat and scarf abandoned at the trailhead. On a negative ten degree day, no one who wants to live does that.”\n“But why would she want to die? She was about to have a baby.”\n“You know I gave you my card in case you had information for me, right? That’s how detecting works. People bring me clues. Not the other way around.”\n“I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s been hard for me. I keep thinking about her. I can’t get her face out of my head.”\n“Listen bud, this is hard stuff. Real hard. If you have any heart at all, seeing this kind of thing, it’s gonna hurt.”\n“Even when you don’t know their names?”\n“Especially when I don’t know their names.”\nSpring came with its bounty of green grass and yellow blooms. Songbirds returned to northern Minnesota to nest in the high branches of white birch trees, and the ice bid farewell to the lake, but Grayson could not bring himself to be in the forest. He worked overtime at the casino, hiding under the ceaseless electric light and the mad repetition of digital sound wailing from the mouths of video poker machines. “Sorry bud, I got nothing new for you.”\nAll summer his canoe remained upright against the peeling paint on the side of the house. On the wall of the garage, rod and reel slept in the whirling dust, hooks rusting at the end of line. His mother saw the pink in his eyes and the extra fat under his shirt. She said nothing about the number of beer cans in the trash when she brought him food on Saturdays. “Bud, I tell you what, if I ever get her name, I’ll call you. I promise.”\nThe wrenches clinked and clanked, banging against each other in the tool bag as he walked up the steps to his mother’s house. Without knocking, Grayson turned the handle and stepped through the foyer into the wood paneled living room. On the couch, his two aging aunties were looking up at him, their eyes disappearing into brown folds of skin as they smiled wide. “Hello, son,” his mother called to him from across the counter top in the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?” \n“Sure, I’ll have a cup. Hi aunties.”\nThe room smelled of cinnamon. A plate of cookies was on the coffee table. His mother crossed the floor with a blue mug in her hand, taking careful steps so that the scalding liquid wouldn’t overtop the rim. Instead of handing him the coffee, she set it on the table, and pulled her son into a deep embrace. “I love you, Waaseyaa.” \n“I love you too, mom.” Grayson let his mother hold him, and with his free arm he pulled her in. When she slowly relaxed, letting her hands fall away from his sides, he looked back to his aunties who were both nodding, still smiling. “Is everything OK?” he asked.\n“Let me take this from you.” His mother relieved him of his tool bag, setting it in the foyer.\n“Don’t you need me to fix the sink?” \n“No, son. The sink is fine. Have a seat.”\n“What’s this about?” \n“Have a seat, please.” His mother guided him to a waiting recliner. The springs in the weathered chair creaked under his weight. His mother handed him the blue mug and a cookie. Grayson sipped the coffee as she made her way to the couch, where she wedged herself between her two sisters.\n“It’s manoominike giizis,” she said plainly.\nHe dropped his eyes. “I know.”\n“Then why aren’t you on the lake with your uncle? You haven’t missed a rice season since you were a boy.”\n“I’m just really busy this year.”\nThe aunties were shaking their heads. They looked to each other, and their heads shook even more.\n“Son. Don’t tell me lies.”\nThe women’s eyes were all on him. There was no shame or judgment in any of their faces, but Grayson trembled nonetheless. \n“I know you’re hurting. We all know. We see it plainly. You cannot hide your pain from your family. And you shouldn’t try. We love you, Waaseyaa. We are here to help you.”\nHis eyes burned with salt. He set his mug on the little wooden table next to him, and laid the cookie on top of it. With a hard sigh, he brought the balls of his hands to his eyes, wearing his fingers like great, bony lashes.\n“I see that girl, mom. All the time, I see her. At night I dream about her face. During the day, I’ll think I see a redhead out of the corner of my eye.” His hands floated in front of him and he sent his words past his mother, out of the house entirely. “Her ghost is following me! I can’t go into the woods. I can’t go to the lake.”\n“There are many lakes, son.”\n“And she haunts them all! You don’t understand! I saw her nimaamaa! She was dead! And with a baby in her belly! She wanted to die, nimaamaa! And she came to our land to do it! Why would she do that? Why would she bring her poison to us? The land is cursed, now! Maybe not for you, maybe not for uncle Eddie, maybe not for anyone else, but it is for me! I don’t feel life in the forest anymore! I feel only death!\nThe aunties' heads shook again, this time with pity. They looked to each other, and then back to Grayson. \n“It’s up to you to heal the land then, son. Don’t you see? You have been given a special task. You have been called because you love the forest. The land chose you. Don’t you see? That girl, her sadness swallowed her. She had nothing left but her pain. And she brought it like a seed, but the seed could not grow in the ice. It was trapped. Now you carry it, but it isn’t yours. You have to take it to the water, son. Only you can set your spirit free, and bring peace back into your heart.”\nThe aunties were nodding. \nShissh. Shissh. Shissh. The bow of the canoe pushed through the dense green stalks that broke the surface of the lake to dance in the afternoon air. In the stern seat, his uncle wore a wide brimmed hat and sunglasses, his strong arms pushing the vessel forward through the water with a long, heavy pole. Grayson reached out and gripped a fistful of grass that was like hair in his hand. He bent the magenta seed heads towards him, and with his left hand, he used his bawa’iganaakoog to knock loose the grains, which rained all about his feet. The floor of the canoe was covered in a soft carpet of rice. The seeds that fell beyond the gunwale floated on the surface of the lake until they were fat with moisture, and then they swam slowly downward, away from the beaming sun until they found the slippery mud. To avoid the pole that pushed the shadowy craft along, yellow perch cut and arced, their billowing fins tossing clouds of soil that landed like a blanket on the fine grains of rice, warming them, planting them in a womb of clay. At the edge of the lake, they dragged the heavy canoe back onto dry land. While his uncle loaded gear into the truck, Grayson crouched on one knee and broke open a cigarette, whispering a prayer as the tobacco made a tiny mound before his boot. Behind him a cardinal sang in a birch tree. When he stood up, the red bird took to the wind and flew off over the water. Grayson wished her a safe journey." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 window\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1990\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a silent retreat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The suffocating grip of fear had become a constant companion. My face curls downwards so much that I can feel my upside-down smile tugging at my facial muscles. My body feels hard to control, my arms dangle at my sides like I'm holding heavy rocks and I find my legs hard to lift when I walk. Every day, I feel different to everyone else. It is a hard feeling to describe, I don’t feel sad, I just feel completely and utterly hollow. As I walk through the streets I wonder if people can see it, see that I don’t look like everyone else, look like them. \nMaybe they don’t. I do feel like a ghost sometimes, floating through time, invisible to the people walking past me with fuller hearts than my own.\nThe thing that worries me the most, is that as long as he followed me, no matter what is going on, who I am with, how much time passes or how much good comes my way, the feeling of hope fills my soul for a day or two before I see him once again and dread takes over every inch of me.\n\nWhen I get back from work, all of my blinds are closed, the house is cold and ominous in the darkness. It is always like this, the fear of the figure appearing at the window and stalking my movements much overrode my desire to see the sun. My house no longer felt like my home but more like the cage that I hid inside. I had never seen the man's features enough to identify him, only his silhouette in the darkness of the night. He made no effort to hide himself, always there, looming over me. \n\nAlthough I felt partially protected by stone walls and wooden beams, fear devoured me whole. \n\nThud, thud, thud.\n\n My heart begins to race. I feel it echo through my body and I watch as my chest moves with every harsh beat. There is something wrong, panic and fear wash over me. He’s back, he’s at the window. My palms go sweaty, my mind scrambles as I feebly prepare to protect myself. He clouds my judgement, making rational thoughts hard to find. I knew he was there, I felt his presence ache through my bones. I hear him talk to me through the thin pane of glass that separates us, his words inaudible but the muffled male voice loud as if he stood right behind me. The hairs on my arm prick up straight and my neck snaps to see. nobody. He was tricking me, in my head, just like he wanted. I held my heart as my laboured breathing caused my legs to buckle at the weight of my body. “I’m safe, I’m safe” I repeated aloud, tricking myself into calming down enough for me to hear sensible thoughts. I cracked open a small gap in my blinds, I saw nothing in the darkness, he must have left. I got into bed and pulled the covers over my head. For some reason, it made me feel protected and if not, at least I couldn't see him as he crept towards me in my nightmares. \n\nAs soon as the sun starts to trickle through the small gaps in my blinds, I am awake. Bolt upright, ready to go. No alarm necessary, my body had turned into a well-oiled machine, although, I'd probably describe myself as more of a prey animal than a ‘machine’. I needed to relax, take a moment, and give my body some rest from this constant fight-or-flight feeling. Nobody here would help me or believe me when I told them about my stalker so if nobody is going to help me get rid of him, then I will be the one to leave. A quiet retreat, where I can just get in the car and go. ‘Secluded romantic getaways’ is the first thing that Google suggests to me. After a while, I came across the perfect one; ‘Holly Lodge’ described as an escape within the thick woodlands of the Forest of Dean, that sounds perfect. Without giving it a second thought, I booked for that evening and decided to leave as soon as I was packed. Three nights was all I could afford but any time away from here is worth it. Leaving during daylight hours was important to stay safe and ensure I was not being followed. I grabbed my rucksack and started to fill it with a few of my belongings. Ipad, jumper, toiletries, change of underwear, books and a charger.. That will do. I put my hair in a quick ponytail, chucked on my green parka coat and shoved my feet into my chunky boots making sure to tie them tightly. I grabbed a few packs of soba noodles and a canned iced coffee from the fridge to have that evening and shoved them into my coat pockets. I’m meant to be working tomorrow but I'll call in once I get there. A few coughs over the phone will bag me a day off or two. I peered out of my bedroom window and then stood at the door for a moment observing my surroundings before I scurried out. I got to my car, an old blue Nissan, got in, locked the doors and let out a sigh of relief before I scanned the area once more and started my journey.\n\nMy eyes diverted to my rear-view mirrors every few minutes to check the cars behind me didn't follow my path for a suspiciously long time. After the first hour or so of constant glances, I felt confident that I was entirely alone. “The destination will be on your left in 8 miles,” my phone said. I drove down the winds and bends that were carved out between the vibrant forest and watched the sunbeams dance through the trees and trickle onto the road ahead. I felt a sense of calm here that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Turning onto a gravel track away from an already secluded main road I could see Holly Lodge perched in the middle of a beautiful clearing left untamed with ferns, tall grass and clusters of wildflowers. \n\nI parked up and started to walk towards the quaint yet charming cabin, relief washed over me. The air seemed lighter here, full of the scent of fresh pine and wet earth. The cabin's wooden exterior blended seamlessly with the surrounding nature, and as I stepped inside, I was instantly greeted with a cosy atmosphere. What a beautiful sanctuary. \n\nI unpacked my belongings while listening to the soft rustle of leaves outside of the window and the distant chirping of birds lulled me into a sense of tranquillity. As the day turned to dusk, I prepared my simple meal and settled by the crackling fire, I let the warmth seep into my bones as I flicked to a bookmarked page in my current favourite fantasy novel. \n\nBut as darkness fell and shadows grew long, a familiar sense of unease crept its way back into the pits of my mind. I glanced nervously at the window, half expecting to see him, lurking in the darkness. \n\nNo, I was so careful, I am just being irrational. I tried to distract myself in the pages of my book, but my mind kept wandering to him - to the flickers of light that seemed to move around me and the faint breeze that tickled the back of my neck. The golden red fire did little to ease my now racing heart, and every creak of the cabin seemed to echo with sinister intent. The floorboards began to groan from above me, the sound of heavy feet. I shot up out of my seat and fought the fear that tried to root me to the ground.\n\nI moved quickly towards the bathroom and locked myself inside. I didn’t want to move. Stood catatonic in the centre of the room, eyes wide in fear. I felt physically sick. He’s here. And he's not just outside the window, he's here. \n\nAfter what felt like an eternity on the bathroom floor, legs curled tightly into my chest, I knew I needed to get out of there. Get to my car. But what if he was waiting for me, peering from the banister of the stairs? \n\nI had to go, I placed my ear up to the door to check for any sounds and cracked it open, the coast was clear. I grabbed my car keys off of the side and started to move slowly towards the exit of the cabin.\n\nSuddenly, fast footsteps started to pace down the wooden stairs.\n\nI ran for the door, terrified. I got to it and turned the lock.\n\nKnock, knock, knock\n\nWhat? He was at the door.\n\nPanic surged through me like a tidal wave, and before I could stop myself, I was stumbling backwards, tripping over my own feet in a desperate scramble for safety.\n\nThe door was unlocked.\n\nI watched as the knob began to turn. \n\nMy heart hammered in my chest as the door creaked open, revealing the yawning darkness beyond. Fear clutched at my throat, rendering me speechless and motionless. I wanted to scream, to run, but my body felt like led, rooted to the spot by the sheer terror of what was out there, pouncing on me. \n\nThe monster that had been following me, torturing me, was finally going to consume me whole.\n\nWith trembling hands, I fumbled around looking for anything to defend myself. My fingers bound themselves around the heavy book I had left nearby. Clutching it to my chest, I pulled my legs up beneath me ready to spring up if needed, and tried to drag a deep breath, to little avail. \n\nThen, it appeared, an ominous silhouette filling the doorway only slightly highlighted by the dimly lit cabin lights. My pulse thundered in my ears as I strained to try and make out any human feature that I could. \n\nA guttural growl whispered through the air and ice slid down my spine. \n\n“There you are.”\n\nEach word clung to me, dragging me down into the earth. I felt sick, how did he find me? \n\nWith a surge of adrenaline, I raised the book in trembling hands.\n\nHe ran towards me. \n\nI closed my eyes tightly. \n\nBefore I could land a blow, I was engulfed. \n\nStrong arms wrapped around me. \n\nI looked up to see. My mother. \n\n“There, there.” \n\nFear turned to heartbreak and disappointment as I burst into tears and dropped to my knees, my mother's body fell to the floor with mine as she held my head in her chest. \n\nIt happened again.\n\nIt took me a moment to take it all in and start to piece together what was going on. Trying to untangle the fear and confusion that had taken over me. In my mother's embrace, the storm gradually subsided. \n\n“There is something wrong with me” I whimpered, my voice barely audible over the sound of my ragged breaths. “I'm so sorry.”\n\nMy mother pulled back slightly and raised my chin to meet her gaze, her eyes a mixture of concern and love. “There is nothing wrong with you.\" She said, her nurturing voice soothed over me like a blanket “You have to be a strong person to fight against your own mind, and you are the strongest person I know. You are not alone, we will get through this together.” \n\nI cried as I hugged her tightly. “Come on, let's get you home,” she said. We grabbed my possessions and left the cabin, walking into the dead of night. “The car is just through these trees” she whispered, her hand held mine tightly as she walked in front, tugging me in with her. The final sparkles of light from the cabin slowly disappeared “I love you Mum” I 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: Holy Crap\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2238\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a tea party that your character is reluctant to go to." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "He was subdued now, sitting in a hard wooden armchair, alone in the room, his foot methodically kicking at the door in front of him making a dull thud as it hit the door, then a soft scraping noise as the sole of his runner slid down to the floor, over and over. Nobody could hear him anyway. How long had he been in this room now? It was four, maybe five hours, paying his penance, but he snickered, \"It was worth it\" he thought. \"Next one will be even better Father\", he promised himself. The stink of incense stored in the cupboard saturated the room. Archie hated the smell; it reeked like an electrical fire; Frankincense that they burned at every Sunday service. It was their undertaking to strip him of his culture and replace it with their sacraments. He wondered how many more hours he would spend in this room before he finally turned 18 and fled.\nBoredom setting in, he dragged the heavy chair across the room so it straddled under the stained glass window at the top of the wall, a foot below the ceiling. The middle pane was clear glass that he could peer through. The room was the semblance of a prison cell - cut off from the world outside by a heavy door firmly latched shut, the lighting was dim and it despaired of loneliness and gloom and radiated a musky smell; he referred to it as retribution 101. He'd been here before. The dusty old oak desk was covered with papers, books and the Holy Bible. He hopped up on the chair and peeked out the tiny clear window into the courtyard. His buddies were out there laughing and wrestling with each other on their afternoon break. He should be out there with them except he got caught again. \nMarty was kicking stones in the gravel laneway that made up the perimeter of the round lush green courtyard. The boys went out there every afternoon for a short break; it was their diminutive avoidance before they had to go back indoors and submit to the harsh regimentation of the residential school. They were laughing and jeering about his recent stunt. \"Did you see the look on the Father's face? Arch nailed it. It was hilarious!\" Marty laughed so hard Archie could hear him inside.\n\"Yeah, the old bastard deserved it\", Sebastian agreed, looking up at Archie peeking out the window and giving him a thumbs-up. \"I don't know anybody else who has spent as much time in the penalty box as Archie has.\" The boys all laughed and waved at Archie.\nFather O'Brien was an evil foul man and Archie despised him. Most of them hated the man and none of them ever wanted to be the chosen alter boy to tend to his afternoon tea ritual. Archie literally vibrated with anger and his stomach retched at the thought of it. Sister Mary didn't ring bells on the top of the directory either. She knew what the Father was doing but she preferred not to acknowledge it. That made her as despicable as Father O'Brien in his meagre opinion. Bless you Sister Mary for you have sinned, and you have never made a confession.\nMaybe Archie had sinned too but he was able to justify it to himself. His sins were simply comprised of pranks on the Father that the boys often chattered and hooted about when they were outside on their brief reprieves. Like the time Archie left some plastic dog shit on the Father's chair in his office and Father called maintenance to clean up the disgusting mess. Even the maintenance man had a chuckle over that one; it actually looked real, real enough to outrage the Father. Or the time Archie taped the receiver button down on his telephone. When the Father tried repeatedly to answer the phone, he finally lost his patience and slammed the phone down so hard it knocked a glass vase off the desk smashing into pieces all over the floor. The boys were down the hall listening to him, busting a gut laughing. \nThe abuse had scarred Archie over the years and it still continued. He was only seven years old when he was brutally ripped from his mother's arms and taken away from his home by authorities to be forced into the residential school. He remembered screaming and crying, trying to hang onto her while they pried him out of her arms. She was crying too when they thrust him into the police cruiser. He cried for days and nights, and he still cried when he was alone, seven years later, now 14 years old and still living in the hell they enforced on him. He had only had seven visits from his parents since he had been there - once a year. They were only permitted three visits per year but the trip was too onerous for them, and they were also in survival mode at this time in their lives\nHe became bitter and retaliatory and refused to comply or accept the constraints and beliefs they imposed on him. All the time he spent in the penalty box, as his buddies had labelled the room, only contributed to his contentious behaviour. It gave him time to think about his next prank. And prank he would.\nThe big red brick structure was always a flurry of activity. Nuns were always rushing around with their habits flowing behind them, glancing at the children and whispering to each other, the maintenance crew always cleaning and polishing statues and floors until they shone, and the Father would make appearances here and there scoping out the daily activities. Archie loathed when he saw the Father in the hallways. He knew that he was picking his next victim. Whenever he passed by him he never made eye contact with him, he always looked down to the floor and tried to slither past, holding his breath and hoping he would not be the chosen one. If ever there were a time when he prayed it was these moments when he prayed that it would not be him. On this particular day he was not so lucky. He knew he was going to be the Father's prey; his gut feeling told him. He wanted to throw up.\n\"Archie, my boy, where are you rushing to in such a hurry? Slow down son, I want to speak with you a moment, young man\", the Father moved into Archie's pathway to block him from getting past, his religious garments made his demeanour feel so gigantic as he towered over Archie. His connotation of the words 'my boy' repulsed Archie. \"I need to see you this afternoon in my drawing-room at 2:00 o'clock, my son, for my tea time. Don't be late\" the Father warned. Archie wanted to vomit; there was no avoiding the abhorrent man. He knew what was going to happen this afternoon in the drawing-room. \"But today Father, things will turn out different than usual\", he thought to himself trying to stay composed. \"Yes sir\" he dryly replied. He needed to get to his dorm room right away.\nArchie had a connection outside of the residential school, a friend named John, whom he relied on from time to time, especially when he needed supplies that the school didn't provide, supplies such as plastic dog poop or extra-strong laxatives. John was able to provide just such an item to Archie - and little tincture that was a marvellously strong laxative. When John came to visit him outside the fence a couple of weeks ago he was ecstatic with his purchase, he knew he would have a use for it someday. That day had arrived.\nOn his way to the dreaded tea time, Archie passed Marty in the hallway. \"Hey Arch, what's up bud? You don't look so good right now\" Marty commented to his friend. \n\"I'm not so good. The fucking Father nailed me in the hallway earlier. It's my turn today\", Archie told Marty, looking down at the floor trying not to cry. He was 14 years old now, he was supposed to be a man by now and men don't cry, but he knew this wasn't what real men do, or what real men tolerated.\nMarty knew exactly what Archie was talking about. He too had been sequestered for his share of turns for the Father's afternoon tea ritual. \"Shit Archie, that sucks,\" he said.\nArchie was on time for tea time, he knew better than to agitate the Father. He could be a callous unkind man when he was angry and his lenience level was extremely low. He demanded his way was the only way, there was no other way. As was the usual routine, the Father was sitting in his huge recliner chair, slightly reclined, with the Bible opened in his hands, the room dimly lit. When Archie entered the room, Father closed the book and placed it on the side table where Archie would place the silver serving tray with a freshly steeped pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. What the Father failed to see, because Archie had strategically kept his back to the Father while he prepared the pot of tea, was that Archie had dropped the tincture into his tea. One, two, three.... seven drops of it - double the recommended dose and one more drop for vengeance. He wiped his hands off and the smile off of his face, and turned to face the Father with the silver tray in his hand.\n\"Here you go Father\", he placed the tray on the table and poured his cup of tea for him. It was precisely 2:00 p.m. when he handed it to him. He submitted to the Father's requests and left the room at 2:30 p.m. \"See you this evening Father,\" he said as he left the drawing-room. \nFather O'Brien stood at the pulpit in front of the boys droning on about something but Archie had zoned out a while ago. He hated the Monday evening Boys Guidance Group classes, another formal procedure that was forced upon them so they could learn to be 'proper white boys' instead of the dirty little Indians they arrived as. As far as he was concerned, it was a total waste of his time; he would never let them strip his culture from him. He knew who he was and who he always would be. Nevertheless, the Father's monotonous voice continued, on and on, when he suddenly stopped speaking mid-sentence with a look of trepidation on his face. The growl and gurgle in his stomach filled the silent room as the boys looked on, and Archie stared at him waiting for it, holding his breath and elbowing Sebastian beside him. He winked at him, \"Here it comes\" he whispered. Sebastian could feel Archie's body quivering from holding his laughter inside; he could barely contain it. Then Marty caught on and he too vibrated from his effort of silencing his laughter. The Father was frozen in his spot with his butt cheeks squeezed tight ... and then he farted and oh Dear Lord it was a wet one. A really bad wet one. It was more than a fart - he felt it run down his leg. Immediately a brown stain formed around the butt of his pants and the stench that filled the room was disgusting. The embarrassment and humiliation on the Father's face was priceless, uproarious actually. It was the payoff Archie was looking for, recompense and penance wrote across the Father's face. The Father knew they all hated him. Forgive you Father for you have shit your pants. The Father knew intuitively who was responsible for this and he glared at Archie before he turned and stormed out of the room, silently. There was a pandemonium of laughter and clapping throughout the room behind him as he repentantly left with his head bowed, his brown stained pants revealed to everyone. Sebastian slapped Archie on the back in camaraderie, roaring in laughter, \"Good one Archie!\" All the boys in the room commended Archie. Class abruptly ended. \nHow many more times he would do this, he wondered to himself. \"What will I do next?\" Archie waived back to the boys in the courtyard and jumped down off the chair. He sat back down and visualized the prank in his mind again. Yes, it was worth it. This morning hadn't started out that good for him and the day hadn't gotten any better yet, but he still sneered regardless. At 6:00 a.m. this morning Sister Mary was standing at his bedside in his dorm room leaning over him, her oval face was outlined by her Nun's habit and her eyes were dark with anger. \n\"The Father wants to see you right away Mr Rainwater\" she reprimanded him with a cold starchy voice. \"He is very angry with you Archibald. You should be ashamed of yourself\", she hissed at him.\nBlinking awake, he looked into the Sister's eyes. \"I know I should be Sister, but I am not\" his voice was very cool. \"I'll get up and get ready to go and speak to the Father right away. Thank you, Sister.\" He got himself cleaned up and dressed. He left his dorm room and headed down the hall to report to the Father, yet again." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Day I Met the Wind\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2777\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story including the phrase “Better late than never”." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Have you ever met the wind? If you'd have asked me that yesterday, I'd have probably answered \"no\".\n\nWell, first I'd have probably looked at you funny, and asked you \"what do you mean? Have I ever been outside on a windy day ? Or, felt the wind blow? Well, sure. Sure I have.\"\n\nBut, to answer the actual question directly, I'd have had to say I never actually met the wind. That was, until today.\n\nIt started when my Garmaw took us to the prairie. (By the way, 'Garmaw' is how my sister and I learned to say “grandmother” when we were little...and it just stuck. Even though it's not the right word - it's the right word for her). \n\nGarmaw was telling stories to our mom and dad as she drove. She grew up here - and she had some old story for just about every farm we passed. She'd talk about who used to live here and there, who lives here and there now, and all of what happened in between. Then, on to pass another farm with some happy story, woven into the last little bit of a sad one before it.\n\nI wasn't really paying attention. Not because her stories weren't interesting, but because as a ten year old boy, I'm not really capable of paying attention to things grownups say, especially when they say them for a long time. After a while, it all just sort of runs together into one big sound, that doesn't seem like it was meant for me to listen to.\n\nBut, in between her driving and telling stories, I did manage to actually hear her say something about a poem called If You're Not From the Prairie. I wasn't sure why, but my guess was she wanted to get us excited about where she was driving us: which was, of course, the prairie.\n\nOur Garmaw knew lots of books and poems from her years as a school teacher - she always shared them, and we always read them. She never shared a bad one…so I paid more attention to what she was saying than the rest of the grownup talk that had been running together. She was sharing parts of the poem.\n\n“...If you’re not from the prairie,\nYou don’t know the wind, \nYou can’t know the wind.\nOur cold winds of winter cut right to the core,\nHot summer wind devils can blow down the door…”\n\nIt was December, and we were visiting Garmaw over our Christmas break. So, I was pretty sure that we’d find the prairie more on the ‘cold winds of winter’ side today. To be completely honest, a wind so cold that it can cut you right to the core did not sound like a good time to me. I glanced over at my sister, and saw she was already glancing at me. We both raised our eyebrows and said nothing. Thank you, poem.\n\nWe turned off the gravel road into the park. There was an orange sign covered in a thin layer of dust that read “Spring Creek Prairie”. Swinging over the entrance was a big rusty thing that looked like the letters K and O, welded together on their side.\n\n“See that?” said Garmaw, pointing at the rusty thing as we passed underneath, “That’s a cattle brand for the people who used to own the prairie. They used this land for grazing cattle.”\n\nI imagined those people dressed like Eskimos, staying warm while they took care of their poor, shivering cattle. And imagined myself, standing next to them, shivering with my hoodie pulled up around my face.\n\nThe prairie was fine. It was big. It was nice. It had a visitor center, but we didn’t go in. There was a green sign that said ‘NO DOGS ALLOWED’ in big white letters at the beginning of the trail. But, it was not too cold - the person who wrote that poem must have come to the prairie on a different day.\n\nAnd, the trail through the prairie was too long. I’m sure there were shorter trails we could have taken, but grownups always choose the long trails, and today was no different. We could have seen all the prairie we needed on a trail half as long as the one we took, but nope…we just had to take a long trail. My dad even went off on an even longer trail, so he could see more prairie. Grownups are so weird. I was ready to go home.\n\nI was trying to make the walk seem shorter, by running ahead, stopping, running ahead, and stopping. I had run about a football field ahead of everyone else, when I saw a bench on the side of the trail, and decided to rest while waiting for the others to catch up. Places like this were always full of benches with people’s names on them. It always feels a little funny to put your backside on someone’s name, especially when you don’t know them. I imagine them somewhere saying “hey, kid! That’s my name you’re sitting on…get off me!”. That made me laugh.\n\nBut I didn’t laugh for long. A lady came up the trail, wearing a faded red overcoat and thick work pants like the kind my grandpa wears on cold days at the farm. She wore old rubber boots that went up to her knees, covered in mud to the ankles. And, she had dogs - five of them.\n\nAnd, that's the reason I stopped laughing - I don’t really like dogs. Well…I like our dog, but I don’t like other people’s dogs. When I was little, some big stupid dog nipped me in the face, and so I never really liked dogs after that. And, besides, I knew there were no dogs allowed at this park. That lady just had to have passed the same sign we did - the one that said ‘NO DOGS ALLOWED’ in big white letters.\n\nAs she got closer, I could see she had red cheeks and leathery skin, and wisps of thin grey hair poking out from under her knit hat. She was old - much older than Garmaw.\n\nThe others who were behind me arrived up the trail at the same time as the old lady. My sister - who of course loves dogs - asked the woman if it was ok to pet one of the smaller dogs. The woman smiled and said it was fine.\n\nDid you ever say something that you started trying to un-say while you were saying it, but it just comes out anyway? Well, that’s exactly what I did next.\n\n“You know, there’s no dogs allowed in the park.”\n\nI started trying to un-say it about halfway through, but it all just came out anyway.\n\nMy sister’s eyes got big. My mother shot me the eyes, while she pulled me away by my shoulder and apologized to the lady.\n\n“It’s fine,” she said. “There’s actually an interesting story about that. Wanna hear it?” She was talking directly to me.\n\nI glanced at my mom, who nodded that it was ok to listen. So, I did.\n\n“Before this land was settled,” she said, “it belonged to the people of the Pawnee, the Otoa, the Kansa, and the Omaha tribes. As far as you can see from here in all directions, and then some…all roamed by the people of those tribes.” She gestured out at the horizon as she spoke.\n\nI looked around in all directions. In the city, you can’t look very far in any direction before something blocks your view. But here, I felt like I could see forever…nothing ever blocked my view, just more prairie rolling out and down in all directions, until it was swallowed up by the air. I knew exactly what she meant when she said “and then some.”\n\n“Over 150 years ago ,” she continued, “the government told the settlers they would give each family 160 acres of this land, for free. All they had to do was agree to live on it for five years, then the homestead would belong to them.”\n\nI wasn’t sure how big an acre was, but I knew it was really big. And, I knew 160 was a lot of them to get for free.\n\n“How could the government give away the land, if it already belonged to the Native Americans?”, I asked.\n\nThe old lady looked at me and smiled, like I had just blurted out the punch line of her joke. “That’s a really good question, and one I didn’t start asking myself until I was much older than you are. Better late than never, I suppose.” She chuckled. “Maybe that’s a story for another time. But first, let’s finish the story about the dogs..”\n\n“So my family was one of those homesteaders,” she went on, “But we didn’t farm our land, we ranched it. That means we raised cows on it. It also means that the way you see this prairie today, is almost exactly how it looked since long before it was settled. Just like this, never plowed, never cultivated or moved in any way.”\n\nI looked out, and imagined this place, but with no roads, no telephone poles, no visitor center, no gravel parking lot, and no mowed trails. It wasn’t hard, because there was so much prairie here, and so little of those other things. It was almost as if they weren’t there anyway.\n\n“Anyway,” she continued, “this place stayed in my family until 1998, when two groups started a bidding war over who would buy this land from me. One group was a big land developer, who offered us lots of money to build houses on it. The other group was the people who run the parks. They offered us a lot less money for the land, but said they would preserve it, just how it is, forever.”\n\nSince I didn’t see any houses here, it was clear what she had decided. “But...why didn’t you take the offer for more money?” I asked.\n\n“Well - three reasons,” she answered with a smile. “The first reason, and the reason I’m telling you this story, is because they agreed to let me continue to bring my dogs here, for as long as I live. So, these dogs are lucky!” She reached down and scratched one behind the ear. “They are the only dogs in the whole world that are permitted here in the park, and it’s not against the rules.”\n\nI looked at my mother and my grandmother, I could tell they were really enjoying this - shaking their heads and smiling in disbelief at this most unexpected story. If I’m being honest, I sorta felt the same way. It was a really cool story.\n\n“The second reason is, the day I decided to make up my mind on who to sell to, I went for a walk around the ranch. And, in that pond over there,” she said as she pointed to a pond near the visitor center, ”I saw a Great Egret. Now I’d lived my whole life on this ranch, and never once seen a bird like that on any of our ponds. But it's the symbol of the group from the parks, it’s their mascot. So, I took it as a sign, and made up my mind right there. I called the big developer the next day and told them I would be selling my land to the park.”\n\n“And, what was the third reason?” I asked.\n\nThe old lady looked off into the distance and said, “the third reason was..well, because, I know the wind.”\n\nI looked at my sister. Her mouth fell open in amazement, and I think mine probably did too. This old woman had just spoken the exact words that Garmaw had used when talking about her poem in the car ride here. Garmaw did not seem surprised, she just smiled.\n\nThe old lady broke the silence. “Anyway, the dogs and I headed up to visit my horse, Jube. He’s buried just over there-a-ways. I hope you folks have a great time here today.” She called to her dogs.\n\nAs she began to turn away, she stopped and leaned in close to my ear, and whispered “you can know the wind too, if you want.” she pointed up a nearby hill. “It's waiting up there. You just go up to the top of that hill, close your eyes, and wait.”\n\nThen she walked away, with five dogs bounding here and there around her feet.\n\nNow, this woman who had lived her whole life in this fantastic place where Natives once roamed, who was once visited a magical bird she’d never seen before, and who’d rather have a place to walk her dogs and bury her horse than money - who not even three minutes earlier I had told there were NO DOGS ALLOWED - this most unusual person had just told me to go up the hill, close my eyes, and wait. So I could ‘meet the wind.’\n\nSo I did the only sensible thing a person could do - I ran up the hill, my mother calling behind me. I didn’t wait, or even ask. I just moved my feet, one in front of the other, until I was on top of the hill, then closed my eyes, and I waited.\n\nI met the wind. \n\nI don’t mean that I felt the wind when it blew on me, like it does in the city where we live.\n\nI don’t mean that I was on top of a hill, in the prairie, on a windy day - even though that was true.\n\nI mean, I met the wind. Just like we had not known the old lady, then we met her, then we knew her through her stories. In a moment, I went from not knowing the wind, to really knowing it. \n\nWith my eyes closed, the wind introduced itself to me with a sound. Just like the lady told us she had seen the Great Egret for the first time, this wasn't any sound that I knew. I was hearing it for the first time in my life. It was the sound of the wind passing across countless blades of dry tallgrass. Any one blade, or ten, or a hundred blades could make absolutely no sound at all. But, together, limitless millions of blades of tallgrass, each making no sound of its own, all add up to a whisper. A deep and ancient whisper, moving towards everywhere, from everywhere at once. A vast whisper that carries a secret - I am the wind, you know me. \n\nThis was the same secret whisper the old lady had heard when she grew up on this place, on 160 acres that was never really hers. The same secret from before the beginning of time that the wind whispered to the children of the Pawnee, the Otoa, the Kansa, and the Omaha. \n\nIt’s a secret that has never been heard anywhere but here, on the prairie, because it can never be uttered anywhere but here. And now, this magnificent secret was being whispered to me.\n\nI stayed with the wind as long as I could, before my mother called me down and scolded me for running off.\n\nOn the drive home, my Garmaw and my mother were talking again, telling stories where every farm we passed had its own page in the storybook. It was that grownup talk that all runs together and sounds like it's not intended for me. I was waiting for a break in the talking so I could ask:\n\n“Garmaw, when we get home will you please read us the poem about the wind and the prairie?”\n\nShe said she would, and when we got home - she did. \n\n“...If you’re not from the prairie, you can’t know my soul,\nYou don’t know our blizzards, you’ve not fought our cold.\nYou can’t know my mind, nor ever my heart,\nUnless deep within you, there’s somehow a part… \nA part of these things that I’ve said that I know, \nThe wind, sky and earth, the storms and the snow. \nBest say you have—and then we’ll be one\nFor we will have shared that same blazing sun.”\n\nI’m not from the prairie; I’ve never known blizzards, or fought cold, or done anything having to do with storms or the blazing sun, or any of that stuff. I’m just a kid from the city. But, today there is somehow a part deep within me of these things he said that he knows.\n\nI know the wind." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Silence of the Full Moon\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2206\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a silent retreat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Life is full of stressors. Monotonous jobs whose days make the worker feel as if trapped in a singular moment in time, bills that reach up to your neck, and, of course, the noise. When the noise can get so loud, and so invasive, it feels as if ants are crawling over the surface of your brain.\n That is what Sarah felt. She had moved to the big city just over three months ago with the promise of a new job. But lately, she felt that it was all becoming too much for her, and she decided to use her accrued days off and try out a silent retreat that had been advertised around town.\n She had looked into this place, and she thought it sounded exotic. This retreat was apparently an old mansion that was once occupied by a wealthy family up until the 90’s. Not long after the passing of the husband and wife who lived there, their son – named Dorian Crowley – inherited the massive house and, instead of living in it, had turned it into a silent retreat for anyone looking for such a luxury. Sarah couldn’t find much information on this latest owner of the mansion other than he seemed to live a reclusive life and had a mindset of what most would call a progressive – vegan diet, spiritual health, inner peace, and the works – at least that’s how she grasped it. Sarah wasn’t too big on that herself but didn’t fault anyone for that lifestyle. Besides, she was currently looking for that exact lifestyle for her getaway weekend, so maybe the owner of this retreat might be on to something.\n Sarah arrived at this rustic manor early in the morning on a Saturday, and she was struck breathless. The manor was Victorian style with what looked like several rooms, almost each with its own balcony for the tenant to step out and enjoy the fresh air – which was aplenty, as the building itself was surrounded by a thick and vibrant forest. Sarah couldn’t see the slightest sign of civilization peaking through these dense trees as they seemingly engulfed the property.\n There was an eerie quiet surrounding the place, but Sarah had to remind herself that this was to be expected as of the nature of this excursion. She realized that, though she’d grown to hate the constant noise and hustle of city life, she had also grown used to it, and would have to get over this irrational sense of unease in this place of silent tranquility and embrace it for what it was meant to be.\n She walked through the front door and she saw a wooden podium with a logbook resting on it. Behind the podium was a remarkably tall man – standing at least six foot seven – whose skin was so pale, that Sarah wondered if he had ever felt the rays of the sun. This doorman had a nametag on his red vest which read ‘Dorian’, and she thought about asking in a joking way if he had any relation to the Dorian Crowley who now owned this building, but after registering his stern expressionless face with the silencing gesture, she decided against it. She opened her mouth to greet him but before a sound escaped, this doorman raised a long and pointed finger to his lips. He kept an overall stoic expression as he did so, though his eyes grew big as they bore into her own. She stopped herself and nodded, and slowly closed the door behind her out of respect for the other guests at the retreat – though this produced the opposite effect that she had wanted, as it creaked loudly like an irate cat as it inched slowly towards the latch. She winced. Looking up at the doorman, however, his face didn’t move – not a single muscle – as the creaky door performed its symphony. He only looked at her in that expressionless, blank way with wide eyes, that finger stuck to his lips as if his boss had glued it there.\n Undeterred and remaining in character, Sarah tip-toed up to the man. “Uhm…” she mumbled, “Sarah Whitley, for Saturday at nine?”\n The doorman slowly lowered his finger. His finger moved so slackening down from his lips to the notebook before him that Sarah was starting to worry that she might expect a charge for checking in late, even though she had arrived half an hour earlier than scheduled. After Sarah felt like she had considerably aged, the doorman had written a checkmark in one of the blank boxes next to her name. He then raised his other hand (a little quicker this time, thank God) and made a gesture representing one corner of a box. Sarah raised an eyebrow at him, then gasped and mouthed right, at him. She produced her driver’s license from her wallet in her purse.\n The sluggish doorman peered at it and, in his own character, nodded very, very slowly in confirmation. He made a second checkmark on the sheet before him. He reached down into a compartment within the podium and produced a small piece of paper. Sarah took it, and saw it read, ‘Sarah Whitley, room #19. Third door on the right after climbing the stair.’\n Sarah certainly found this entire experience to be a bit odd and wondered if all silent retreats acted this way. Of course, she didn’t know, so she simply nodded at the doorman and mouthed thanks to this shallow doorman. She followed her small instructions as guided until she found her room in #19.\n The door thankfully closed silently behind her this time as she dropped her bag to the floor. She decided to unpack that later, as she wanted simply just to plop on the bed in this decent-sized room and let out a long sigh, like in a movie – and she did just that.\n She let several moments pass by until she finally opened her eyes and observed her surroundings. She saw the room was mostly kept tidy and uninspired, but there had been various knick-knacks spread throughout the place that resembled the moon – some of them were half-moons, or waxed or waned moons, but the majority of them were full moons. She thought this was also a bit peculiar, but knew that the moon was symbolical for inner peace, and let thought nothing else of it.\n Most of that morning and afternoon was spent as the afternoon suggested – meditation, reading, and focusing on a hobby such as art. It truly was a relaxing day for Sarah as she found this to be exactly as unwinding as advertised. She stepped out on the balcony attached to her room and watched the sunset as it calmly rolled behind the horizon. Through all this time she did not utter a single word and heard nothing – from words to electronics to a simple sneeze – from any of her neighboring patrons here. It was in all ways she could imagine, a peaceful day.\n Later after watching the last flickers of light from the sunset, Sarah moved to the bathroom and relieved herself, washed her hands, and brushed her teeth. She laid her head down on the mass of pillows on her bed with a sigh loaded with tranquility. She lay there for a few minutes until she felt herself begin to drift off into sleep. But just before she drifted totally into a rem cycle, she heard her neighboring tenant snore loudly. That in itself wasn’t an issue, as it didn’t bother her, but what was unnerving was the animalistic howl that followed soon after.\n Sarah darted upright in her bed, looking out the window, wondering if she would spot the creature that made the noise. She now heard rustling in the room next to hers; someone just stood up and out of bed, and they accidentally knocked something over. At the sound of something that thumped on the floor in the neighboring room, the howl sounded again – only now Sarah could tell that the howl was inside the building.\n The sound of rushing, padded thumps raced up the stairs. A wolf broke into the building! Sarah thought frantically to herself. She expected to soon hear the sound of paws rustling against the door next over, but instead what she heard was a key jingling in a lock. Sarah held her breath, making every conscious effort not to make a sound. The neighboring door now swung open, and Sarah heard a blood-curdling scream come from the next room over.\n “No! No no no NO!” their voice pleaded. They were answered with a tremendous growl that made Sarah’s spine chatter from her pelvis up to her jawline and now understood why frightened characters’ teeth chatter in a cartoon. Sarah heard a struggle in the room beside her as she could hear things being knocked from shelves and shattering on the floor, and now a mixed sound of thump-thump-thump paired with what Sarah could only describe as something being drug through the doorway and out into the hallway.\n Sarah stood up from her bed and, despite all her instincts yelling at her to cease, she slowly turned the doorknob of her room. Quietly as she could, she peered her head out into the hallway. In the light of the moon piercing through the hallway window, she beheld a sight that she didn’t know how to comprehend. In the hallway was what looked like a wolf with red eyes that almost glowed in the moonlight. This wolf was standing on its hind legs, though it had an elongated torso that reached so far up its head almost brushed against the ceiling. Wrapped around the chest of this wolfish creature was a stretched and torn red vest, which had pinned to it a plastic nametag that read ‘Dorian’. Below this monster was the limp body of a middle-aged man with a round and plum belly with a bleeding laceration in his temple; this man whom the wolf creature was dragging across the floor by his ankles.\n Sarah gasped in astonishment then raised a hand to her mouth to silence herself, though she knew already she was too late. Her eyes bulged as she watched the wolfman’s eyes dart up to match her own. They stared into each other for what felt like an eternity, until the creature raised one gnarled claw to its mouth and made a sickeningly human ‘shush’ motion before it looked back down to its victim and continued to drag it down the hallway, and then down the stairs – the unfortunate man’s head making a nauseating thump with every stair it collided with as they both descended. Sarah coughed back a scream as she flew the door shut in front of her, and rushed to a corner in her room below the window.\nDespite her hands which now cusped over her ears, she heard that reverberating howl around the thick trees outside, which was followed only once by a scream by the newly awakened victim of the wolfman – a scream that was cut short with a blood-curdling gurgle.\nChomp. Chomp. Chomp. The noises that followed. Sarah felt sick to her stomach, but was too terrified to move from her spot – part of her knew that was useless, as this monster had already seen her in this room, but the rest of her demanded that she stay perfectly still in this one spot, out of view – but out of scent?\nThere she sat huddled for the rest of the night. When the first light of the sunrise had peaked through her window, she gathered up her things and rushed downstairs, ignorant of the unwritten house rules of silence as her bag thumped down the stairs. Thump-thump-thump, it went, and with every thump, she thought of that poor man’s head as he was dragged down.\nShe made it to the doorman and sputtered quickly, “Checking out early thank you!”\nBut with her hand holding the door open she stopped in her tracks, swiveling her head around to look at the doorman, who hadn’t yet made a note of her early departure. It was the same man as yesterday, and instead of writing anything down in the notebook before him, he kept that same solemn and silent expression with the bulging eyes glaring at her, as he raised a long and gnarled finger to his lips, giving her the ‘shush’ gesture. Sarah glanced down at his vest, this one for today now a sky-blue, with a nametag which read ‘Dorian’.\nHer eye twitched at him as her hand trembled on the door. She opened her mouth to say something, but all she could muster was a weak groan. She darted out the open door and towards her car. She could feel his eyes digging into the back of her as she ran, though she never looked back.\nTo this day, Sarah never went to another silent retreat yet had refrained from making a single sound at night – especially on nights like that one, where the moon was full, and the silence could be cut with a single howl." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Connection\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1074\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a labyrinth that holds a secret." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Good morning Sunshine.\" The big orange tabby sat staring at Gloria. \"Do you ever sleep in?\"\nIt had been the same start to every day going on nine years. Gloria lived in a small seaside cottage in South Carolina. Sunshine had shown up one day after a terrible rainstorm, not very old and very hungry, he stayed.\nGloria swung her legs to the floor. \"We are going up to the University today, have been invited to lead a group of believers through the labyrinth, I told them eleven this morning, so Sunny boy let's get a move on it.\"\nAs always Sunny sat in a cushion-lined wicker basket on the passenger seat, staring out the window. He went everywhere Gloria went, was kind of her right-hand man. They drove through the gates of the old Charleston Christian University, she felt the energy start to stir. It was her gift, every Shaman had a special gift. Hers was the ability to see and feel the energy. In the past, over the years, they had walked the labyrinth many times. As always the energy around her shifted when she passed through those gates and onto the property.\nThe University was over two hundred years old, many scholars had passed through here and still were passing through here. It housed a large seminary and nunnery. Many although no longer of the earth plane still wandered the grounds. These were the ones Gloria was interested in on this visit, the children of the residential schools of the early to mid-twentieth century.\nGloria was a transplant from Ireland, a Celtic Shaman. She did lectures on plant medicine, lightworkers, worked with animal spirits, taught meditation, shared her knowledge of Shamanism as well as the fifth dimension. She was well known for her ability to connect with spirits and angels, now quite a common place in the twenty-second century.\nToday she was asked to host a circle with members of the Cherokee and Catawba tribes. They too would have a Shaman with them. Because of her affiliation with the University, she was asked to be the host. After parking her car, both she a Sunny made their way to an area on the far east side of the grounds, into a grove of huge oak trees drooping with Spanish moss. The sun felt warm on this July summer day, she followed the well-worn pebble path.\nIn front of her, a Shaman in full regalia, holding an eagle feather and a smudge pot was walking the labyrinth, he could be seen and heard by a small group that stood and watched.\n\"Good morning.\" Gloria greeted everyone, they opened their gathering to let her pass. Returning her greeting as she did. She set her fur sack on the ground, opened it. There were many small leather drawstring bags, each containing plant medicines, stones, crystals, leather laces, feathers, sacred water, and a cast-iron smudge pot.\nShe gave everyone a clear quartz crystal, a piece of red cedar, and tied a leather lace to their wrist. \"These are yours, you keep them.\" She lighted the sage pot, turned counted, thirteen in all, perfect she thought.\n\"You will follow me in reverse order. When I will call out your number you will stop, turn and face the center. There is no talking, you can not leave the circle once it is closed. You may see and feel things but, please say nothing. You can sit if you wish.\" She looked at them and rested a hand on each arm as she gave a number from one to eleven. They lined up. Gloria then turned to the slate rocks that formed the three-hundred-year-old Labyrinth. Looked at her watch, two minutes to eleven.\nShe stood a moment, then started with a protection and invitation prayer, one that was very familiar to her. Beside her sat Sunny.\nWith a wand of red cedar and a hawk feather in her right hand, she wafted the sage smoke from the pot. The smoke drifted to each side of her as she started to move forward. Sunny, on her heels. He too wore a small crystal on a leather lace.\nShe counted eleven steps, \"one,\" eleven more, \"two,\" until she hit eleven.\nWhen she got to the center she placed her smudge pot and wand next to the one already burning there. Bowed her head to the Cherokee Shaman then stood beside him. Gloria followed his start and they chanted softly in their own languages. Long Feather saw them first, then they showed themselves to Gloria, there were dozens and dozens of children playing in the labyrinth. Running laughing, yelling, jumping, some were older and seemed to be in charge of the younger, there were balls made of wood, ropes for skipping, sticks for tossing, and cats wandered through.\nA young man came and stood in front of Gloria and Long Feather.\n\"I am White Owl. You have come to check on us.\" He smiled.\nGloria thought he looked to be about sixteen, tall, he wore his hair long and loose, a beaded band around his head, buckskin leather pants, and vest, a white feather hung from the headdress.\n\"Yes, my name is Gloria and this is Long Feather.\"\n\"Yes, we know you, Gloria, you come here often, we see you and some of us walk with you. But, you have never asked us to show ourselves until today.\nLong Feather, please tell our people we are all fine and happy. Some of the others may see us, we are your ancestors your connection to the past. We are happy you have come.\"\nLong Feather held both arms to the sky and let out some howls and repeated words only recognizable to the Cherokee. Then he stood motionless and watched.\nSoon it all faded, the smudges went out, Gloria asked everyone to reverse and walk out. When she was the last out she turned said a prayer of thanks, closing the connection she had opened.\nAll but one had seen the children, everyone was happy for the experience and knew their ancestors were happy and thankful for the experience. After everyone had left Gloria turned to face the Labyrinth, in the center stood White Owl holding Sunny.\n\"We brought him to you, you brought him back, we thank you.\" He smiled and they were gone.\nGloria smiled back. \"Was not expecting that.\" she turned towards her car. \"Should have been.\"\nThe End" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: No Bad Deed Ever Goes Unseen\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1553\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by a piece of music (without using any lyrics)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "tw: mentions of murder, child death, rape, religious trauma, and light gore\nIt hadn't been too scary in the daytime. But Josie couldn't deny that it had sent shivers down her spine.\nTait had thrown up, so she was at least faring better than him.\n\"What is this place?\" Josie peered into a room without a door, stunned to find beds in three neat rows.\n\"A residential school.\" Tait had spat the words like they were poison. \"A torture chamber. Hell.\" He listed like they were adjectives of each other.\nThere were three rooms of beds, each room holding about thirty beds for a total of ninety. There were three classrooms set up the same way. Josie discovered a stick of chalk in a teacher's desk that crumbled when exposed to air.\nWith every room discovered, Tait grew angrier. He looked ready to burn the place down with just his lighter and a stick.\nFinally, they found the head teacher's bedroom. Under the pillow, they found a book.\nIt was a mix of charter and diary, names and dates and comments about how well or how poorly they were doing. Quite a few names had the word “unsaved” next to them. It didn’t take a genius to know what that meant.\nTait touched it and began to cry.\nJosie put her arm around his shoulders as he gasped for air.\n\"I'm sorry,\" she whispered.\n\"You don't get it,\" he choked out. This- all of it!\" He shook her off and threw the book against the wall. \"My people were murdered here!\" He shouted, running his hands through his hair. \"Kill the Indian, save the child,\" he quoted mockingly. \"No. Just kill them. Every day they were tortured and killed for doing nothing more than speaking their own language, for using their own names, for existing!\" He screamed, and a window shattered. He sank to his knees, hands in his hair as the sun set behind the hills.\n\nTait saw them first.\nA little girl in the doorway, dressed in a brown child's dress, her hair chopped short and tied into two braids. She stood in the doorway, watching them.\nTait looked at her and carefully stretched a hand out. \"It's ok,\" he whispered, trying out his native Shoshoni to see if she would respond.\nShe didn't say anything. Just turned around and began to walk away.\n\"Wait!\" Tait scrambled after her, Josie swiftly on his heels.\nThe little girl led them to the chapel. In each pew sat another child. The oldest among them couldn't have been more than fifteen.\nThere were at least a hundred of them, Josie figured with a quick scan as she and Tait were led to the front.\nFor a long moment, there was silence.\nThen the little girl began to speak.\n“They will die of deadly diseases, they will not be lamented or buried; they will be as dung on the surface of the ground and come to an end by sword and famine, and their carcasses will become food for the birds of the sky and for the beasts of the earth,” she recited.\nJeremiah 16:4, Josie automatically recounted in her mind.\n\"His body shall not remain all night on the tree, but you shall bury him the same day, for a hanged man is cursed by God. You shall not defile your land that the Lord your God is giving you for an inheritance.\" A second voice, male or female, Josie couldn't tell.\nDeuteronomy 21:23.\n“The soul who sins shall die. The son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father, nor the father suffer for the iniquity of the son. The righteousness of the righteous shall be upon himself, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon himself.”\nEzekiel 18:20.\nJosie's brow knit together as the spirits simply repeated the three Scriptures over and over again until a realization hit her like a truck.\n\"They weren't buried properly,\" she said aloud.\n\"They need us to find their bodies,\" Tait murmured. \"To send them home.\"\nTait and Josie looked at each other and then at the book in Tait's hands.\nIt was going to be a long night.\n\nStanding in the Mojave Desert in the middle of the night to hold a flashlight so a boy she had known for a week could start to dig up a mass grave to help lay to rest the spirits of children murdered in a residential school was not how Josie ever pictured her junior year of high school going. Yet, here she stood, watching Tait jab the shovel around.\nShe leaned back and popped her neck, lifting the flashlight by accident.\n\"Josie!\" Tait grunted in frustration. \"Light!\"\nBut Josie didn't respond.\n\"Josie?\"\n\"Tait...\" Josie's breath had caught in her throat. \"Who is that?\"\nTait popped his head up to look over the side of the hole, one hand still wrapped around the shovel. He inhaled sharply and reached out, grabbing her ankle.\nJosie was too scared to even react.\nThe man was tall. Dirty brown hair touched his shoulders from under the brim of his equally dirty cowboy hat. The lower half of his weather beaten face was covered by a bandanna that Josie thought must have been red once. He had a musket slung over his left shoulder, and a rusted canteen on his hip. Everything about him was worn and dirty and horrifyingly familiar. He looked like every picture she had ever seen of settlers in her history book ever. In his right hand was a pristine Bible, with gilded edges, and silver letters across the front. As Josie looked at it, it began to bleed.\n\"Josie,\" Tait whispered. \"Very slowly, I need you to reach into my bag and find the white sage bundle. It’s wrapped in yellow twine, you can't miss it.\"\n\"It's pitch black out here!\" Josie hissed, even as she very slowly knelt down, keeping her flashlight on the man - spirit. Thing. - and began to search by touch for the requested item. Her fingers quickly found the plain sage, and, right next to it, the white sage.\n\"Use the lighter in your pocket and singe the edges to start burning it.\"\nIt took her four tries to light it.\n\"Now throw it at him.\"\n\"What?!\" She whipped her head around to hiss at him and before she could register the change, the man was looming over them, his bandanna pulled down to reveal a gaping maw, his lower jaw rotting away. Josie could see maggots and black teeth. The stench made her gag and drop the sage.\nTait grabbed the bundle and hoisted himself out of the grave and thrust the still smoking herbs into the mouth. Then he grabbed Josie's hand, his bag, and started running.\n\nThey didn't stop until they were back to the abandoned residential school. Josie doubled over and choked up bile. Her thighs itched and burned from the chafe that was forming under her dress. The front of it was cold and wet from where she had fallen into a clay deposit.\n\"What-the-hell-was that?!\" She choked out, almost falling over as she straightened up.\nTait didn't look at her and Josie saw why. The girl was back. Her braids were partially unraveled now, her clothes torn to reveal a traditional deerskin smock beneath. With her were the other children. Some of them were almost entirely re-dressed in their real clothes, their hair longer, some braided, some loose. The older ones were in a loose circle around the younger ones, still protecting them.\n\"We were so close,\" Tait promised, tears in his eyes.\nOnce more, Josie was reminded of how important this was to Tait. This wasn't just about helping restless spirits. This was about helping his people. Bringing them home to be properly laid to rest as they deserved, as they should have been. As the church, as her ancestors, had denied them. Had killed them.\n\"I'm sorry,\" she whispered.\n\"He was there. The Preaching Man.\"\nSeveral of them began to scream, causing Josie to clamp her hands around her ears. The screams grew louder until a clap of lightning revealed the ghosts gone. Thunder shook the building not a moment later. Josie felt a trickle of blood leak out of her ear.\n\"...Tait...\" Josie reached out and put a hand on her friend's shoulder. \"Who was that man?\"\nTait didn't respond just yet, instead heading to the nearest classroom and sitting down, once more fiddling with the arrowhead from his pocket. Josie sat next to him, patiently waiting.\nFinally, he looked up and rasped, \"He was Manifest Destiny. The Last Prophet. The Tragedy. Every horror of the Trail of Tears and the residential schools and the smallpox blankets and the rape and the slaughter and-\" he took in a shuddering breath as tears streaked down his cheeks. \"He was born of all of it. Of America's expansion West. Everything they did to my people. Everything they did to each other. He is the spirit of Manifest Destiny. Not a golden being of divine command, not a benevolent explorer. He is evil.\"\nJosie sat back in her chair as Tait broke down crying, his tears soaking into the warped and aged wood of the desk. Outside, unseen by them, stood the man." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Burns From Within\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2666\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which an important message is cut off, leaving characters to wonder or puzzle out what was left unsaid." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "CW: Strong violence and gore, as well as some sexual themes\n\nThe rain had lessened somewhat, the heavy battering akin to the beating of war drums now but a gentle chatter. This was a blessing for First lieutenant Wright, not because his clothes would not get further soaked, his unform already drenched as if recently baptized, but because his line of vision was now clearer, and the less muddy the already dewy ground became, the better for travel. He looked up at the full moon, the light peeking through the thick canopy through whatever cracks and crevices it could. The light glistened on his perspiring forehead, even though it was late evening, Wright hot and oozing sweat. He did not know if it was from the humid heat, of which the jungle gave plenty with open hands, or his own fear, which squeezed his heart and burned from within.\n\nWright wiped the sweat from his brow and looked back at the convoy. Five in total, sat or lay slumped and dejected on the muddy slope, their jeep turned over and still sizzling from the prior attack. Elisa sat crouched next to Maverick, his legs gone from the weight of the overturned jeep and now just a torso with arms and a head. She clenched his palm as he gazed absentmindedly at the sky, muttering incoherently. A burden, though Wright despised the thought. Thomas sat slumped against a tree, still trying to get the comms back up. \"This is second lieutenant Thomas\", he would repeat. \"We have encountered enemy fire and are currently stranded in the North jungle.\" His cries fell on deaf ears, and sometimes static, which seemed to mock him.\n\nNewt and Freddy, brothers, sat on a wet rock by themselves, neither saying much, save for the occasional whimper that would escape Freddy's mouth, prompting Newt to pat him on the back and say it's gonna be okay. Newt was twenty-two, Freddy newly nineteen.\n\nBzzz. The static picked up, Thomas barely getting excited, assuming the device was once again hoping to mock him. Then a voice rang out.\n\n\"This is First lieutenant Hampton. Did you say your location is the north jungle? Over.\"\n\nThomas shot up, as did the rest of the convoy. He pushed the button on the radio , leaning in.\n\n\"Yes, First lieutenant Wright's convoy is currently stranded in the north jungle. Requesting search and rescue. Over.\"\n\nStatic, then silence.\n\n\"A team can't be sent out to that location. It is urgent that you-\"\n\nThen, like a small flame in violent wind, the voice cut out. No static, only silence, and the venomous chatter of fat mosquitos.\n\nThomas looked up in disbelief at Wright.\n\n\"D-did you hear that? Or am I crazy? They said-\"\n\n\"We're not getting help\", Wright said, turning around and staring at the dizzying stretch of dense tress that lied in front of them.\n\n\"What do we do\", Elisa inquired.\n\nWright sighed.\n\n\"We keep forward.\"\n\n***\n\nBumps the size of gumdrops now decorated the soldiers bodies, gluttonous mosquitos hanging around them 'til they hungered again and went back to feast. Covering their agape and ruddy holes was sweat that was days old and new, mixed in with dirt and muck. Their muscles ached, and seemed to bleed from within. Even in the dark, the heat of the sun was brutal, and little reprieve was found under the canopy. They took turns carrying Maverick, who had a little earlier fell off Elisa's back and rolled down a small slope, hitting his already bleeding head on a stone. They bandaged him up, and prayed to whatever somewhat benevolent being may be watching that he not die. Animals that meant harm lurked in the woods, and behind tress and in bushes, but did not attack them. Perhaps due to the soldiers stink, and wounds, and proximity to death, or perhaps because it would be too quick a death and their nature or perhaps some other presence drove them towards cruelty.\n\nThey walked, and walked, the woods and trees seeming to stretch on no matter how far they progressed. They walked until the mosquitos left their source of food, the travel too great for them. They walked until the howls and terrible cries of the animals ceased, this part of the woods not for them. They walked until the canopy became thick, like a sky. Like the blue or black sky never exited at all, and it was only the thick of the tress that covered the earth. Though this was true, the heat somehow managed to increase, the canopy blocking it in like a oven. The dew rose from the green of the ground, and the air became a hot, sticky molasses to be trudged through. Around the sixth hour, Maverick's stumps began to stink, and Wright quietly wept to himself, not because of Maverick's condition, but because the smell was added to his already towering heap of miseries and he felt it had all become too much.\n\nAround the eighth hour, seemingly lost in a maze, they sat slumped against tress or lied on mounds of dirt to rest a little. Around the seventeenth hour, they awoke, the sky still dark and the heat unrelenting. They quibbled and debated about the strangeness of this, but no meeting of the minds was had, and they continued onward on Wright's orders. Around the twenty-forth hour, they realized Maverick had died and buried him beneath a tree. Maverick was Jewish, and the only other Jewish member of the convoy was Wright, who was half-Jewish on his father's side. Wright spoke a brief prayer to the best of his remembrance, but himself never being religious, knew little to no Hebrew. Towards the end of his prayer he mainly spoke fabricated gibberish, but the rest of the convoy looked at ease so he thought it not a wrongdoing.\n\nAround the thirtieth hour, they rested again, the heat simply too much and the humidity lethal. Their clothes made them hotter, and stuck to their skin like guilt does a conscious, so they disrobed and spread them out on the ground, lying down on them.\n\nAround the thirty-forth hour, Freddy woke up screaming and in tears. Newt immediately rushed to console him. Freddy spoke about a nightmare he had, though it felt so real he could swear he had lived it. He said that no one would would save us, and our troubles fell on deaf ears, and that there weren't ears at all to hear. He said we came here to shed blood, and in blood we shall find our purpose.\n\nThey convoy carried on walking, abandoning their clothes, which where drenched in sweat, and dirt, and blood, and feces, and all other manner of filth, proceeding on nude save for their weaponry. Around the thirty-eighth hour, they rested again.\n\nWright woke up about an hour into their sleep, cracking his eye open in the dark to see Newt and Freddy having sex with Elisa. He closed his eye and went back to sleep.\n\nAround the forty-second hour, a little into their traversing, Thomas's comm revived, static at first, then after a moment strange and incoherent guttural mumblings. They continued traveling, Freddy noting that the trees had become taller, the tree line almost out of sight. Vietnam jungles had towering forests, but not to this extent. They continued traveling, Freddy stating he noted a smell of smoke in the air. Wright flared his nostrils and concurred, though Newt, Thomas and Elisa didn't smell it. After awhile, they came across a stream, none besides Elisa particularly religious, but all thanking God as they rushed into the water, drinking and bathing. Freddy splashed water on Newt's bare behind as he was leaned into the water, rinsing the sweat and dirt and bugs from his hair. Newt rose up, splashing water on Freddy, who in turned splashed water on Elisa, who in turn splashed water on Freddy and then Thomas, who in turn splashed water onto Wright. They began to play and frolic like children in the stream, running, and splashing and falling in the water, only to rise again with the vigor of baptism to repeat.\n\nAfter a long while, the child like vigor of splashing and running dwindled, and they returned to the muddy ground somber. They continued their traveling, though still stranded and in great dread, feeling in slightly better spirits. They traveled for a few more hours, around the forty-seventh hour deciding to rest. Before loosing consciousness, his brows more like bricks than flesh, Wright could swear he saw smoke afar off, and crimson flame.\n\nAround the fifty-first hour, they awoke to find Freddy missing. Like the humid heat, dread had enveloped Newt. Wright reassured him they'd find Freddy, saying the only thing they could do is continue forward. In the far crevices of his brain, Wright wondered if Freddy's disappearance had anything to do with the smoke and fire he saw the previous night. He thought it best not to say anything, least the belief the convoy had in him faltered.\n\nThey descended further into the jungle, which seemed apparently boundless, and hostile to any manner of human logic or reason, the crooked and winding trees stretching up past the firmament. Further in, on a particularly grotesque gathering of crooked and seemingly rotten trees, they found Freddy hanging from one, his palms nailed to the black bark with sharpened wood. Dried, mahogany blood stained his arms and sides. His stomach and abdomen were flayed open, his intestines and organs half draped out. Newt fell to ground, undone. He stayed there for a long while, silent. Wright eventually told the convoy to continue moving, saying Freddy is unfortunately already gone. They walked, but Newt stayed, causing Wright to come back and take him by the arm. Newt began to wail and flail.\n\nWright looked at Newt, his eyes like flint. Newt kept his weeping, but ceased his thrashing and got up, following the convoy.\n\n\"...this means we're not alone\", Thomas said, his gaze trained on the winding roots which threatened to trip him at any moment.\n\nWright didn't say much, only for everyone to stay alert and have their guns ready to use. They walked on in silence, the only sound the occasional whimper that escaped Newt's mouth. Around the fifty-ninth hour, they decided to rest. Wright and Thomas would keep watch first, then Elisa and Newt.\n\nAround the sixty-first hour, as he stood slumped against a tree, Wright saw his brother, Timothy, whom he abandoned years ago for death, emerge out of the woods, pale and thin.\n\nHis body was wet, and shivering, his sandy hair draped over his forehead. He squeezed his arms. Wright's eyes stretched wide, and he walked forward in awe, and in terror, and in great remorse.\n\n\"Tim\", Wright could only say, outstretching his hands.\n\nTim didn't move for Wright, standing still, the full moon sneaking through some gaps in the canopy to cast a ghostly glow across his already pale body.\n\nWright inched forward, shame more so weighing down his steps than the dread or the aching or tiredness.\n\n\"Tim...I-\"\n\n\"Wright no!\", Thomas shouted, Wright stopping, his eyes blinking as he felt the hot and wet air assault his face and skin, as if just awakened from a trance. To the side, Thomas grunted, rolling in the mud with a large, cloaked figure. Wright looked in front of him, a robed, hulking brute standing, his face concealed by a hood and strange guttural chanting coming out, the sound of which was as hypotonic as it was terrifying.\n\nLike a mother rushes for her child, or a drowning man thrashes for air, Wright's hand shot for his pistol. Two, thundering cracks rang out, and the brute fell backwards to the forest floor. Wright proceeded to Thomas, who was stabbed the still aggressive figure six times thus far, and pointed his pistol to the back of his head, firing. A crack, and then a thud, the man now backwards on the ground.\n\n\"Where's Elisa and Newt?\", Wright asked, huffing as he circled, observing the forest, his eyes keen like a hawk.\n\n\"I don't know\", Thomas replied, rising from the ground, his body covered in gore. \"When I snapped from the trance, I heard Newt yelling from somewhere nearby, but didn't see or hear Elisa.\"\n\nWright stood studying the black woods. \"Where was the yelling coming from?\"\n\n\"North\", Thomas replied. Forward. The way they were already headed.\n\n\"So we continue straight\", Wright said, stepping over a log and descending further into the green inferno.\n\nAs they continued trudging, the smell of smoke, and burnt meat became apparent. Wright didn't voice aloud his fears, though he knew Thomas already thought them.\n\nA bellowing, frenzied chant, faint at first, but growing stronger by the second carried to them on the wind. Both men readied both blade and firearm, and inched closer to the hot, bright orange which waited behind the trees. They saw dancing and jumping figures circling around a fire, above it on long and burnt pieces of wood hanged four people. Fear squeezed both Wright's and Thomas's heart, making it hard to breath.\n\nThey emerged out of the woods and into the clearing, Wright raising his pistol and firing a shot into the air, thunder echoing.\n\n\n\nWright looked at the people hanging, Newt and Elisa among them, their eyes gouged out, and carvings in their chest and stomach. The other two people, a man and woman, the woman pregnant by the look of it, were already dead.\n\n\"Anybody so much as twitch, and it's a bullet in your skull\", Wright said, approaching the fire.\n\nThe figures, hulking and cloaked, their feet nude and dirt covered, stood silent. They watched as Wright and Thomas approached Newt and Elisa.\n\n\"W-wright”, Newt said, his empty and red sockets staring blankly ahead as his chest heaved. “Bad news is, I think we're gonna die. Good news is, I think I know what happened to Freddy. Hope the lad toughed it out to the end okay.”\n\n\"We’re not gonna die\", Wright said, bringing his blade up to the rope which bound them. “I’m gonna untie you both, then we’ll deal with these fuckers and get out this godforsaken jungle.”\n\nWright forced a grin.\n\n\"Though, you guys will probably wanna start wearing shades when we get back to the states.”\n\nWright freed Newt and Elisa (the latter of which was mostly silent), gently lowering them to the ground. Thomas held watch, constantly turning, his gun raised.\n\nA deep, guttural hum, like throat singing, broke out among the cloaked figures.\n\n\"Shut that up\", Wright hollered.\n\nThe hum grew deeper, and louder, strange, almost alien words now being interjected into it.\n\nLike the fable of Moses parting the sea, the woods themselves separated, as if larger, invisible hands had brushed them apart. The earth seemed to groan as a presence emerged from the black of the woods.\n\nFor the third time in his life, and perhaps the greatest, Wright felt the fear of God. The first being when his father, Harold Wright, had attempted suicide via shotgun while inebriated on alcohol and morphine, and Jimmy Wright, then aged eleven, had to drive him to the hospital on the freeway. The second, when he and Timothy were playing in the stream even though warned by his parents about the current, and Timothy was dragged under the violent waters, Jimmy swimming away to save himself.\n\nNow, as a hulking mass of black, moldy fur, covered in blisters and open wounds which seemed to pulse and breath, things slithering out of them like birth and walking on mangled legs, tentacles protruding as well from every orifice and infected wound in the things body, lashing wildly about, standing about fifteen feet tall and having many eyes, which seemed red and black and intertwined with strange malevolence , Wright felt for perhaps the first time in his short life, being only twenty-six, true and inescapable dread." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Unrequited Love\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1256\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with “Today’s the day I change.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Today is the day that I change myself.\n I have siblings who together have their share of complicated life’s issues all of which are intertwined with the lack of financial resources. In times like these, I wish I was the billionaire that can make all their troubles go away. A few signed cheques with three to four zeroes added and voila, all their problems will be gone. I love them dearly. We are a closely knitted bunch so of course, I want the very best for them.\n But can one love someone to the extent that they forget themselves?\n My brother, a few weeks ago, called me on my job and in anguish told me that he was in pain. I went numb! I couldn’t focus after that. This particular brother had suffered medical complications due to his diabetic condition. On more than one occasion he’d step on rusted nails that went through his tough boot and punctured his foot. He was hospitalized on 2 separate conditions and on his last visit he had to have one of his toes amputated. He self-medicates and his poor choices nearly cost him his foot! Needless to say as a female healthcare professional, all my alarms go off if or whenever he calls. I don’t know whether to say that it’s a part of my maternal nature or an over-loving sister, but I jump into action immediately so as ensure his wellness.\n After the call, everything faded. My main focus was to get whatever was needed to stop his pain. I fled from work, got this and that, and rushed to his side. It took longer than I anticipated but once I returned to work, I called to check on him. My pressure and yes anxiety subsided because he’d said that he started to feel better. The next day, however, he said that he was still in pain. I had to tend to him. I called my job and explained that I needed time to help my brother. It took two days. I had to help him find out what was causing pain on his side. In those two days, he took blood tests and a CT scan. The results allayed the concern of our family. His pancreas, spleen, and appendix were not infected. What a relief!\n After that episode, I was drained emotionally, psychologically, and somewhat financially. I needed a reprieve. I noticed that my dear brother was more concerned about him and his concerns more than the sacrifices that I’d made to help him. That hurt! The time given up also included an overtime shift that was needed because it was days before my 3-week vacation. Overtime hours are like precious diamonds that come in quite handy at the end of the month. The sacrifice made cost me but it was worth it. The thing is, I wondered if the shoe was on the other foot, would he have done the same for me? I’m not so sure.\n My brother is currently in between jobs right now. It’s been that way for some time. I helped when and where possible. At one point I wondered if my help was really helpful. Was I supporting or even empowering a non-productive behavioral pattern? Was he too depressed from his life’s failings that he was too tired to try? Had he lost his ambition? I didn’t know. What I did notice was that he would have absorbed all of my resources if I didn’t pull back to protect myself. That proved to me that I had to change the way I expressed my love and concern toward my brother.\n In another episode with yet another brother, the realization of further change became apparent after his second marriage.\n This brother was culpable for a variety of financial matters that he absconded when he left the islands to start his new life with his new bride. I was informed via text that I now was to shoulder one of the financial portfolios that involved a debt of $40,000. I had approached him on more than one occasion and asked what he planned to do would his financial dealings. Other siblings inquired and received no clear response. At one point he, his new wife, and I had the opportunity to meet and talk. No future business plans were mentioned. So when I received this bit of news, I was furious because this was so unfair to me and my circumstances. I was furious at the manner the information was shared. I was furious that my older brother chose to exercise such indignity and asinine strategies in his choices. How could a 60-year old man act so selfishly? I needed counseling because this new responsibility had to be managed for the sake of my 84-year old father. I called my mom. She provided the insight that I needed to take another look at this dilemma. Her counsel and my faith have afforded me the determination to make the change that I need to see in me. Getting angry raises my blood pressure so I’m unable to think and process as I should; it neither changes the situation. At this point, my faith took a step forward and made me realize that God knew that this day was going to happen so the correct response is available for me. All I need to do is ask for direction. Since I’ve made this choice, I’m at peace. Before this matter is fully resolved, I will come out as the winner.\n What was discovered in these two scenarios was alarmingly shocking, painful, and disappointing. What transpired has left a few of my heartstrings untethered. I’m in search of a new normal. I have loved my brothers completely my whole life. I thought the love we shared was requited. Sadly their definition and mine differ. I seek to help heal and restore; they seek to use whatever means they can to keep their heads above water. I love to provide life; they care only to survive.\n Do men and women love differently even if their siblings? Do the choices that we make result in harsher realities of life? Do we make life harder than it should?\n The overwhelming realization was that I cannot afford to hold people so close that they can hurt me so deeply. I choose not to distance myself nor cut communication with my brothers.\n What I choose to do is ask God for wisdom in dealing with manipulative and dishonest people. I will continue to do what I can to help them but not at the cost of my well-being. I must give myself time to acclimatize, sleep and yes pray so as to walk in clarity. It’s obvious now that not everyone I love will love me the way that I love them. Love unrequited how dismal! There are times that I will have to pull back to protect myself. I need to have boundaries to protect my heart, my emotions, and my sanity. Apart of my maturing stage, my metamorphosis is to step away from toxic emotions and seek positive and favorable outcomes in situations that blindside me. My strongest desire is to make the choices that are most beneficial to my life’s journey.\n I never thought that unrequited love would have ever played a factor or would even be considered when it came to my family; but, life has shown me that with each new day and each new change transformation is essential to successfully morph into the beauty God intended." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Dying Grass.\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2506\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the words “Everything was ready for the ritual.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Everything was ready for the ritual.”\nThe Dying Grass Moon burned red as it set itself upon the land. As the seeds and the green broke through the dire earth, The valley was kind to its tenants. But it asked for a tithe in kind.\n The canal passageways once nourished the roots, the hoofed beasts and the tiller . The ripples shifted from black to red alongside the night fires. Smoke and ash danced across the twilight. old almond groves had to be purged and returned to the soil. The charred haze from brush fires in Sonora and Napa sank in the county like a beast trapped in a well. \nThe valley was a bowl trapped between the Sierras and the hills overlooking the Bay. The captains of capital were killing the earth and she was responding in kind.\n The skulls would soon come to life and recite the names such as their fathers before them. They were all testaments for the stalks and the stem. \nCentral Valley, California. Interstate South-99\nThe hazel cloud of brushfire smoke and insects pummeled the white truck. Summer ended a month ago for most places, but the heat had barely relented. The driver spent the last twenty minutes telling a mother her assault kit was missing, there were threats of lawsuits and interviews with the associated press. She was one of three cases sitting on an endless pile of mature subject matter. That was another candle the Deputy would be lighting at mass. The inscriptions on the bronze coin soothed the creeping urges. Deputy Lopez was glad to make the transition to Rural Crimes Units. She wasn’t able to deal with people anymore.\nMya made it sixty days without a visit to the bottom of an orange bottle of expired pills.. Coffee and her doodle pad kept her focus when the devil on her shoulder started to whisper. It took a force of will to break generational bondage. \nHispanic women shut down their fruit stands off makeshift stands off for the evening. the cracked corners in the service station had seen better days. Teens threw mock grenades at locomotives and mammoth machines. The flood lights bleed on the groves of trees as underpaid laborers started their second shifts. Many of them braved harsh terrain to receive crumbs from the American dream.\nFeral dogs cost farmers a kings ransom to put up harder barriers and after hours vet bills to stop the bleeding of their prized animals. \nThey culled the young and unattached. Fighting cost calories so the beasts targeted the ones that could not put up a fight back to their dens. The farmers could feel the howls and the cries for the calves as the mutts dragged what they could into the thicket. Mya couldn’t think of a better metaphor for the valley. People were all trapped here.\nThe paw prints were sloppy, these creatures were losing their fear of man. The mongrels had their bellies full but not their blood-lust, they began to seek prey as a pastime. \nThe hounds howls acted like a calling card. Mya took note of the time and pause between the barks.\nShe had spent a lot of her angsty youth in these parts. Smoking under the old bridge and breaking into old man Manson's water towers. The folklore they shared was expansive and always changed with the next generation. She had heard of the farms that participated in the unfamiliar.\nHer favorite was detailed the rituals of refugees. Dust bowl farmers escaped the grasp of the banks and the droughts in the bible belt. The Golden State whispered promises of milk and honey in exchange for sweat and blood.\nDesperate workers drove down the low pay. As the adults toiled under the sun and the soil, the children were left to their own devices. Fathers and mothers would come home and find not every member of their household accounted for.\n The flatland was far from the large predators of the Yosemite valley, but what else could have taken the children in the thicket. Mothers mourned and fathers kept red shells in the barrels of their guns at night.\n Resent sprang up from where little white crosses were placed in the ground. The preacher failed to provide solace and the good book couldn’t provide answers.\nThe field workers regressed back to the older paths. Their ancestors didn’t always worship at the cross, they made pacts in reverence. They made pleas lords of the flora and fauna. The long dead choirs of long dead ways were reborn from the sorrows of shallow graves. These congregations melted beneath the Pentecostal structures. The words that echoed through the green and the void were alien and yet so visceral.\nMya spent summer nights with friends sneaking out to play with ghost games in the groves. Her friends placed trinkets and treats in the thickets. One never knew when a ghoul felt slighted. The rules were simple enough. Always wait for midnight, and never play past the witching hour. Each girl brought a crown for a wish. They waited for the candles to die before the whispers in the grass approached.\nAnyone who stayed outside the protective circle the longest, could make a wish. They kept their crown as a rite of passage. Mya still kept her the halo bound by sticks under her bed, just in case.\n The dry winds pushed the sticky sweet odor into Mya's direction. As if the land where calling out to her. The scent matched so many late night calls inside foreclosed homes and makeshift trailer parks. Death. People tried to outrun it, the lucky ones met it in the comfort surrounded by loved ones, the well off could delay it at a price. It would come for every one in those fields, some sooner than others.\nThe mound of dirt and grass. propped open an entry way into blackness. Scarlet stains seeped into the sapphire grass. She followed the tracks into the small entryway. The hallowed ground pierced veils between worlds, where the barriers held no more resistance than the morning mist. \nMya steadied her flashlight against the pitch and descended down the steps. Secluded areas in the valley were hotspots for hook ups and the homeless. Addicts typically left needles and boxes of anti-overdose meds for the county to clean up. She had found too many bodies face down in a pile of their own waste during her years on patrol. Its partially the reason she requested to work in the Rural Crimes Unit. She found nothing of the sort as she crossed the styx.\nThe wet-rag smell overtook the fresh air from the surface. The black void smothered the edges of her vision as it pushed back the yellow beams from her torch. Small pods were dug into the earth, each one draped in sackcloth. The prohibition was a boon for grape farmers and bootleggers in the valley. Mya had stumbled upon closely guarded secrets, secrets the dead could no longer keep. There was a door within the tunnels. A small room awaited Mya as she kept an ear out for the dogs. An old chest sat inside the region. Mya unlocked it and found a treasure of the bizarre. \nA skull with names of people lost to time and apathy were painted on the marrow. Several tapes and film reels had seen better days as well. The flashlight caught a warped journal bound in black. \nJuly, 18th. 1958. “They can’t shut off our water. I just need a few more days! Granddaddy brought us from the edge of ruin from the dust bowl. It started with small creatures, I didn’t let them suffer. They were buried next to the tree by the chapel where mothers placed the stillborn as tribute.\nMya soaked in the expressive savagery. She began to understand why the veils between worlds were so thin here. People placed stock in his barren flat.\n “little by little the rains came back. You offer prayers with the creator. but when he doesn't answer you have to sometimes, find other venues. Logan caught me and got in the way. Oh my God it don’t wash off. Johnny Law keeps asking questions. Please accept this greater kill instead. Ill have to bury this one deeper.\nThe door above the stairs. slammed shut. The radio produced only a white noise as she demanded officer assistance, if none arrived it would turn into officer down.\nThe white noise bounced off the walls, Mya clicked on it to ask for steel traps and red bait.\nThe dagger in the dark was felt and never seen. The invisible hand yanked Mya off her feet and checked her against an empty tomb.\nThe flashlight spirals out of reach. She wouldn’t feel the pain at first, there was a moment of rage that compelled her to act. The ghoul latched on to her rifle and fired the dart into Myas leg. its dome. Mya slammed her boot into the disciples shin. The suspect fumbled with the bolt in during the maelstrom.\nMya upped the ante and snatched her service weapon. Two hot casings dropped to the ground, a haze of white fire and dull ash flooded her five senses. \n There was a mountain of paperwork every time an officer drew on a suspect. There was a law-suit behind every bullet. But Mya wasn’t concerned with the post-incident committees at the moment. The ghoul slammed a boot against her scalp. Warm nickel oozed from her scalp, the echos of a leaky faucet.\n“Yes lets nourish the soil.” He smiled and gloated. “Your blood or mine, it delights the chapel all the same.” The boogeyman had the perfect crown and necklace set out for Deputy Lopez. Nobody could leave the valley, every day corporations pressured farms to suck water out of the wells until the holes were caked with mud.\nThe oasis sank back into the ground inch by inch. There's a reason drifters left small codes to stay away from chapel black and the underground tunnels. The killer believed in the stories. This place granted wishes for a heavy price.\nThe drought could not be broken and desperate people returned to the old ways. Mya limped along the catacombs. She only had to be brave for a few more minutes until her friends arrived. She repeated Sunday school hymns to stay awake. The flashlight flickered against the endless maze. Who built this place and kept it hidden for so long? This was an Anthropologist’s wet dream. Mya pieced together what was in the sack clothes dug in the sides of the tunnels. People.\nThe folk tales weren't tales at all, they are invitations.\nThe sanctuary fed on the plight of the poor and the desperate. She wanted to hate it, but how was it any different from the warehouses and chicken factories across the county that siphoned long hours for low pay. Was her role any better? She busted up homeless camps and spied on union organizers on the job. She began to have a distaste for addicts squatting in overpriced shacks. It's ironic she started to become one.\nGod, what Mya wouldn’t give for a little pick me up. Maybe there was still some bath tub gin locked away down here.\nShe followed the scents and ignored the Halloween décor and focused on the smell of the earth. She feared this place would collapse and become her tomb. It wouldn’t kill her right away, it would take a while before the air ran out.\nShe approached the ladder. The drugs from the dart were rapidly hitting the right spot. She’d have to tell her sponsor at the next meeting, they’d probably take away her chip. The large room presented itself to the Deputy. This was unlike the ruins from before. The bricks stacked on top of each other with reverence, the stones were made to stand against the fauna. Mya stood face to face with the altar of atonement.\nThe Corn stalks intermarried with the stone-fruit branches. A marigold melon with a jagged smiles and withered green stem dared the woman to blink. The sticks of lights flickered as the wax bled into the pumpkin.\n“Now you understand the reverence.” The acolyte placed their hands on the bullet stains. “All those bodies made the same sacrifices, they earned their crowns.”\nThe deputy and the devoted walked in circles around the altar. They were bound by blood and the shrine would demand more. Mya waited for her target to get less blurry as she placed the rear sights at the spot she planned to destroy if they forced her hand.\nShe had heard of suicide by cop, but this transcended a patient held in a padded cell. They walked the streets everyday with untreated ailments. “Keep your hands there.” She stammered as the meds were finally taking hold.\n“The response time for an officer that hasn’t checked in should have brought a supervisor.”\nThe words spun a web of mistrust.\n“You're starting to see how far these customs go back. They are entrenched.\"\nThe stag-man reached for a tool as he rushed Mya. \nThere are two kinds of shooters: those who will admit to having had trouble with their technique, and liars.\nSome people occasionally develop a flinch or a tell. Sometimes getting a airtight grip is the problem.\nEveryone needs to practice their draw more often, a lot of rookies were infamous for jerking or slapping the trigger. Mya wasn’t a rookie, and she didn’t jerk the trigger. The first round caught the boogeyman in the stomach. The maroon cavity found a nice entry inside their lungs. The follow up shot split the blue vein under the jaw line. The maroon mist stained the marrow mask. \nSlow is smooth, and smooth is fast. The suspect kept their hands open and in plain view of Mya's front sights. The fear increased the fog in her eyes but she wouldn’t need twenty/twenty vision to make the shot. The killer sat down in the altar of stalk and stones. The blood seeped past the floorboards and into the soil. \nDeputy Lopez found the weapon in the suspects hand wasn’t a weapon at all, it was a crown.\nMemories were unreliable even in the best of times, but the crown matched the one she made as a teen looking for ghosts and ghouls.\nThe stabbing no longer was a concern, the drugs had done their job. Mya walked over to the and broke off of the commandments of the crime scene. She picked up the crown and placed it on the students head. The King was dead, long live the king. Mya removed the sobriety chip and dropped it under the floorboard. A token of a good gesture, some traditions were kept for a reason.\nShe heard the dogs howling at the blood moon. They would prowled the fields undeterred but made sure to stay clear of the Black Chapel. The night belonged to the hunter and the haunted." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Abandoned Warehouse\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1183\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "We ran screaming for the car. Jesse fell twice on the way. The first time I helped him up as he looked behind us. The second time I could hear the thuds. The water held in the pot holes were vibrating with each thud. Either he would make it to the car, or he wouldn’t. \nI heard him scrambling and scraping on the wet asphalt trying to get traction in his Vans. Great shoes for boarding, terrible shoes for running away. “Shit, shit, shit,” I heard Jesse repeat over and over again as he loped for the car in flinging array of arms, legs, and stringy wet hair.\nI ran around the hood sliding in the rain and grasped the driver’s side door handle on my way down. Thumb pressed on the button; the door swung open as I went sprawling. I heard a thump as something hit the passenger door followed by rapid pounding. “Hurry man, you gotta unlock the door! It’s right behind me!”\nI climbed out of the puddle, using the door as support, unlocking the doors as I slid behind the wheel. Jesse quickly got in slamming the door and repeatedly hitting the lock button. I didn’t think locked doors would help us, but you have to give an A for effort. I smashed the ignition button and the Mustang roared to life. \nWe hydroplaned sideways as I gunned the gas. Jesse was yelling, “Terry we have to go! It’s gaining!” I gritted my teeth and hung on to the wheel for all I was worth, spinning the wheel madly to keep us out of a one-eighth where we would face whatever was chasing us. The Mustang peeled and fishtailed leaving us both screaming, but forward momentum was finally achieved. I never saw what was chasing us.\nAs we pulled out of the empty warehouse parking lot a distraught screech could be heard. We sped down the street once the Mustang achieved purchase, and my white-knuckle grip on the wheel did not let up. I glanced back in the rearview mirror; I could still feel the thudding footsteps in my bones. I didn’t see anything, just rain glistening in street lights. Nothing was there at all. \nJesse turned around in his seat looking out the rear window, “Shit. We could have died Terry. Who would have thought the stories were true? Do you think it will follow us?” I glanced over at Terry, “How the hell should I know? I’m not a monster expert. I didn’t even believe the stories. You were the one who thought they might be true!”\nJesse slid back in his seat as I turned a corner on three wheels. “It didn’t seem to be following us… Or at least I didn’t see it leave the parking lot. I think you can slow down now Terry and put your seat belt on if you’re going to drive like Steve McQueen.” I did another quick glance, “Thanks for the advice mom,” and rolled my eyes. We just escaped with our lives, but from what?\nI let off the gas after we were about a mile or so away and latched my belt, “Better?” Jesse was wringing out his hair in my floor board, “Yeah man. We don’t want to get pulled over by the cops after all that. I don’t think I could do another adrenaline dump tonight.” We were both doing that nervous chuckling you do when you recover from a trip before you smack the pavement. Like, “Heh, heh, that was close.” I drove to a park not too far from the neighborhood where Jesse and I grew up together. I needed to make sense of what had just happened and get a grip on myself before heading home. \nI parked the car facing the water feature in the pond. The water feature was redundant with the rain still coming down. It didn’t matter any ways; the park was a dark Monte painting behind my windshield in the rain. I looked around the park before everything was smudged out of view to verify, we were alone. No lovers parking, no kids smoking joints outsight from mom and dad, not even a bird to be seen in the parking lot. Just my Mustang, just Jesse and me sitting in the pouring raining attempting to calm down after what we hadn’t really seen.\nJesse blew out a sigh, unbuckled his seat belt, and folded forward in the passenger seat hugging his knees. I stared at him as I tried to get a grip on my own scared addled mind and process what had just happened. He turned his head to look at me through the curtains of his dark hair, “That was for real right?” I still had a firm grasp on the wheel, “Yeah. At least I know a heard something, and I know I felt something, but I didn’t see anything. Did you?” He sat back in his seat pulling his hair behind him, “I saw something. It was dark and huge, but through the rain that’s all I could see.”\nThere was silence for a few moments, nothing but the patter of the rain on the roof of my car. I looked out into the shadows of the park. I could have sworn I saw something move in the dark gloom, but after a few more moments of nothing I decided it was my imagination. Terry interrupted my paranoid scanning of the park, “Should we tell someone? Like the police or something?” “Yeah, and what do we tell them Jesse? My friend and I were trespassing in the old, abandoned warehouse on 36th and this monster chased us out of there. No, I’m sorry officer we did not see what kind of monster it was. We only know it had to be big.” I rolled my eyes, “They’ll think we’re crazy or playing a prank. Either way, we will be the ones in trouble.” Jesse looked at me in disbelief, “But don’t you think people need to know? What if someone else goes out there and gets killed? How would you feel about that?” I turned in my seat to glare at him, “I tell you what Jesse, tell your parents and let me know how that goes. Ten bucks says they will say something about you being high and not go out there again.” Jesse glared back at me for a few moments before slamming back in his seat and saying, “I guess you’re right.”\nI shook my head in frustration, “Might as well go home now.” “Yeah,” Jesse said sullenly. I hit the ignition button, and the lights came on. Somehow the monster had found us. It started running towards my car. The quick thuds shaking the car and rattling my brain. I could not believe what I was saw. I reached for the gear shift, but the mechanics of how to shift left my mind in the moment of pure terror. The last thing I heard as the creature grabbed the roof of my car was Jesse saying, “What the…!”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: History Doomed to Repeat\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1848\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with a character scrolling (or doomscrolling) through social media." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“I don’t get why you’re always on that thing.” Dawn waved her hand in front of Kelsey’s face.\n“What?” Kelsey kept scrolling. “I’m just reading the news.”\nDawn raised her eyebrows. “News? Really?”\nKelsey shrugged. “You never know. Maybe they decided to cancel school again.”\n“Doubt it.” Dawn snatched the phone and scanned the first few headlines. “This stuff is always the same. Look at today: ‘Five Year Old Boy Dies of Covid’; ‘Accident in Quarry Leaves 13 Dead’; ‘Mayor Announces Plans to Restore Downtown’: it’s all depressing garbage!”\nKelsey crossed her arms. “You missed the one about a phone stealing sister.” Dawn handed it back.\n“Seriously, nothing ever changes in this town.” Dawn glared at Kelsey who was scrolling again. “I’ll prove it to you!” She grabbed the phone. \n“If you don’t cut that out, I’m telling Mom!” Kelsey pulled it back.\nDawn rolled her eyes. “I just wanted to look up the articles from a few years ago. Dare you to do it and tell me the headlines aren’t similar.” \nKelsey started typing. She looked at her sister and grinned. “I know what this is.”\n“What?” \n“You always try to freak me out this time of year, but it won’t work this time! I’m in middle school now, remember?” She went back to scrolling.\nDawn shook her head and took her own phone off the charger. She typed, October 20th, 2018 and read through the headlines. “No way.” Her mouth hung open. \n“As if you didn’t already know.” Her sister snorted. \nDawn checked the current news again and then went back to 2018. “Did you read this? ‘Thirteen Dead in Chemical Leak, Five Year Old Died of Cancer, Mayor--”\n“It was bound to happen eventually, I guess.” Kelsey sighed and sat her phone down. “You’re right. There’s gotta be something better to do on a Saturday.” \nKelsey left the room before Dawn could respond. She stared at the screen. October 20, 2015. There it was again: “Child Dies…”; “Workplace Incident…”; “Mayor Announces…”. How was this possible? What about yesterday’s news? She kept typing. “Department of Health Issues Warning about New Covid Strain''; “Croatan Positions Government for Grant--” Different. She fell onto the couch and dropped the phone on her chest. Kelsey was right. It was bound to happen eventually, unless--She picked up the phone, October 19, 2018. She sat up slowly. “Department of Health Issues a Warning about Water Contaminates”; “City Positions for Funding…” The room started to spin. She continued typing. The eighteenth, the seventeenth--every three year the subjects repeated. “M--m--mom!!!” She ran to the kitchen. “Mom, you gotta see this!” \n“Just a minute, sweetheart. Let me finish these dishes.”\n“No! Mom! Please!” She grabbed her mother’s arm. \nHer mother turned off the water. “Alright, alright. What did Kelsey do this time?” \n“What? Nothing. You just--look!” She pushed the phone into her mother’s hands. \n“Oh yes. I remember that accident at the factory. Poor Mrs. Wilson was torn up for weeks. Maybe we should--”\nDawn grabbed the phone. “It’s not that, just--” She pulled up the current headlines and turned the phone around.\nHer mother wrinkled her forehead. “Well that’s strange. I thought the Mayor’s plans were supposed to be finished by now.”\nDawn shook her head. “Didn’t you notice the articles? They’re all the same.” \nHer mother handed her the phone. “Don't be silly, Sweetie, the accident a few years back was in the plastic factory, not the quarry.”\n“But six years ago the--”\n“That’s enough!” Her mother placed her hands on her hips. “Sitting around on your phone all day isn’t healthy for a girl your age! Why don’t you give Ruth a call? She got her license last week, didn’t she?”\nDawn groaned and stomped to her room. Calling Ruth wasn’t a bad idea. She put her phone to her ear and started shoving books into her backpack. “Ruth? It’s me. Do you think you could give me a ride to the library? There’s something I want to look into.”\n“Why? Can’t you just look it up on your phone?”\nDawn dropped her backpack and pulled at the back of her neck. “I just need to get out of the house, okay? Besides, if my mom sees me on my phone, she’ll probably take it again.”\n“Yeah, sorry.” Ruth sounded hurt. “I’ll head over now.” \n“I didn’t mean to be harsh.” Dawn hung her head. “Just, do me a favor? If my mom asks when you get here, tell her we are going to your place to study.” \n“Yeah, okay.”\nDawn sat on the porch until Ruth arrived. As soon as they were in the car, she started explaining. She spoke so fast, she had to stop to catch her breath. “I thought the news would be similar, but this is insane!”\nRuth frowned. “I don’t know. Are you sure you’re not just making a big deal out of nothing?” \n“Nothing?” Dawn felt a stabbing in her chest. “How could you say this is nothing? The odds of this happening by chance--”\n“I’m not saying it’s not weird, but if there were some big conspiracy of news repeating itself, do you really think you’d be the first to notice? You didn’t even notice my new haircut last week.” Ruth nudged her arm.\n“This isn’t funny.” Dawn’s ears were getting hot.\n“I just mean, you and I have both grown up here and we’ve known most of the town since we were kids. Don’t you think someone else would have noticed?” \nThe car stopped in front of the library. “Whatever.” Dawn opened the door. “Thanks for the ride.” She slammed it and narrowed her eyes. If the news repeated every three years, maybe she could go back far enough to find a reason why. \nShe marched to the door and threw it open. A chill ran down her spine as the librarian's gaze followed her across the room. She dropped into a chair in front of a computer. She just needed to focus. She started typing, Croatan Daily News, October 20, 2012. Her eyes raced across the screen. Same. 2009. Same. 2006, 2003, 2000...1883. It stopped. There was nothing before that year. She leaned her head against her hand and squinted at the screen. The picture of the aged paper was difficult to read. “Five Year Old John William’s Dies of Polio”; “Mining Accident Claims 13 Lives”; “Mayor Jones Claims Great Things to Come for Croatan”--\n“Ahem.” \nDawn jumped. “Mr. Wolf, you scared me.” Her voice shook.\nHe leaned towards her and whispered. “Not everything can be found on a computer.” The hair on the back of her neck stood as his hot breath brushed across it. Something about the librarian had always made her uncomfortable. “Come with me.”\nShe watched the long braid on his back sway as he walked across the room. She swallowed and tried to steady her shaking hands as she followed. He disappeared into a small room. She froze, not sure she should enter. He appeared a moment later with an old newspaper. \n“You must not remove this from the building.” He met her eyes. “Be careful what you do next.” He grabbed her hand and wrapped her fingers around the paper. “History has a way of repeating itself.” \nHe was almost back to his desk when she remembered to breathe. Her knees were weak. She lowered herself to the floor and studied the paper. It had a strange logo in the corner she didn’t recognize. Her gaze fell to the date, October 21, 1883. Her head started to spin. She quickly read the front page:\n “Young Woman Causes Death of Entire Town”\nCroatan resident Jane Smith was recently arrested for disturbing the peace of the city founded just three years ago. Reports of her frantic behavior spread beyond the town border last week when she tried to bring a stop to all mining projects claiming the town had been founded on sacred Indian burial grounds. After the shame of her failed efforts to stop the town’s progress, Miss Smith was seen entering the mines equipped with a small explosive. It is assumed the young woman only intended to bring about her own death, but two-hundred and sixty seven villagers were killed by the collapse of the mine that resulted from the blast... \nDawn’s mouth flooded as she resisted the urge to vomit. She scooted herself against a wall and took several deep breaths. She scanned the rest of the paper. The only article about Croatan was on the cover, but if it repeated every three years--She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t too late. If she could show someone the paper, maybe they’d believe her. Energy coursed through her veins. She looked around. Mr. Wolf was nowhere in sight. She darted to her backpack and shoved the paper inside. She couldn’t stop until someone else knew what was going on. \nThat night, Dawn collapsed onto her bed and glared at her backpack. The school, the police, the news: they’d all been just as dismissive as her family. She pounded her fist against her blanket. Maybe she just needed to let it go. Her phone rang.\n“Who is this?”\n“It’s Jerry Cly, the intern you met at Croatan Daily News. I was interested in your story today. Would you be able to meet me in the morning to answer a few questions?” \nDawn struggled to find her voice. “Yeah--yes! Definitely! But can’t we meet tonight?”\n“Sorry, it needs to be tomorrow. Meet me at the paper first thing.”\nDawn pushed her phone away and tried to close her eyes. First thing. She could still make it in time. \nBefore the sun was up, Dawn was out the door. Her mom would be worried, but she could explain later. Her eyes were fixed to her phone as she typed, Croatan Daily News. She scrolled and walked. Nothing since yesterday. She typed again, News October 21, 2021. A single article appeared with the same symbols she hadn’t recognized before. Her heart threw itself against the wall of her chest. “Gas Tanker Explodes Claiming Two-hundred Sixty-seven Lives” by Jerry Cly. Her fingers trembled as she clicked the headline. “Sixteen year old Dawn Wright committed suicide early this morning by walking--” The sound of a horn made her turn. Her eyes grew wide. Headlights.\nPain erupted throughout her body. She blinked several times but was too weak to move. Someone was standing over her. “I told you to be careful.” A cool liquid seeped around her feet, and burned her nose. She heard a match. \n As the small light fell, she remembered. It wasn’t an explosive she’d carried into the mines, it was an arrow. “Cly” was engraved on it’s side. She shouldn’t have touched the grave, but she needed them to stop! The match reached the pavement. Not again. Jane Smith braced herself. This time, don't take it! Even as the thought appeared, she felt it slipping through her consciousness. There was a flash of light and a warm breeze as the girl drew her last breath for the forty-sixth 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: Face to Face\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1906\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a conversation takes place where the true subject is only implied." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“This is power” chuckled Freedman quietly to himself. He smiled into the eyes of the tiny baby mouse cupped in his hands. He happened upon the mouse during his last walk outside. Freedman had pretended to tie his shoe when he picked up his little friend. “I think I’ll name you Laika” said Freedman. “I won’t tell anyone about you if you don’t tell anyone about me.” He was still looking at Laika when there was a sudden knock at the door. He quickly stuffed Laika under his bed sheets only moments before the door cracked open. A face peaked around the door, and quickly left. It was the face of his landlord. Freedman didn’t care for the lack of privacy, but he didn’t own the property, so he couldn’t get too upset. The landlord’s name kept slipping his mind, but he knew his face, and that’s all that really matters in the end. The landlord consistently forgot to ask for rent, and Freedman certainly wasn’t going to remind him. Generally the two men would have very short and sweet conversations, but money was never discussed. The landlord cared for Freedman. Such a welcome change. \nLater that night, Laika was getting restless. She kept wiggling around and almost fell off the bed several times, so Freedman placed her in the small cardboard box that held his few personal items. She wouldn’t be able to escape, and the landlord almost never checked there, so she and Freedman would both be safe.\nAfter possibly falling asleep for an unknowable amount of time, Freedman came to his senses. A face stared at him from the foot of his bed. This was not his landlord. The landlord almost never fully entered his room, and the door was to the right of his bed, not at its foot. Plus, this was not the face of a man staring at him. But then again, it wasn’t quite a woman either. Freedman wasn’t even sure if the face was human at all. It almost looked like an imposter trying to pass as human. It was the eyes, they weren’t natural. They were black and uncomfortably small, or maybe uncomfortably large. The skin was overly tight and deathly pale. Yet, its jaws and cheeks were soft and rounded. Even in the blackness of freedman’s room, the face was perfectly visible. Not lit, but clear. It was a small face, or maybe it was simply far away. There was no body to indicate the size of the face. Freedman assumed it was a great distance away, but the foot of his bed was flush against the wall of his room, so the face likely didn’t have a size at all. The face was truly hideous, and it shouldn’t have been there, but Freedman wasn’t frightened. He simply laid there and stared at the face as it stared back in his direction. Not at him, but maybe past him.\nFreedman didn’t want to rise the next morning, but his manager reminded him multiple times that he didn’t have much of a choice. He didn’t appreciate his manager dictating every facet of his life, but such is the life of a working man. Everything from when breakfast was eaten to when the bathroom was used was determined by Freedman’s boss. “They’re all the same” thought Freedman. “Every last one of them.”\nIt was a long day of meetings that were both boring and deeply uncomfortable. Freedman didn’t feel qualified for his position. Too many questions would be asked, and Freedman didn’t feel that his answers were satisfactory. He knew his answers weren’t satisfactory. “What does that mean to you?” All eyes turned and locked on Freedman. The man in the collared shirt sat across the circle and waited for a response. The question was meaningless, and Freedman wasn’t even entirely sure what was asked. “I…I don’t know.” “That’s okay. We can circle back to you if you’d like.” Freedman shook his head while looking down at his socks. “Okay thank you for letting us know” said the man with a pitiful smile. He made a note on his clipboard and moved on in the conversation. “It’s not okay” thought Freedman angrily.\nThere was no time to relax. Freedman wanted to extend his lunch break, or watch TV, or go outside, but he was too busy with meetings and appointments. He returned to his room at the end of the day in a rage. He kicked his bed and let out something between a grunt and a scream. Something from Freedman’s cardboard box screamed back. “Oh no my sweet Laika!” Freedman quickly checked on the mouse to make sure she wasn’t hurt. Thankfully, she was fine. The loud and sudden noises made by Freedman only startled her. He pulled out a couple of food scraps from dinner and placed them in the box for Laika. His time with her was cut short by a knock at the door. It opened wide, and the landlord entered the room. “Hey there buddy. Is everything okay?” “Yeah I’m okay. I just stubbed my toe” replied Freedman with a nervous smile. “Okay got it, got it. Glad you’re doing okay.” “Any thoughts of harming yourself or others?” “No.” “Hearing voices or seeing visions?” “No.” “Okay, fantastic.” And with that, the landlord disappeared behind the door. The landlord cared. Such a welcome change.\nThe face returned that night. It was unmistakably the same entity, but it was different somehow. The eyes appeared larger than the night before, and they were locked into Freedman’s eyes. It was not passively looking past him. Instead of having the same sedated and apathetic expression, it was baring its teeth with a slight grin. The teeth looked long and sharp. The prominent muscles in the jaw and chin implied a strong and painful bite. It looked happy, but there was sickness to it. The face was larger and closer to Freedman than the night before, and he could see that it was breathing. Its nostrils were flaring, and Freedman could hear an airy and raspy hum produced from some kind of invisible lunges. Freedman was uncomfortable now, not scared, but he felt naked under the face’s gaze.\nAnother day of useless meetings left Freedman emotionally worn. He had been encouraged to socialize with his co-workers and peers, but why would he want to do that? Everyone else was either weird, awkward, or possibly unhinged. “I don’t think I belong here anymore” said Freedman to his manager. “Now Freedman, we’ve been over this. Why do you feel that way?” “Look around you!” Snapped Freedman. “I’m surrounded by drooling idiots! Everyone and everything is so dull and pointless.” “I know you’re frustrated, and I feel for you, but I promise you’re here for a reason. Just look at all the progress you’ve made.” “I don’t feel like I’m making any progress. I’m claustrophobic, and I have no privacy. I don’t like it here.” “Well Freedman, let me ask you a couple of questions. Are you having any thoughts of harming yourself or others?” “No” replied Freedman. “Are you having any visions or are you hearing anything that isn’t there?” “No.” “See, that’s progress! You’re doing great.” The manager gave Freedman a pat on the shoulder and left his room. “He’s so full of shit” grumbled Freedman to himself. “He doesn’t know anything about anything. He’s just like all the others.” Freedman could feel frustration turn to anger as his thoughts ran on and on. “This place is so fucking useless. A waste of time, in a waste of space, with nothing but a waste of life. If I had 10 minutes alone with the boss and all the other phonies in this God forsaken place, I would teach them a fucking lesson they wouldn’t forget.” As anger tuned to wrath, Freedman became aware of the incessant squeaking that had been gnawing at his brain. Freedman violently grabbed the cardboard box from the floor and glared inside. Laika was frantically running from wall to wall and screaming even louder than before. Without thinking, Freedman grabbed Laika tightly and threw her to the floor. The fire inside Freedman instantly went out as silence of ears and mind instantly came over him. He looked down at Laika. She wasn’t moving. “Shit shit shit shit” said Freedman as he gently picked Laika up from the floor. After several seconds, she began to stir and turn over. He placed her on the floor, but she walked with a severe limp. Laika’s front left leg wasn’t baring any weight, and it was clear that she was in pain. After hoping for an immediate heal, Freedman finally gave up and lifted Laika. He kissed her on the head and petted her golden brown fur. Laika would sleep in Freedman’s bed that night.\nIt was the smell that disrupted Freedman’s slumber. It was a bizarre mix of strong cologne and spoiled milk. Then there was the sound. The hum from the previous night was given more depth. There was the high pitched rise and fall of the inhale and exhale, but there was a constant pedal tone droning underneath like a pipe organ. Once Freedman’s eyes opened, everything in his body told him he was in danger. The fear ran through every vein under his skin. The face was practically on top of him, and it was massive. It was roughly the size of Freedman himself. It still appeared to be human, but now it seemed to have the features of some kind of animal. The shape of the eyes were that of a man, but they had slits for pupils. There was a fire behind those eyes. Their intensity burned Freedman’s very being. Now he didn’t only feel naked, he felt the judgement of God stripping away muscle and flesh. The teeth are what truly terrified Freedman. All incisors were human like, but the canines were sharper than before, almost fangs. And on top of everything, great white tusks stretched out far in front of the horrible face. Freedman dared not move an inch as to not puncture his skin on those unnatural ivory spears. The only aspect of the face that could have been seen as beautiful was the impressively long and thick hair. It encircled the face like a lion’s mane, and it glimmered and shined in the darkness of Freedman’s room. The hair of the mane matched the subtle fur on its face. It was a beautiful golden brown. “Oh dear Laika, what have I done?” whimpered Freedman. He looked over, and the mouse wasn’t moving. Not in a restful way, but in the kind of way that couldn’t be reversed. She had died sometime in the night, and Freedman knew the blame was on him. He thought to ask the face for forgiveness, but as he opened his mouth to inhale, as did the face. It was only in this moment that Freedman saw the face’s full wrath and glory. Not human enough for sympathy, too beastly for comfort. Too human for innocence, not animalistic enough for nature. And with that, Freedman was consumed by the face’s gaping mouth. He was devoured quickly, yet painfully, by this demon of wrath. \nMoments later, there was a knock at the door. A face peaked around the door, stared into the room for a second or two, and then slipped away as quickly as it came." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Help Me (Trigger Warning; Loss of a Loved one)\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1024\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who feels like they're cut off from something." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Honey, you have to talk to me.”\nThe words could’ve come from miles away. The lady who spoke them to her might’ve just been a figment of her imagination. The world around her seemed so distant, like she was in the heavens looking down. However, she was not. Instead, she was surrounded by four walls, all covered in mementos from other kids her age. To her left were drawings crude, innocent. To her right, photographs of the lady in front of her with the others. The plastic chair under her butt was cold and stiff. It didn’t bother her, though.\n“Mina,” the lady said, “Please talk to me.”\nMrs. Downson looked at the little girl concernedly. She had been like this all day. She spoke to nobody and did not acknowledge any of her peers, and the few times she spoke, it was nothing more than a whisper. She refused to do any of her school work or answer any of Mrs. Downson’s questions. At lunch, she refused to eat. When asked, Mina said she wasn’t hungry, although Mrs. Downson knew that she was lying. She did not emote like a little girl. Her face was stiff, and her little brown eyes had no light. It was as if she was dead.\n“Mina,” Mrs. Downson said, “You can talk to me. I can help you.”\nMina shook her head slowly, still keeping the stone-cold expression on her face. Exasperated, Mrs. Downson shot up from her seat and walked out from behind the desk. She shut the door behind her in a huff.\n“Any luck?” said a voice next to her.\nShe turned to see who it was; it was the principal, Mrs. Strange. She stood with a dour expression on her face, almost as if she had expected this to happen.\n“No luck,” Mrs. Downson replied. “She won’t speak to me.”\nMrs. Strange huffed and crossed her arms. The two of them sat down on a bench nearest the door. Mrs. Downson ruffled her hair with her hands, anxiously combing her long fingers between her dirty blonde locks. She pursed her lips in agitation.\n“That girl is like a damn rock!” Mrs. Downson sputtered.\nMrs. Strange lifted an eyebrow at the remark. She turned her head attentively towards her.\n“No matter what, I can’t seem to get close to her. I can never get a bead on what makes her tick! I’ve never had this much trouble with a student before.”\n“She acts up that much?” Mrs. Strange asked.\nMrs. Downson paused. Then with a heavy sigh, she said,\n“No. Not at all….”\n“I could say otherwise,” Mrs. Strange said coldly. “Remember that little incident on the playground a couple of weeks ago?”\nMrs. Downson remembered that after fall break, Mrs. Strange had called her into her office. During recess, a monitor reported a fight near the swing set. The two participants were Mina and a girl from another classroom. When asked about it, the little girl claimed that Mina pounced on her for no reason. When they confronted Mina, she claimed that the girl was calling her names and taking her necklace. She said it was her grandmother’s, her last gift to her before she passed away.\n“You’re going to bring that up again?” Mrs. Downson growled.\n“All I’m saying is you’ve got one tough kid in your class.”\n“You say that like you haven’t had one before.”\n“Not one like her, not one of her kind.”\nThose words dug into her. How the hell can she be so cold like that? A principal of all people! It was evident from the start; she had no patience for kids like Mina. But it wasn’t her fault that she was who she was. Nobody chooses to be born who they are. Mrs. Downson clenched her left hand in frustration.\n“Don’t get so riled up about it,” Mrs. Strange said. “You cry over her, and you’ll cry every one of her people. Hell, they’ve got nine reservations just for them; you’ll be out of tears for six lifetimes.”\n“Go to hell, Strange.”\n“Ha! I knew it!”\nMrs. Downson shook her head. She was already in enough hot water as it is, with Mina acting the way she’s been. There’ll be more now that she told off her superior. But Mrs. Strange didn’t understand. A girl like Mina, she had a family once before. Mina had one person who understood her, and that same person was the only one who cared. Now that she’s gone, she had no one. A person can’t soldier on from something like that, especially a child so young.\nSummoning herself, Mrs. Downson got up from the bench. As she opened the door, a profound noise hit her ears. A faint sound buzzed around. She honed in as best as she could; it was music. Someone was singing. But who could be singing, she thought. The PA system wasn’t on, and neither was the radio. As she got closer to the sound, she could barely make out what sounded like lyrics. She tried to catch them; were they English? She listened further. No, not by a long shot. Finally, she could zero in on who was singing. Mina.\nMrs. Downson crept slowly, for she did not want Mina to stop. Her voice was heavenly, far beyond the average seven-year-old.\nUnsiya Chechiyelo\nWani wachiyelo omakiyayo\nWaka Tankan nisnala\nOshimanayo\nWaka Tankan neshniya\nAhedowayo\nWani wachiyelo\nOmakiyayo\nI oh nah hei nei yo wah\nAbruptly, Mina stopped. She turned her head and faced Mrs. Downson. There were tears in her little brown eyes and, though she tried her best to hide it, her lip trembled. She slowly turned her head away again, and Mrs. Downson softened her rigid body. She bent down next to the little girl, who bit her lip and held her necklace close to her bosom.\n“That was beautiful, honey.” Mrs. Downson said, trying to soothe her.\nMina nodded her head in appreciation.\n“What was that? Something you learned from your grandmother?”\nAgain, Mina nodded.\n“What does it mean?”\nIn a trembling voice, Mina uttered the words,\n“It means help me…." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Last Word\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 3001\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which an important message is cut off, leaving characters to wonder or puzzle out what was left unsaid." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "This story contains themes that may be upsetting to some readers, please be advised.\n\n The ‘water cooler’ moment is long dead, with the rise of social media and on demand news, yet Piers Kavanagh’s last words on his live show ‘Exposed’ were on everyone’s lips, everywhere, the following day.\n “I can see…”\n During the staged seance with Molly Burke, the latest spiritualist medium he planned to debunk on his popular show, he’d begun to look odd.\n “Are you okay?” Molly asked Piers, opposite her, their hands touching on a small studio table. He looked pale, a little blue around the lips, his studio makeup holding firm despite his profuse sweating.\n “Fine, fine…” he snapped, briefly lifting one hand to run his finger under his collar. Sweat was beading noticeably on his forehead, collecting the colour of his hair dye as it dripped down his cheek and onto the table.\n “Could we have some water for Mr Kavanagh?” Molly turned to the floor manager standing nearby who just shrugged, he only responded to Kavanagh or the director.\n “Let’s carry on, Ms Burke, shall we?” Kavanagh’s voice sounded croaky and slowly he slumped in his seat. Something was seriously wrong. \nThe production team monitoring the social media feeds high-fived each other as #exposed #kavanaghdieslive began to trend; shutting down the director’s demands to stop filming and get the medic, “Don’t you dare, ratings are the best they’ve been this season.”\nMolly gripped Kavanagh’s hand, “Piers, stay calm, I’ll get help,” standing but held by his tight, moist grip. Kavanagh’s eyes began to flutter, and he went rigid then began to slip sideways, tumbling to the floor. A shout for help went out from the floor crew as Molly ran around the table where she squatted down. The director ordered two of the handheld cameras to film Molly pumping Kavanagh’s chest as he gasped, “I can see…” then fell limp.\n\n#\n\nThe talk radio station in the cab taking Molly home was full of callers discussing Kavanagh’s demise; was it a stunt, was he really dead, what did his last words mean? \n“Did you see it?” asked the driver rhetorically, “Kavanagh dropping dead like that. Bloody good TV I’ll give ‘em that,” he carried on as his passenger watched the streets of Manchester whiz past, a blur of traffic lights, street lamps, and chicken shop windows. Eventually they arrived at her modest terraced town house where she tipped him despite the ride being on the TV station’s account.\nClosing the front door, Valmont, her lilac point Siamese cat, wound himself around her legs as she leaned back against her wall and exhaled, “What a night!” She didn’t bother checking her phone, knowing there’d be countless journos and producers chasing her down for comment and offers of appearances on upcoming breakfast and reality shows. \nAfter feeding Valmont she found a chillout playlist on Spotify, letting it play quietly in the background as she sat in the dark of her study. Molly reached for her crystal ball; a prop, nothing more, grounding her as she ran her hands over its reassuringly cold, smooth surface. She cupped the orb and breathed deeply, letting the insightful part of her mind settle, slowing the swirling of fractured images from the traumatic evening until she was left with just one single impression: a large eye, filling her crystal ball, gazing upwards at her face.\n\n#\n\n“What did he see?”\n“Was it a white light?”\n“Did Kavanagh witness God?”\n“Did Burke curse him?”\n\nThe tabloid conjecture was predictably banal and Molly, fed up with constant requests for comment, had brought the shutters down on her business for the time being. She had modest residuals from her books and franchised TV shows, so could afford to ‘do a Garbo.’ Honestly, she’d dreaded appearing on Kavanagh’s shitty show and despised the cocksure bastard. Only after he’d ruined several good, honest, down-to-earth spiritualists who simply couldn’t perform like circus animals she took a stand to take him down. Molly Burke was arguably the best in the business, if you could call it that, and her reputation for contacting the dead and silencing sceptics was formidable.\n\nStroking Valmont’s back as he kneaded her legs, she allowed herself to drift. It never worked if you pushed it. What had he seen? \nA sickening feeling of falling backwards heralded the first stage of awareness and she let go, allowing herself to be consumed by the sensation, repressing the instinct to snap back, instead giving herself to the sliding weightlessness. Then she was there. It wasn’t a place of walls or floors or ceilings, nothing so earthly; it was a swirling impression of images and voices weaving as colours and textures, a cacophony of voices talking over each other; some crying or pleading, others loud and forceful, occasionally a person appeared, talking with clarity and purpose. \n“I can see…”\nMolly watched a shadowy figure drift in and out of focus, its mouth moving whilst all else was still. Would it listen and respond to her? “What can you see?”\nThe figure grew more solid, more defined, the mouth moving rapidly, so much so she could see its lips and teeth and tongue working, but there was no voice.\n“What can you see?” she asked again.\nThe figure’s shape began to shift, its form becoming fragmented, misty, as it drifted closer, almost touching Molly’s face with its silently yammering mouth. Molly took a sudden intake of breath as the spectral shape vanished, leaving her with an image that hit her like a gut punch, leaving her reeling.\nValmont was sat, staring perceptively, blue eyes fixed on Molly as she looked down at her shaking hands; she’d returned, shaken by what she’d witnessed. How could she describe it, the sensations of horrific violence and fear, something she always feared experiencing? Reaching for a pencil and sketch pad she began to draw, scratching away late into the night.\n\n#\n\n“I have something to show you,” Beside her, on a bench in Salford’s Peel Park, lounged a flamboyant man wrapped in a black cape festooned with arcane symbols, his snakeskin boots tapping the asphalt, a fedora tipped below one Kohl lined eye.\n“That’s proper weird is that.” despite shedding his birth name and creating a new personal history he’d failed to lose his accent.\nMolly had known Cyrus Gastrell since school when he’d been Chris Otway. A gifted grifter on the spiritualist circuit with no psychic abilities whatsoever, for a while a well-paid celebrity psychic, now barely scraping by after a calamitous appearance on ‘Exposed.’ \n“What do you think it is?” Molly looked across the manicured lawns at kids riding bikes and kicking balls, going about their Saturday morning. Dog walkers passed by, glancing, and often smirking at Cyrus’ get-up.\n“I couldn’t give a rats arse for Kavanagh’s eternal soul, you know that.” Cyrus handed Molly the sketch she’d brought with her. \n“I know, but now he’s dead and reaching out to me. Chris, what is this?” \nHe sighed and unfolded the sheet of paper again, looking at Molly’s automatic sketch, the paper ripped in places where her urgent scratchings tore through. The drawing suggested a building, a clock tower to the right with crenelated sections to the left. Windows were spaces unfilled on the page. Everywhere else was an erratic darkness with occasional shapes that may have been animals or people or something altogether more dreadful. A menacing image hovered over the building; a downwards looking single eye.\n“I saw that eye in my crystal,” Molly said in a matter-of-fact voice. “When I went under, his spirit came to me, and he was frantically trying to explain something and all I got was this. I couldn’t hear him. That’s not like me.”\nCyrus pointed at the building, “It reminds me of somewhere. Right crazy though isn’t it, him dropping dead like that? He knew you were for real, that’s why he’s contacting you.”\nMolly shook her head, “Don’t know. This is the key though, this place,” she tapped the page. “The eye. What’s it stand for?” \nCyrus looked at his watch, “Bugger, got to fly, I’ve got a job interview at Costa. Bills to pay! Molly, if I were you, I’d not bother with him. He got what he deserved.” Spinning round, Cyrus laughed, “I knew I recognised it, that’s the old Barrow Hall Safari Park, posh flats now. All the animals went to zoos.”\nThey exchanged air kisses, Molly watching Cyrus billow away under full sail. Barrow Hall, the place where they found the bodies of those two kiddies.\n\n#\n\nKavanagh started as a journalist on a BBC North West teatime news show. Molly remembered watching his reports when she was little whilst eating her fish fingers and chips. He always seemed to be standing in the pouring rain, surrounded by flashing red and blue lights, broadcasting from accident and crime scenes. He was part of the furniture, more familiar to her than some of her own family. \nShe sat with Valmont, drowsily watching YouTube videos of Piers Kavanagh progressing from on-the-spot reporter to news anchor to having his own investigative shows. One piece of archive footage, from the mid-nineties, brought it all back; two children’s bodies dug up in the grounds of the safari park when it was being redeveloped. No-one knew who they were. The kid’s clothes, with labels cut off, suggested they’d died in the 70s, but cause of death couldn’t be determined and despite a media campaign no missing children matching the possible age and sex of the bodies were identified. The case went cold.\nReluctantly, she opened her phone and scrolled through the contacts. She’d avoided speaking to a certain person for the best part of two years, deciding to let sleeping dogs lie. With a sigh she typed, “Just wondered if we could talk? About Barrow Hall? I have a sense it’s important.” She left it there. There’d be a reply or there wouldn’t. \nA further trawl of YouTube dredged up old cine footage of Barrow Hall, a family visit sometime in the early seventies. The choppy shots showed a sunny summers day filled with lions and baboons and the occasional giraffe. Picnickers watched children playing on swings and a large roundabout she remembered as the ‘witches’ hat,’ a conical steel frame with wooden seats that span around a tall pylon. Her attention was drawn to someone’s face. Her phone pinged as she paused the playback, leaning in to see if she could get a better look. Another ping. She glanced at her phone.\n“I’ve retired.” Followed by, “What do you want?”\nMolly didn’t respond. She jotted down the name of the video, the channel, and the time stamp of the image she was looking at. Then she replied, “It’s about Kavanagh’s last words.” \nValmont hopped down to the rug and stretched, wanting his dinner. A reply arrived.\n“He’s dead. Leave me be.”\nMolly stared at the response, anger rising, beginning to type a response then stopped, as her brain told her not to bite. Instead, she fed Valmont and put the kettle on. Hands on the kitchen worktop she began to feel disorientated, as if the room were slipping away from beneath her. Holding on to the wooden counter she sank to her knees, the world around her spinning. Valmont hissed and backed away from his bowl, back arched, eyes fixed on Molly who thought her being ambushed was in the past, a thing you learned to control. The sense of falling backwards suddenly stopped and she heard Kavanagh’s voice, “I can see…”\n“What can you see?”\nHis voice cracked, “The children.”\n\n#\n\nRetired Detective Inspector Alison Murray looked around Molly’s rather ordinary front room. There was none of the usual psychic tat on display, something she felt almost vindicated her faith in Molly’s gifts. Almost.\nMolly appeared carrying two mugs of coffee, “Don’t mind him, he’s a tart.”\nValmont had adopted Murray’s lap for himself. She looked a little stiff, uneasy with him, so Molly scooped him up, flung him over her shoulder and sat down.\n“Thanks for coming Ali,” Molly looked intently at the woman in her neat zip through top and tailored trousers. Even her Converse shoes were spotless.\n“I’ll make it quick, okay?” Murray wasn’t sure why she was there; no, that wasn’t true, she was curious and had unfinished business. “Why contact me and not the Greater Manchester Police?”\nMolly sipped her coffee, rubbing her thumbs through a purring Valmont’s ears, “You stayed with the ‘Quarry’ squad, even after sentencing, because you knew there were more out there.”\n“We had leads going nowhere, every kook, if you’ll excuse the term, came bothering us with visions and voices. Word got out you assisted us; you know what it was like?”\nMolly did. A ring of abusers preyed on local kids and dumped bodies in the flooded Northolt quarry from the late seventies until 1990. A television producer on the regional news was arrested following an anonymous tip-off and he told the police everything; seven men and two women were imprisoned. Covertly, Molly had helped locate the bodies, essential for a robust prosecution, and would have stayed out of the picture had Kavanagh not let slip a psychic was on the case. The furore had given him his own show and nearly ended Murray’s career as opposed to Molly who found herself on talk shows and making guest appearances, successful theatre tours, authoring books, and running a lucrative private practice. \nMurray looked ready to leave, “Kavanagh’s interference put the lid on the case. It’s over.”\nMolly reached over Valmont to open her laptop, showing Murray the clip on YouTube, “See that face, there?” she paused it and pointed.\n“Who’s that?”\nMolly frowned, “It’s Lord Barrow, the owner of the safari park.”\n“And?”\n“Kavanagh showed me Barrow Hall, he said, ‘I can see the children.’ Two unidentified kids’ bodies were found there. There’s a link, between the ‘Quarry’ case and this, Ali. Find out what it is.”\n“How? I’m retired.”\n“Kavanagh knew something but didn’t have enough evidence. You’ll have colleagues, friends, somebody who can look at the files.” \nMurray gave a deep sigh, “Molly, it’s not that simple.”\n“Right!” Molly evicted Valmont and grasped Murray’s hands, who, clearly surprised, tried to pull away. “You’re coming with me,” said Molly, closing her eyes.\nBoth women felt the sensation of sliding downwards, Molly more acquainted with the feeling than Murray who was stiff as a board. This time, Molly concentrated on Kavanagh’s face and voice, drawing him to her. This was no time to be an observer, she thought.\nThere came the immediate scent of beeswax, of a cool breeze carrying the heady scent of roses. Molly sensed an open doorway to a garden with the voices of children in the distance, a dark room, panelled in wood. A man stood with his hands on the shoulders of two children who were confused, afraid, looking around them with awe.\n“Now, if you’re good, you’ll both get a present. What do you think of that?”\nMolly sensed panic as the doors closed to the outside world and the room became dark; all she felt then was fear, and pain.\nMurray gasped and let go of Molly’s hands. She was trembling, eyes wide. Valmont stared impassively at the women, then began to groom his feet. \n“Did I really see that?” Murray asked.\n“What did you see?” Molly replied, exhausted. “Two children? A room in a posh house? Curtains being drawn?”\n“Not just that. Their clothes. I recognised their clothes.”\n\n#\n\nMolly, backstage, looked up into the booth where the director and producers of ‘Exposed’ sat, resurrected for a special live edition, months since Kavanagh’s death. She knew they wanted fireworks. \nAli Murray, on set, absently fiddled with her wedding ring, eyes on the tape markers on the studio floor where the new presenter, Jackie, had practiced her blocking. Chief Superintendent Max Hughes nervously paced, chewing gum, waiting for the instructions in his earpiece.\nJackie Roberts walked onto set, smiled, and found her spot. Hughes joined Murray, sitting, both nervously exchanging glances. \n“One minute to go live, Jackie, you ready?”\nShe raised her thumb. \n\n#\n\nThroughout ‘Exposed’, online chatter rose to fever pitch as the former detective on the ‘Quarry’ case and the current Chief Superintendent confirmed the reopening of investigations into the bodies of two children found nearly fifty years earlier. ‘Exposed’ had been commissioned for another three seasons.\nMolly sat in the green room, passive, eyes closed. The children’s bodies had been identified as two residents at a children’s home on a day trip to see the animals; the manager, long since dead, was linked to the ‘Quarry’ paedophile ring, as was Lord Barrow, in a nursing home for patients with advanced dementia. A search of the wing at the Hall, still lived in by the Barrow family, turned up a crumpled brown envelope, secreted in a writing bureau, containing snipped clothing labels produced by Ladybird for Woolworths, dating from around 1975.\nMurray, arms crossed, watched the rolling coverage on a 24-hour news channel, Lord Barrow’s children vociferously defending their father. The children’s home staff who weren’t dead or too old to speak were being interviewed by police. \nMurray turned to Molly and smiled, “The staff covered up the disappearances. Nice work Piers.”\nMolly shook her head, “You haven’t asked me the important question.”\nMurray looked puzzled, “I don’t understand.”\n“About Kavanagh? You haven’t asked how he knew about the children? He would have been very young when they disappeared. His real name was Patrick Keogh, abandoned by his mother along with his two siblings, Sinead and Seamus. Patrick, or Piers as he became, was the baby. Sinead and Seamus went on a picnic from the children’s home and never came back.”\nMurray’s jaw fell open, “He told you this? What did Kavanagh want?”\n“Answers, justice.”\n“Proof you could speak to the dead?”\nMolly smiled, “Of course, and, as always, the last word.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 and our Dreams\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1989\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who interprets people’s dreams." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Let me tell you about my beloved grandmother, or my nana, as I call her endearingly. She’s quite tall, lean, with wrinkled, dry, and sun spotted skin, and had gloomy, drooping, lackluster eyes that hide a wise woman way more advanced than her years. I was starting in high school, 12 going on 13, and she was already in her mid-60’s. My relationship with my grandmother was at the borderline of love and hate. Do you know why? Because I was her favorite grandchild for house chores! She wakes me up very early to gather firewood in the riverbanks, wash our clothes in the river, harvest onions and garlic in the fields, sort harvested tobacco leaves that the big tobacco company would buy for cigarette manufacturing, and accompany her to the early dawn mass. It’s not funny at all to go to the early morning mass with her because often, we arrive at a closed-door church. She thought she had missed the tower bell’s toll for the first mass of the day. But the priest’s attendant had not tolled the bells yet because it was still too early for the first mass! Nana would just say it’s better to be early than late. Imagine having to sit outside the church for another hour more before the church door will open. And to think that I have to go to school at seven in the morning, right in time for the flag ceremony, or else I’d end up absent from my teacher’s time record. I think my nana had always preferred me because I was a responsible and obedient daughter and granddaughter, who, though grumpy and pouting on occasions, would still do as told.\n\nMy nana was illiterate, being a pre-war and post-world war survivor, but I would say she’s wise: she’s the neighborhood quack doctor. She makes herbal concoctions that she would readily hand out to ailing patients when needed. She would say, “Boil these leaves and drink this broth, heat the oil and massage it on that part of your body, and drink the juice of such fruit or vegetable.” But believe me, it works every time and she would never ask for anything in return. That’s why, the entire neighborhood loves her and during occasions, there’s always a little gift from everyone: a live chicken, a basketful of fruits or vegetables, several rolled tobacco, a bottle of gin, or a tamer drink like a home fermented wine from fruits.\n\nThat’s not all. She’s a weather forecaster, though not certified by any scientific agency: she could forecast tomorrow’s weather from the look of the sky, the stars, and the moon! We don’t need a TV or a radio announcer in the country as long as we have nana. So, if there was a scheduled school excursion the next day, and she knew a storm was brewing on the horizon, she would tell our parents not to let us go. Mind you, she was right again! The radio broadcasters were crucial hours delayed in letting the public know. My nana should have announced it earlier in school, so the school buses would not have left the school only to return minutes later to bring back the students to safety. \n\nAnd lastly, my grandmother could interpret dreams! Yes, she can tell you what to expect from your dream. And I learned early from her that not all pleasant dreams bring good tidings. I’ll tell you why.\n\nMy friend and neighbor, Minerva, once came with us early in the morning to the river when we went to wash our clothes on a Saturday morning. It surprised me she’s awake so early when she would usually burn her bed till mid-day, and wake up for lunch that’s already served on their dining table. I used to tell her she was so lucky, unlike me, who had to work to help my family. But she just came with us because she hated staying in their house while her older sister, Marie, was home, having come for a weekend break. Her sister graduated from high school last year and entered a university in the city in the Cordillera highlands. She hated her sister because compared to her, she’s a beauty. The neighborhood guys at her sister’s age or even older than her would sit near their ancestral home, just to have a glimpse of her or talk to her. She’s not liking it because she becomes invisible to them when her sister is around. None of them would even say a simple hi, and it irked her so much that every guy seemed to ignore her presence. I just laughed at her, telling her to wait for her time. Maybe being younger, our bodies are still underdeveloped, they would still classify us as children, I would say. She hated it when I dismissed her petty tantrums of jealousy. Just to appease her, I also said that sometimes beauty can be a curse. I wish I hadn’t said such a thing just to make her smile or to stop her from whining. \n\nWe were sitting on the enormous stones in the river while Minerva helped me wash our clothes when she told us about her dream. My nana is a stone’s throw away but may have been listening. She told us she had dreamt of her sister in a white bridal gown walking down the aisle towards the altar, while she was wondering why the church looked grim and bare, and there was almost no one around except the minister and very few family members. And the weird thing is, there was not even a groom! That was not your sister’s wedding, for sure, I quipped. Then, I remembered that recently, I also had a dream. I told her I was passing by their house and saw from afar that her sister was home, and looking out her bedroom window. However, as I neared their house, I said I couldn’t see her face at all. Yes, she was there, standing and looking out, but her face was blank. Our conversation was simply an innocent exchange of our dreams, which featured her older and beautiful sister. We talked some more and had moved on to other topics when my nana came near us. She told us to finish wringing the clothes and spread them on top of the blistering stones on the riverbank to dry. After having done that, she made us follow her to the cool shade under the trees and opened our packed lunch. My friend suddenly felt shy having to share the little food that my nana cooked and packed for us that morning. I said it’s okay, it’s nice to have her with us on a picnic.\n\nSuddenly, my quiet nana broke her silence. She wanted us to pray for Minerva’s sister. We looked at her, wondering why she would say that. She told us that our dreams were foretelling an impending doom involving her sister. What kind of doom could it be? I asked my nana. She wouldn’t say. She told us to offer a prayer with a lighted candle. Nana asked my friend if her sister was okay. Is she healthy or feeling sick, she asked. I looked at my friend, waiting to hear her reply, and it surprised me when she said that she’d been coming home for the past three consecutive weekends, feeling gloomy and weak. In contrast to her former bubbly self, she was quiet and withdrawn; often, she would just sit by her bedroom window looking at a far distance. Nana told my friend to alarm her parents. They should know what’s bothering her. They should give her a little more attention during these times. But my friend said her sister must have already returned to the city and would be back again the next weekend. Then, perhaps they should see her in the city before it’s too late, my nana said. I didn’t want to cause my friend anxiety, but I hope she would heed my nana. Throughout my waking life with her, there’s one thing my heart acknowledges, and that is, to always listen to my nana. Either she’s an angel of fortune or a harbinger of doom. \n\nFor the next few days, I didn’t see my friend, and I had been busy at school too with all those dance practices for a forthcoming school activity. It was the weekend again, but this time, I must be lucky because my nana didn’t wake me up so early: I had an extra hour of sleep on that relaxing Saturday. Suddenly, there was a commotion downstairs and around the neighborhood. I asked my cousin what’s happening, and she said Minerva’s sister seemed to be under a spell of witchcraft. How could anyone just believe such nonsense during these times? Witches had perished long ago, and how could they be sure that it was witchcraft? My nana was not around and I came to know later that they had called her to Minerva’s house to witness what’s happening with her sister. I hurriedly changed into my outdoor clothes and went there as well. Marie was on the bed, writhing and crying for them or anyone to bring a certain guy to their home. Who was the guy? They wondered. He was one of her ardent admirers, a native boy of the Cordillera mountains. She didn’t like the guy. They came to know when they called her female friends on the phone. She hated him because the guy was persistent in pursuing her when she had already declined his amorous advances from the very start. She had even humiliated him in front of their classmates and friends.\n\nOn one occasion, she lost her used clothes and underwear from her bag during her Physical Education class. She had a swimming class, and she was going to change back into those clothes after her class. After reporting this to their class teacher and the facility-in-charge in school, they still didn’t find them. In the days following that incident, Marie had been exhibiting weird behavior. She would call out the guy’s name in her dreams: her roommates said. Then, she would look for the guy in the school, but he had dropped out suddenly. She would exhibit sexual movements such as kneading her breasts and cupping her mound, as though she was being touched and made love to. It alarmed the parents to know of this. They asked two of their male relatives to go to the school to find the man. My nana had said that he must have taken her missing used clothes and had used them in some spell-casting or evil-brewing, or whatever. If they can’t find him, and they won’t be able to stop what he was doing to her, she could die. She couldn’t eat, sleep, or do anything at all; they couldn’t help her unless they could find someone up there in the mountains who could cast a counter-spell. \n\nThe parents followed the earlier sent relatives in the mountains to find someone from the tribe where the man belongs to; who would know how to cure their daughter. After a day, some of the school authorities and the older men of the tribe found the house, but not the man. They found Marie’s items used to cast a bewitching spell on her. The tribe had helped to counter the spell and returned Marie’s items to her parents. \n\nIt took a week for Marie to be cured, but she had transformed into a melancholic young lady. Her parents didn’t permit her to return to the highlands anymore. They will have to find another university for her in a nearby city. From thereon, Marie feared guys and would shun anyone who had an interest in her. It will take some time for her to be back to her old self. The experience had traumatized Marie for 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 Fulfillment\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2983\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a silent retreat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Swathes of red and blue intermittently flooded my vision. Beneath the flimsy plastic, my limbs still pulsed with adrenaline. Initially, the barrage of sirens and shouts was an audible assault, but now my thundering heart drowned most of it out.\nAn officer loomed over me, his mouth forming words that failed to reach my ears. The paramedics seemed to retort, much to his chagrin.\nI cast my gaze upon the modern structure ahead, an incandescent glow piercing the night. Panels of glass stared back like watchful eyes, knowing the truth of what lay within.\n ***\nThe smooth chime of a bell reverberated through the room joined by the squeak of feet on yoga mats. My eyelids fluttered open just in time to see the instructor place a hand gently over her heart and give a slight bow.\nA lithe figure next to me uncurled like a cat stretching to life, feline and graceful in her movements. Her name-brand attire hugged her toned curves, the same curves that I’d seen in an Instagram post this morning. Retreat Day 1: Learning to Love My Body. The caption was a paragraph thinly veiled as self-love and content, but the undertones bled through. Despite. Rather. Instead. I learned I don’t need…\nIt was smoke and mirrors–the edited photos, smiling to promote green juices, the constant upgrade of wardrobes and skincare products and makeup. Behind the facade was a girl grasping at the straws of relevancy and follower counts. And, judging by the way she cut her eyes at the woman in the front row of the studio now, the straws were becoming further out of reach.\nAllison Devino. I recalled her name then as she continued to glare at the woman. Long, auburn locks whipped in my direction as Allison spun on her heel to leave.\nThe woman under the fire of Allison’s burning gaze appeared none the wiser. She smiled as she departed, holding an air of confidence that only a ruthless businesswoman could. Genevieve Sterling, financial investment heiress and CEO. It’s no wonder Allison was green with envy. After all, I imagined the salary of an influencer paled in comparison, and how nice would it be to start life with a silver spoon? I made another mental note, trying to piece together the puzzle of faces I’d encountered last night at the welcome dinner, albeit a somewhat difficult task at a silent retreat.\nAs I made my way to the doorway, a burly shoulder jostled against my own. Glancing to the side, I was met with the red-faced glare of Victor Russo, the lawyer who constantly seemed on the verge of a tantrum. For him, this event seemed more like mandatory anger management than a relaxing weekend of introspection.\nVictor grumbled something, shoving his way past me and out of the boiling studio. Hot yoga was never something I’d been eager to try, and the sweat pricking my skin reminded me of that. I yearned for a shower.\nI padded my way down the hall to my assigned room. Stretches of glass greeted me, late afternoon sunshine glistening upon the elaborate furnishings. As I turned on the shower, steam curling into the air and coating the mirror, I observed my reflection: brunette hair stringy with sweat, obsidian eyes gazing back.\nMuscles aching, I peeled off my tank top. In doing so, a prickling sensation tingled beneath the skin of one of my shoulder blades. I strained my neck to inspect it in the mirror. A patch of redness had started to form, itching with each movement, skin flexing. Running a few fingers over the spot, I hissed, the sting palpable. Perhaps it was from one of the yoga positions, rubbing against the mat as I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep up.\nStepping into the steam, I relished the warm caress. Since dinner wasn’t for another hour, I took my time washing, scrubbing, and generally enjoying the sound of silence.\nI could tell most of the others were already struggling to cope with the drastic dissolution of most noise, all of them extroverts in their daily lives. This was a challenge for them.\nMy thoughts wandered as I went about primping myself for dinner. After curling my hair, applying makeup, strapping on my heels, and sliding a pendant around my neck, I shimmied into my dress. A vibrant red, the satin of it clung in all the right places.\nA flat note that gradually increased in volume hummed from the digital panel by the door. Dinnertime. \nThe savory aroma of roasting meat wafted through the dining hall. My mouth watered.\nThe chefs here were world-class. The welcome dinner the night prior exemplified that as I had torn into a leg of lamb and wolfed down perfectly steamed asparagus, so I knew tonight would be no different.\nOur selected meals were hand-delivered to each of us, half the group abstaining from meat. As I sliced into the steak before me, crimson juices pooling, my skin prickled with the sensation of being watched.\nI glanced up, a pair of blue eyes catching mine. His chiseled features were intense, and he didn’t avert his gaze as he took a bite of his meal. The twitch of a slight smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he continued to stare.\nJackson Rothmeier, corporate real estate mogul. \nI’d seen his icy gaze before, plastered across the media. He even had his own Wikipedia page; quite the accomplishment for someone in real estate. But the way his eyes traveled ever lower made my skin crawl. He was married, after all, his wife having attended many of his philanthropic appearances.\nThe staredown seemed to last forever, finally interrupted by the crash of glass. \nEveryone turned. In the far corner of the room, a bulbous man in a designer suit waved a waiter away as he attempted to collect the shattered remnants of a whisky glass. He adjusted his tie with fumbling fingers, and if this hadn’t been a silent retreat, he probably would have slurred his words.\nHoward Gunnison, former politician and drunkard.\nThe man was notoriously scummy, so when I saw his face last night I almost laughed out loud at the notion of such a human trying to better themselves. And, quite obviously, the mission was not going well. He had to have snuck a flask in to get that tanked between yoga and dinner.\nAt the table across from Howard, a posh woman in a pantsuit curled her lip in disgust at the scene.\nMelissa Ellsworth, entrepreneur and public speaker.\nMelissa had graced many stages in her career, discussing the ins and outs of successful entrepreneurship. The details of her rags-to-riches story pulled on the heartstrings of the nation, inspiring the laymen to believe that perhaps they too could start their own clothing brand from the ground up.\nForks scraping plates pierced the quiet, with the occasional mumble from Howard as he beckoned for a new glass of whisky. Melissa rolled her eyes over her wine glass as she took a prolonged sip.\nOur fearless leader and head of the retreat entered the room then. Michael Solomon.\nHis long hair was tied back into a ponytail, linen clothing hanging from his thin frame. Head held high, he appraised the value of his guests–and judging from the slight sneer, I gathered that value was rather low. Conceit dwelled within him; I could sense it from a mile away. Without a word, Michael raised his hands in a gesture of thanks. The guests nodded in silence as he departed.\nWe had seen very little of Michael since our arrival. And, truthfully, he was a bit of a recluse. Perhaps that’s why he enjoyed running a silent retreat.\nI tossed my napkin on my plate, excusing myself from dinner. With a bit of disdain, I passed by Howard, feeling his eyes on me as I brushed a bit too close to his table. I couldn’t stand another second of being ogled or watching a rich drunkard make an utter fool of himself. \nJust after slipping off my heels, a light knock rapped against the door. Without the advantage of a peephole, I was forced to open it without screening my visitor.\nJackson leaned in the doorway, hair slightly tousled.\n“I know we’re not supposed to talk,” he whispered. “But I saw the way you were looking at me at dinner.”\nI cocked an eyebrow inquisitively, mostly at his audacity.\n“Don’t play coy,” he continued. “I know what you want, and I understand.”\nHe understands?\n“Because I want it, too.”\nHis hands were suddenly on me, groping, his breath hot on my neck. My skin screamed in disgust beneath his touch, and pain ignited as his hand brushed over the spot on my shoulder blade. I hissed, which he interpreted as a green light, pushing himself on me further.\n“I knew you wanted–” The words breathlessly tumbling from his lips were cut short, and he glanced down, wincing.\nA shining blade protruded from his chest, a stain like spilled wine spreading across the virgin white of his shirt. Blood replaced words, and he sputtered in his collapse. I took a step back, watching him crumple against the wood, smearing its polished surface. He shuddered briefly before stilling.\nJackson Rothmeier, adulterer, was no more. This wasn’t his first offense, either. He was a serial offender when it came to infidelity.\n“Oh my God!” a horrified voice came from the hall. Allison, frozen in place, trembled. The front of my dress was stained, blood plastered across my arms–undoubtedly a horrifying sight.\nI watched as she fumbled to find her phone, the phone that I had earlier swiped from her table on my way out of dinner while she was busy glaring at Genevieve. If anyone was a liability to call for police, it was the influencer practically glued to her phone. \nAnd I needed more time.\n“Please,” she begged, stumbling back. I had originally planned this differently, but she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. My muscles screamed as I lunged for her; she squealed like a frantic pig.\nScarlet footprints trailed me as I chased Allison into the dining hall. Again she screamed, this time as she noticed Howard slumped over his unfinished plate, eyes blank and glassy.\nThat one had been rather easy: a quick drop of a pill into his whisky on my way out of the dining hall and a long enough onset for the crowd to clear out before he succumbed. A silent tick off the checklist.\nThere was no need for Allison to cry over Howard. Not only was he a scumbag, but his drunkenness had taken the life of another.\nA few years prior, blitzed from a night at the bar, Howard had struck and killed a teenage girl who had snuck out of her house. Thanks to Howard’s power and some unfortunately good connections, he faced the lowest possible sentence.\nAllison’s wailing brought me back to the moment. She cowered in a corner, eyes darting wildly in search of an escape. Though she was the lowest offender on my list, I still couldn’t let her go; it was a formality.\nI plucked a knife from a nearby table and flung it forward with a dizzying speed. The crying stopped, and Allison slumped against the wall, the handle of the blade jutting from her eye socket.\nFootsteps echoed from down the hall, and I turned just in time to see Victor gawking and tripping into the room before wheeling backward.\n“What the–” His face blanched, a stark contrast to the usual beet-red. He clutched his chest and staggered back. “Help,” he croaked.\nThis one would finish itself, I supposed.\nVictor collapsed. I stepped carefully over to him. For a few moments, he clawed at my claves, pulled at the hem of my dress, sputtered–then silence. No longer would Victor’s temper detonate at the expense of others–namely his battered wife. No longer would the law protect him from the wreckage of his short fuse.\nI paused for a moment, surveying the mess. Things had been set in motion now, and there was no going back.\nAn hour later, I found myself sitting alone in the foyer. Luckily I had managed to avoid any more blood.\nIn one room, Melissa hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted, overpriced dress–one of her company’s very own. But I was certain the children who fabricated it in her sweatshops, one of whom perished due to poor labor conditions, wouldn’t be too sad. Melissa had never lifted a finger to go the extra mile in life, and now she didn’t even lift a finger in her own death.\nIn another room, Genevieve lay still, adjacent to a gun that had likely cooled off by now. She snuck it in for protection, a paranoia developing since her defrauding tendencies were exposed to the public–tendencies that cost so many others their livelihoods while she raked in the profits. It was ironic: her career had been upheaved by a smoking gun and now she was leaving this world by a smoking gun.\nI tallied six bloody fingers, sitting cross-legged under a lone chandelier. Only one more to complete the requirements. I caught him earlier cowering in a storage closet with a cell phone but knew I had to save him for last.\nWith the retreat being so isolated, I knew I had some time to wrap things up. I gathered my remaining strength, peeling myself from the floor.\n“Michael,” I called lackadaisically. My voice ricocheted in the barren foyer. I never did grasp the appeal of the minimalist aesthetic, the coldness and emptiness of it.\nLike a fox in winter, I stalked through the white-walled expanse, listening intently for my prey. A muffled sob came from the storage closet. The idiot hadn’t even bothered to move.\nI knocked politely, opening the door to reveal the coward huddled in the far corner.\n“Stay back!” he shouted, wielding a mop handle in defense. “I’m warning you.”\n“Michael, Michael, Michael, you just don’t get it do you?” My tone was condescending. There was some enjoyment in watching this pompous man wither. “You made a deal, and this is part of the deal.”\n“What the hell are you talking about?”\nI clucked my tongue, chuckled. “Hell. That’s funny. You see, Michael, I know for as spiritual as you are, you can’t make the world butterflies and rainbows through manifestation alone. No amount of writing out your dreams in a vegan leather journal will make them come true.”\n“How did you know about my journal?” he asked, eyes narrowed.\n“Michael, I know everything. Everything about everyone. Truths you couldn’t fathom. You called on a higher–or perhaps I should say lower–power for help and here I am to seal the deal. Consider me a bounty hunter of sorts.” I scratched my itching back as I tried to dumb it down for him. “Michael Solomon, you made a deal with the Devil to get your dream life at any expense necessary.”\n“So that means murdering my guests and livelihood?” he cried.\n“In this case, yes. It’s no simple feat to take that much energy from the universe to spend on one selfish person. Souls are required. Souls of seven people, seven deadly sins.”\n“I don’t understand.”\nI sighed, exasperated, and proceeded to check off the requirements: Jackson–lust, Allison–envy, Howard–gluttony, Victor–wrath, Melissa–sloth, Genevieve–greed. I counted, putting a finger down with each name until only one remained. “That leaves pride.” I could tell he still wasn’t following. “I know how high you hold yourself, Michael, looking down your nose at others. And the fact that you were willing to sacrifice anything for your benefit says it all.”\nThe gears clicked into place in Michael’s mind, and he started to sob. “Please, I’ll do anything.”\n“We’ve already gone that route, Michael. Besides, you had your dream life–a successful business in solitude where you could control the lives of others exactly how you wanted–it just happened to have an expiration date.”\nI snatched the mop, snapping it in half over my knee. The unevenness of splintered wood made as good a weapon as any at the moment. Michael trembled, closed his eyes.\n“Don’t worry, it’s all about to be over.”\nWith one swift jab, I checked off the final requirement.\nI tossed the other half of the mop handle aside with a clatter. The sting in my shoulder blades blossomed into a full-blown ache, and I rolled them to quell the pain. Not long now.\nSlowly, I wound my way back to the foyer, sucking in breath after breath, quicker and quicker until I was practically hyperventilating. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer before screaming into the drive. I held my breath and willed the tears to come until they streaked down my ruddy cheeks.\n“Police! Come out with your hands up!”\nI obeyed, whimpering in my exit. “Please, help me!” I screeched. “He tried to kill me! I had to do it! He killed them all!”\nI collapsed to my knees in the moonlight, feeling a heat begin to burn as the gravel bit into them.\n***\nOnce they cleared me, the paramedics quickly became preoccupied with searching for signs of life inside the blood-soaked retreat. The cops questioned me, but I feigned catatonia.\nIt didn’t matter anyway. I could feel the pull towards home, my skin smoldering beneath the emergency blanket.\nFor a brief moment, no one watched me. I shrugged off the blanket, once again rolling my shoulders. The ache crescendoed, skin tightening. I winced and, one by one, feathers burst forth in two black plumages–wings of the fallen.\nThe mission was complete, and the heat emanating from the earth beckoned me. \n“It’s time,” a familiar voice hissed. \nThe heat intensified, another seven souls feeding the flames." } ]

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

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Ceremony\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1411\n\nPrompt:\n\nThe first rain of the season arrives. Write a story that begins immediately afterward." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There were three of them that led me to where I was meant to be executed. My arms were painfully outstretched as we walked. The dull, aching pain in my fingers was all that kept me sluggishly awake. I couldn’t move my upper body and didn’t even try. Two guards stayed by my side as we marched, both their hands on each of my limp wrists with an iron grip. The man who led us to the flood-zone walked with a purpose, each step calculated and true, determined to see me pay for my awful crimes. After all, it was his father that was our late elder. It was his father who methodically taught us how to live and survive in these hidden mountains, he who taught us his beliefs on how to live and work together as a family, as a thriving community. And again, it was his father whose blood flowed from his neck-wound into the earth, my jagged blade the culprit. \n\nThe elder was loved by all, but I knew the truth; the only true crime committed in my village was letting the old fool live for as long as he did. The people of the village should be praising me for ridding them of his awfulness; his foolish ideas of how a community should prosper were holding us all back, weakening us and threatening our future. I could hear the clouds above us starting to rumble, as the wind began to howl. I looked skyward and felt drops of rain collecting on my face. The rainy season was here, and at this, the son of the elder hastened us to my final destination. \n\nI could feel the rope around my neck tighten as he marched faster. He personally tied the noose and, as he walked, gripped the rope’s leash-end like a farmer herding an animal to slaughter. I closed my eyes tight through hot tears, ruminating on the birthright that was promised to me: I was meant to be the new elder once the great elder’s life ended. It was me who was meant to be great, me that was chosen! Now just a chastised dog, I was being led through the vast jungle, feet stumbling over small rocks and catching on shrubs like a foolish, drunk beggar. The men stayed silent as I vomited on myself, spewing bile over my torso and thighs. The one on my left looked away in disgust as I ambled on, gasping for breath while they pulled me tighter. \n\nI was completely exhausted now; it had been four days since I had rest or food, and the water given to me was contaminated with urine. The rain started to increase in tempo; the leaves of the trees danced and swayed under the downpour, while the earth thirstily sponged up the droplets; the whole jungle trembled under the greatness of the heavy rain. The hair on my skin started to rise from the water's coolness in the deafening heat, rinsing the vomit from my skin, as mud started to collect in between the webbing of my toes. We marched on. \n\nThe river, Montashek, was ahead of us now. During the rainy season, Montashek was known to take the lives of many naïve travelers consumed by its hidden currents. Its waters were home to many aquatic beasts and venomous insects as it meandered through our ancient jungle. Now, with the season of rainfall just beginning, the water’s depth would only be waist-high from the summer’s heat burning it low, making it safe to cross with no bridge before the tidal floods arrived. Dropping the leash from my neck, the one who led us reached its banks first, trudging with no hesitation to the center of the river with his long walking stick. Using the stick, he tested the depth of the water directly in front of him, taking slow steps to the other riverside, carefully guiding himself. I wanted the bastard to die. I wanted him to lose his footing, our loyal river swallowing him whole, stick and all. Then I could finally take my place as the village elder and seek revenge on all the fools who held me captive. \n\nI looked up, and to my morosity, the one who led us reached the other side of the river unharmed. He triumphantly turned back to face us, carefully lifted his walking stick into the air, beckoning us forward. The two guards pulled me into the river, dragging me as I dug my heals into the soft earth of the riverbank, resisting their efforts. I was overpowered by their combined strength though and was now in the river’s salty depths. The water came up to my chin and, when I tried to quickly drown myself, my two captors kept my head above the water’s deadly surge, sealing my fate entirely. A prolonged and ceremonious death now awaited me. \n\nOut of the river and well on our way to the execution grounds, the four of us walked in silence. I espied the trees and mountains and reminisced over the memories engraved into the walls of my mind. It was many years ago, in this very jungle, when I killed my first deer; I had used my grandfather’s bow and arrow, gifted to me from my father the day I became a man, proudly putting the animal to rest. The roots and berries that my mother showed me were edible called this jungle home. Even at this very moment I could hear her soothing voice and the way she'd sing to me when I was a scared child needing comfort, the berries she plucked sweetening my mouth as I wept in her arms. And it too was this jungle that took her from me; a flying insect gave her a sickness she could not overcome after it was nourished from her blood. She painfully suffered and was gone in less than a year, and now I was missing her more than anything else in my poor, wretched life. \n\nI could see the flood-zone now: a massive pit below water level with a large wooden stake dug deep into the earth equally centered by the pit’s edges. As we approached, the water in the pit was well above our knees from the heavy rainfall. The one who led us wasted no time as we followed him to the middle of the pit where the lone stake stood erect. My captors placed my neck against the stake, as my hands were securely tied behind my back. The water was rising faster now as the rain became torrential. \n\nThe one who led us stood in front of me now, staring into my eyes as I avoided his gaze. The water was well above our waists, and I watched closely as my two captors fled the pit for the safety of the shore. Breathing heavily, the one who led us cleared his throat, readying himself to speak. Through a heavy sadness, and a hoarseness that was unfamiliar to me, he carefully spoke: \n\n“I am truly saddened today. Your greed, my brother, is why you are here waiting for the rains to give you death. You killed our father for your own selfish reasons; you killed him for power over our village, to control our people who we were tasked to protect with our very lives. Your emotions controlled you, convinced you, manipulated you into believing that hurting our family was just. What would our late mother say of your actions, of your murder? If the sickness did not take her, would she be proud of the man you’ve become? Not only did I lose my father that day to your greed, but I also lost you, my brother. You were my very best friend in this life.” \n\nHe placed his hand on my shoulder, as tears began to stream down his face. The water’s depth almost cleared my chin as he wept for me. I slowly looked up at my twin brother, levelling with his gaze now; I could see my mother’s concern in his eyes, and I could see my father’s features on his grave face. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes as he swam away from me, the last vestige of family that I'll ever see again. \n\nWith my soul purified from the rains the ceremony was over, and it was time now to rejoin my father and mother in peaceful death. \n\nEnd" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Starshine\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2784\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which an important message is cut off, leaving characters to wonder or puzzle out what was left unsaid." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Again, this is not a drill. The Emergency Broadcast System has been activated for this crisis! We’re not quite sure what is going on, but we know that it is affecting cities worldwide. London first reported it and it only happens at night! Oh, Jesus, the sun is about to set,” the panicked voice of my favorite newscaster almost broke on that last word. He firmed up his voice, seeming to stiffen his upper lip to deliver his final message. “Please remain calm and whatever you do, get…” Static overwhelmed the signal, seemingly filled with high-pitched screams. Then, nothing.\n“Get what?” my sister, Andrea, yelled, grabbing the shortwave radio as if that could make the static clear and bring Ray Simmons back on the air. I was still too shocked to react. Simmons was the most deadpan, emotionless man on the planet - that’s why I liked listening to him. He could be in the middle of a warzone and still give the facts in his dry, unaffected voice. To hear him almost crying on air told me just how serious this situation was. “Get what?” Andrea whined, shaking the device. Imperial didn’t have a lot of people in it; I preferred rural cities to urban ones. But someone must have heard what we had. And if whatever was happening had affected Simmon’s native New York already, then that only left us with two hours to figure out his message here in Western Nebraska. The sun was already making its lazy way to the western horizon. Nodding to psych myself up, I pushed aside my panic and tried to focus. We needed to start boarding up the house if there was an alien invasion of some sort. ‘Aliens’ was the only thing I could come up with at the moment that would freak out Mr. Simmons. But if it was aliens, why would it only happen at night?\n“Andi, would you please stop yelling at my radio and shaking it like that? You’re gonna break it,” I said calmly. Old Ray would be proud. “Give it here. Maybe some other station can give us some information.”\n“Sarah Hosanna Langston, how the hell can you be so calm! You heard Ray Simmons! He sounded two seconds away from a panic attack.”\n“Yes, he did,” I admitted. “And his last instruction before going off the air was to remain calm. I refuse to lose my head when we don’t even know what’s happening. Now, pass me the radio. I’m the only one around these parts who listens to the news outside of the city, so we’re probably the only people in this town who know anything’s amiss. Let’s see if it’s all a hoax or not.” I snatched the radio out of her loosening grip and started slowly turning the dial. Most of what we heard was static, mixed with the terrified howls and shrieks of those who were already deep in the darkness. A hysterical person was babbling ‘beware the stars’, but nothing else coherent. Determined to keep my cool and not panic, I firmly shut off the radio. \n“We need to board up the house, Andi. Whatever's happening on the East Coast will be on us in less than 2 hours. I'll start upstairs and you can get going on the ground floor. Hurry up, now.”\n“Shouldn't we warn people or something? I mean-” \n“Would they warn us?” I snapped at her bitterly. She looked away miserably. She knew exactly what I was referring to. The Langston sisters had become the pariahs of Imperial since our parents died and I'd rejected the three most eligible bachelors in town who wanted to lay claim to our ancestral land, which was some of the most fertile in the state. No one would give me the time of day before it became public knowledge that me and my sister were ‘on the market’. Unfortunately for all the men involved, we were taught our value growing up, along with the value of our land. I refused to lower my standards just to have one of those mouth-breathing yokels get their grubby mitts on my family’s land. The thought that one of them might love me never crossed my mind; I was always the outsider in town before Daddy and Mama passed in that car accident 5 years ago. Hell, my own Uncle wouldn’t even claim us when it happened! He’d stood by smugly as the courts tried to separate us from the land and each other. But I’d dug deep into my reserves of stubbornness and kept it all together; an unforgivable crime in this town. I didn’t care about our exile, but I know it got to my teenage sister. She’d been quite the social butterfly before my parents’ death.\n“Sarah, this goes beyond petty greed. Something big is about to happen, something that’s probably going to change everything for everybody in Imperial. We have to at least try to warn them!” She turned those big, hazel eyes on me and I was a goner. I could never say no to my sister when she pleaded with me like that.\nAnd the conniving squirt knew it too.\n“Fine,” I griped angrily, stomping my feet for emphasis. “I’ll call into the local radio show! But only if you start boarding up the windows and doors downstairs.” I rolled my eyes at the big, bright smile on her face as she hugged me excitedly and ran to get the boards my father had prepared and stored in our basement years ago. They were still good; Daddy was a paranoid type and determined to be ready when ‘they’ came for him and his family.\nSighing as I ignored the pain in my chest at the memory of my father, I went upstairs to the phone in my parents’ room and dialed up K107.6, the most popular radio station in town.\n“This is Treena Talks and you are live and on the air, caller. Why don’t you tell us your name and what’s on your mind,” a smooth, utterly feminine voice that never failed to grate on my nerves answered the phone. Holding onto my temper, I answered.\n“This is Sarah Langston and I just heard that something strange is going on over in New York. The broadcast was cut before I could find out the specifics, but whatever it is, it’s big and it’s coming this way. We only have until nightfall before whatever it is hits us.”\n“Wait a minute. Did you say ‘Sarah’?”\n“I refuse to argue this with you, Treena. I promised Andrea that I would share what we know - as little as it is - and I’ve done just that. The rest is on you.” I hung up, not interested in the ridicule that was coming my way. I knew no one would believe me, which is why I wouldn’t have bothered calling without my sister’s insistence.\n“What did they say?” my eternal optimist of a sister asked eagerly.\n“See for yourself,” I growled, placing the radio in her arms and turning the dials until Treena’s show came on. Then I left to get the upstairs boards for the windows. I missed most of the show, but I just knew that loud-mouthed bitch was bad-mouthing me. Likely with her popular friends. Instead of focusing on the bits of the broadcast I could hear from the living room, I used my anger to board up the windows in record time and pack a suitcase of toiletries and clothing for each of us. I didn’t know how long this thing was going to last after all.\n“That mean-spirited basketcase has finally flipped her lid,” Gregor Limms was laughing when I finally trotted down the stairs, suitcases in hand. “Imagine her, trying to incite a panic. I have half a mind to go over there and straighten her out. This is 1987, not 1938. And she DEFINITELY ain’t no Orson Welles!” I angrily switched to another channel, careful not to break the radio as I did. This was our only reliable source of information at this point. Daddy had never bothered to get a TV for the house; he saw no use when there was a perfectly good radio available for half the price. The sun was setting in a brilliant display of color across the sky. Andrea and I ate a quick dinner while watching it. Who knew when we would see another one? Once the riot of color started calming down, we went down to the basement to wait whatever this was out.\n“Can you believe…” she trailed off as she dug through her bag. “Sarah, where’s my makeup kit?” she asked in an even tone that told me that she was about two seconds from exploding.\n“What do you need with makeup in the middle of the Apocalypse?” I asked matter-of-factly. “I figured the cold cream you love so much would cover you for ridiculousness. I-”\n“The cold cream is for my pores, you idiot! I need my makeup! What if Tom Cruise survives this thing and proposes to me?” Her eyes widened as if she was listening to herself being so silly and hyping herself up to run upstairs. And just like that, she dashed up the stairs before I could stop her.\n“Get back here!” I bellowed, charging up the stairs after her. “We don’t know what’s going on up there!” We hadn’t heard much beyond the distant screams from town. We weren’t close to town either so there was no way to know what the heck was going on. Outside there were these big, bright, beautiful falling stars. They seemed to explode after hitting the atmosphere. The dust was trickling down to the Earth, but why would that…\nThe house suddenly started shaking, the roof disappearing before our very eyes.\n“Andrea, come here,” I ordered her as I watched more of the house - our ancestral home - disappear. I could see the moment her stubbornness kicked in. “Andrea, please. It’s not worth it! Not even for Mr. Risky Business.”\n“I’ll only be a minute,” she nodded to herself, bolting up the stairs. I screamed as halfway up the stairs some of the dust fell on her and snatched her up as if gravity had just inverted. I reached out for her, but the stairs were gone and I couldn't reach her. Believe me, I jumped higher than I ever had, but to no avail. We were both screaming; the last thing I heard from her was her apology. Then she was gone. Another star exploded over my head and more dust was trickling down toward me. I was tempted to let it get me, but luckily my better sense kicked in, telling me that I couldn't rescue her if I was captured. \nI dodged the dust, running downstairs to get my suitcase before taking off in a sprint to the east. I wasn't the only one. I was hitting speeds I hadn't seen since high school, and soon I was at the front edge of a crowd of survivors desperate to get away from the dust. Looking to my left, I noticed the Renners heading for their tornado shelter. A few others noticed as well and veered off toward them. Those that made it, forced their way in and seemed to be safe. Wishing that I had thought of that for Andrea and me, I focused on breathing through the burning stitch in my side. I was watching the sky for dust and my feet for hazards when a pickup truck slowed down beside me. And wouldn’t you know it, Howard Grendon, my arch-nemesis in this town, was suddenly yelling at me like it was all my fault.\n“You should have-”\n“I ‘should have’, nothing,” I gasped, fighting for breath. “What I did do… was give you… ample warning that… something bad… was coming.”\n“Only two hours warning! If you weren't so selfish, I'd still have my wife!” \n“What did you… do with those… two hours, Howie?” I taunted, knowing that he hated that nickname. “I don’t recall… anyone rushing… to do more than… make fun of me! And my sister… got taken too! Looks like I’m… Orson fucking Welles… now, don’t it?” An ugly look passed over his face, but before he could lash out like I knew he wanted to, I noticed a bit of the dust about to land on his bumper. “Watch out!” Too late. The truck disintegrated before my very eyes and Howard went to join his wife. \nThe rest of the night was nightmare, trying to avoid that golden dust was hard enough without the added hardship of avoiding being grabbed by those that did get snatched. Luckily, it happened too fast for people to get a hold of anyone most of the time. But watching Gigi Smith get taken up with her toddler was heartbreaking. I felt like I’d been running and dodging dust for years when dawn approached the Eastern horizon. I couldn’t help my tears as yet another of those stars exploded in the sky and the dust disintegrated in the early morning sunlight. I must have run halfway to Missouri by now and there were only a few of us left. A little under two thousand souls in Imperial and barely 300 had made it out.\nExhaustion hung off all of us. The night had taken its toll. But I noticed the remains of a radio station. There was a lot to be done before nightfall, but this one thing needed to be done before I set about securing shelter for myself. Another of the survivors walked up to me. I didn’t recognize him. Which meant he likely wasn’t from Imperial - a point in his favor.\n“Hi, I’m Darrel. Darrel Livingston. You look like you have a purpose for this here radio station.” I grinned at him, wiping tears and snot off my face with a towel I’d spotted on the ground. I flapped it beforehand and was pleased to discover that the dust didn’t have the same effect in the light of day as it did at night.\n“I’m… uh…” God, what was my name again? “I’m sorry, my brain is refusing to work right now.” I shook my head and was pleased when some of the information fell into place for me. “My name is Sarah Langston. I just feel it might be a good idea to warn someone about this… invasion? I don’t know what it actually was, but it sure felt like some kind of fucked up alien invasion. We need to dig? Yeah, dig deep and to the side. As long as the wind doesn’t blow we should be-”\n“It was windy as fuck here in McCook. The dust doesn’t scatter. It also goes inert once it touches a surface. Those are two facts I learned after I tried to go after my girl last night.”\n“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I sighed, annoyed that my eyes were starting to leak from being tired enough to sleep standing up. Not crying, mind you. Literally leaking. Damn, what was I doing again?\n“We need to get all this information out to those left. Hopefully, they won’t be able to take any more of us.” Darrel and I - and a few others who were curious - went to the radio station. It was in decent working order despite the events of the night before. It didn’t take very long for us to be broadcasting. Darrel set up the board and told me when to speak, setting the transmitter antennas for the widest audience possible.\n“To anyone who survived the night. Start digging. Dig as deep as you can and to the side. If your city has a subway system, set up there for the night. You’re looking for an underground structure that can hold you and your people, but not a basement. The dust from those cartoony-looking stars doesn’t scatter in the wind, becomes innate once it touches a surface, and seems capable of getting through any material on Earth. But grass and dirt hold it off. This is Sara Langston and I’m broadcasting out of McCook, Nebraska. Dig as if your life depends on it. Because it does.” An ugly sob tore itself out of my throat at that and I turned off the mic. The horror of the night washed over me, and, combined with my extreme fatigue, I was unable to hold back my waterworks. I squatted down in a corner, covered my face, and gave myself permission to break down. \nEverything else could come after a good cry and a nap." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Five Fortunes\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2976\n\nPrompt:\n\nAn intelligent young girl solves a big problem, but becomes frustrated that no one wants to believe her. Write about what she does next." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was a windless day of cloud and rain when the mute girl Milaka began to notice things. \nShe lived alone, on the outside of the village circle where only the noise of the wind, when it blew, could be heard. It was the side where, rumor had it in her village, the winds of change blew.\nThat day, a day of grayness and cheerless chill, Milaka had left her stool and her quiet, lonely meal, and had gone to stand by the open window. For two days she had not moved.\nHer sisters, Darva and Kaleena, were beginning to worry.\n“Milaka,” they said on the morning of the second day, at the time they always came by to visit. “Come sit with us and eat some of this good warm bread. It is new and fresh--the first bread of the week!”\nBut their smiles faded when Milaka remained motionless, because it seemed as though their sister had turned deaf as well as mute. At last her sisters left.\nBy noon of the third day, the clouds and the cold remained unabated, and neither had Milaka moved from her stool. That day a small wind came through the window and seemed to awaken the girl from her trance.\nShe shuddered and put her hand to her mouth. Turning about suddenly, she pulled in her skirt and sat on her stool before the loom. \nIn a basket at her feet Milaka kept an assortment of colored threads for her weaving, all dyed by her own hand, and all as beautiful and bright as the colors of day. Now Milaka took the blue thread, which was pure as water and rich as honey, and she set to weaving the first tapestry.\nFirst she wove a bright blue sky, broad and generous. It was a sky more convincing than the real thing, so deeply, beautifully blue that a person might imagine no cloud had ever dared to blemish it. When her sisters came in the next morning bearing a bowl of porridge for her morning meal, they were delighted to see her busy. They saw her weaving, and unfinished though it was, they set the bowl on the table and ran to look at it.\n“Oh, Milaka,” they gushed. “You have learned to weave the true color of the sky! How do you make it so beautiful? Tell us, sister!” But they might as well have been moths in the room, for all the notice Milaka paid them. She wove on, swiftly as ever, like a miniature thunderstorm in the tiny room. Before long her sisters grew bored, and slightly irritated at being thus ignored, they left.\nFor the next two weeks Milaka wove. She ate next to nothing, drinking only a little, and slept only when she could keep her eyes open no longer. Her sisters learned not to speak to her, for she no longer offered any kind of response.\nOn her loom Milaka wove a hill, a healthy apple green against the crystal clearness of sky. White doves she added to the sky, flying up and away in beautiful grace. Their beaks she made short and black, and each eye shone in a brightness more alive even than the eyes of real doves. Last, she wove a border of gray, upon which twisted the dark green leaves of a plant; three leaves on each stem, and each shaped like a sickle.\nThe first weaving was completed when the moon was at its peak on the fourteenth night. Milaka took a wooden post, buried it in the ground outside her house, and hung the tapestry there in the sight of all before returning inside. Promptly Milaka laid herself down in her bed, and fell exhaustedly into the arms of sleep.\nAt noon time the next day, she awoke. It was a moment before Milaka realized the entire village was crowded outside and inside of her house. All were talking loudly and shuffling for space to stand in her tiny room, and all were discussing her tapestry.\nImmediately Milaka was on her feet. She pushed her way through the crowd of chattering villagers until she was out the door at the place where her tapestry stood hanging. \n“How wondrous!” Milaka heard people saying. “I believe this is the very hill upon which our village sits. The houses are gone; it is empty, yet all the more lovely for that! And the birds flying into the sky--how exquisite! Yet all tapestries tell a story; I wonder what it could mean.” \nMilaka’s sisters were gathered on either side of it, talking excitedly and raising their voices over the babble like twin auctioneers. Milaka put out her thin white arm to touch Kaleena, engaged in rapid conversation, on the shoulder.\n“Just a minute, wait your turn like everyone else!” her sister called over her shoulder. Then she saw it was Milaka.\n“Oh, sister!” She turned about at once, a grin spreading across her rosy cheeks, and clasped Milaka’s hands in both of hers. \n“You will not believe what the people are saying! Where, oh where did you learn to weave like that? The whole village has come! They are saying it is good enough for the lord’s hall! Listen: the mayor himself has just been to see and place his bid. Eight thousand rubles, he said! We accepted at once, of course, and now everyone in the village--” \nMilaka’s mouth dropped open in surprise. She shook her head violently at Kaleena and gestured that the tapestry was to stay here. Kaleena was astonished. “You do not want to sell? Milaka, you must think--” Milaka stood miserably for a minute, wishing fervently for a tongue with which to tell the people why they must not take the tapestry away, why they must only look and what they must know. The tapestry was not meant to be a beautiful thing! Her sisters tried to tempt her with descriptions of riches, but Milaka was adamant, and at last her sisters sent the people home.\nWhen the house was finally empty, her sisters implored her of why she was so upset, but Milaka would not have them in her house either, and with a will exceeding her size she drove them out as well.\nMilaka straightened her stool and collapsed on it. Her dirt floor was scuffed and loose and the air was dusty, and her furniture had been shoved against the walls. Milaka took the tapestry and unfolded it before her. She gazed at it long and sorrowfully, and after a time went out and hung it back on its post. The tapestry was insufficient. None knew her message. She drew up the stool once more and set to weaving the second tapestry. \nIt was very much like the first, except this time the sky was empty, and upon the hill there sat a circle of houses. Small and fine in the center of the circle grew a small dark sapling--leafed with the same sickle fronds that had grown around the border of the first tapestry. Equally fine was the farmer who stood beside the plant, holding out a bowl. Inside the bowl lay a leaf. The tapestry was hung beside the first. \nAgain, the villagers came to see. Again, they begged to buy it, and again, Milaka shook her head.\n“What skill! What fine stitches!” cried the mayor’s wife. “I can clearly make out our village on our hill. It is as though one might reach out and touch the wood of the houses, feel the grass beneath their fingers! And yet all the detail lies in this one small farmer in the center, standing before this odd plant. I wonder what it means! But it is a mystery, I suppose, and that is a pity, for the weaver is mute.”\nLater, after all the people had left once more, Kaleena and Darva were left alone with their sister in front of the tapestries. They were growing weary of turning away villager after villager, purse after purse.\n“What is the use of displaying them in the sun and the rain where they will soon be ruined, when you could sell them and be famous?” her sisters demanded. Milaka shook her head in frustration, gesturing wildly. Her sisters exchanged glances. “We will leave you to rest,” Kaleena sighed, and they left.\nThe next day, a cry of wonder went up from the village center. A dark green sapling had grown up in the night, and upon its branches grew the strange sickle-shaped leaves. The villagers gathered around it, chattering about Milaka’s weaving which resembled it exactly.\n“Could it be that we have an oracle in our village?” gasped a young woman.\nThey wondered at the plant and admired it for many days, but when any villager came to ask Milaka’s sisters about the meaning of the tapestries, they could say nothing, for they were just as clueless. Milaka remained silent, as always, and inside her house she had already begun a third.\nNow Milaka wove a forest of the sickle trees. She stitched tiny people moving to and fro among the village houses, carrying baskets and armfuls of leaves. Children sat happily in the crooks of the trees, passing down branches to the people below. Sitting on the ground, more people crushed the leaves with mortar and pestle. A fine yellow powder rose up from the bowls and became the tapestry’s border.\n“If it is indeed true that the weaver tells the future,” said a man peering closely at this tapestry, “It seems that our village will soon be filled with these plants!”\nAnd sure enough, in the days following, the single sickle tree in the village center unfurled into a forest. A spicy, sweet smell wafted from the leaves and drew the villagers outside. It was not long before the boldest villagers tried the leaves in tea. They drank as their fellows watched, and their faces lit up in wonder at the taste.\n“Why, I feel as light as the wind!” one drinker exclaimed.\n“The colors are so bright! The sun is so warm!” cried another.\n“It is as though I am a child once more!” they all agreed. And the villagers became like children, greedily pulling leaves into their bowls to make into tea or grinding them into fine powder for eating. They did not forget the one who had foretold it, though, and soon they were crowded with gifts and money at Milaka's door. They begged her to predict their fates and wheedled for the secrets of her powers.\nBut Milaka shook her head at their words of praise and pushed away the handfuls of coins. She looked beseechingly into the eyes of each, trying to express what she would never be able to say. But of course, the villagers did not understand. \nWhen the villagers had left, Milaka’s sisters came running ruddy-cheeked to her house, each bearing a double handful of the leaves. They tugged at her arms and called for her to come join them, but Milaka swatted the clusters out of their hands into the dirt. Her sisters eyed her in annoyance and left.\nThe fourth tapestry was almost finished.\nNow the woven forest had grown such that it almost concealed the hill’s bright green, and nearly obscured the sky. Now children ran, plump-faced and smiling and each holding a sprig of sickle leaves. The villagers sat outside their houses with bowls full of yellow powder, and spoons in their hands. Their cheeks bulged with it, and they smiled like infants. In the border, around it all, were hands passing leaves into hands.\nThe villagers said, “It seems we will soon have even more leaves of the sickle trees! All praise Milaka!” \nAs the villagers smiled among each other and bowed to her in thanks, Milaka almost despaired. Were the people merely blind, or was she herself merely stupid? On her stool before the loom, all alone in her room, she wondered what she was doing wrong. She let out a long, weary sigh, a meer hiss of air in her throat, and set to weaving the fifth tapestry.\nThis time she wove the border first. With black thread she wove branches around the entirety of the tapestry. With white thread, she wove doves perched on the branches. Next, she took her small ball of red thread, and seeing the color was dull and faded, she set the ball on the ground and took up in her right hand a needle. This needle she put the faded thread through, and then holding up her left hand, Milaka pierced her own thumb so the blood dripped forth. She pulled the needle through, and where the thread entered the thumb dully russet, it came out a glistening, scarlet red. Now Milaka wove with it upon the white breasts of the doves.\nMilaka locked the door behind them. The birds were not beautiful. She was not finished with her weaving. \nNow she wove the same image as before, of the village on the hill in the forest of sickle trees, except this time the people were not smiling happily. They were grinning twisted grins, mouths stretched exquisitely like cruel gashes or melted wax. Their heads were bent back upon their necks and their limbs were contorted in the way of spider legs. Like bubbles in a boiling pot, their eyes bulged from the skulls, and like curled claws their hands beseeched the heavens.\nThis was what the leaves were doing to them. This was what would happen if they did not heed Milaka’s warning.\nFrom their mouths gushed red. It spilled down their fronts and stained their throats. It splattered in the air before them and made mud of the earth beneath them. Mixed like soup on the forest floor were hundreds of sickle-shaped leaves, and hovering in the air above their heads was a fine yellow smoke.\nThis was what the leaves were doing to them.\nIt was the end of the tenth week since the day the wind of change had come to Milaka by her window. Five tapestries were now finished, and all hung on wooden posts side by side just out her door. Milaka put away her threads and drank a little water, and laid on her bed to await the morning.\nMilaka’s sisters came as they always did, with a tray of food for her. \nAs always, their eyes went eagerly to her loom, but this time they screamed and flung the dishes into the air, and fled.\nIt was not long before the villagers arrived, pushing and shoving to be first to see the new creation, but at the sight of it they yelled and leaped back.\n“A monstrosity!” wailed a woman.\n“She’s mad!” bellowed a man.\n“It is a thing of evil! Take it away!” yelled all the people. Then the very villagers who had vied to be first to praise Milaka for her talent, now rushed to rip her work from the posts.\nIn horror Milaka sprang from her bed and raced out the door, but the people had already marched far away, shouting angrily and hoisting the tapestries high over their heads. They pooled in the village center and set to building a pyre. \nMilaka, running as fast as her weak legs could bear her, opened her mouth to scream. Only a rush of air came out, feeble as wind through a hollow reed. She ran straight into the crowd, pushing between the people, hammering her fists on backs. A few people noticed her. \n“She’s mad!” they yelled, and at once a man seized her by the arms. \n“Light the fire!” roared the mayor, and with a whoosh and a crack the pyre rose high in flames. \n“Bring out the powder!” someone yelled, and soon a bowl full of the stuff was in every villager’s hands. The villagers ate where they stood.\nOne by one each tapestry was cast on the pyre. The people roared in delight. They brought out more sickle-leaf powder and ate greedily with joy. They danced like savages and paraded around the fire. The soot stained hollows into their cheeks and turned their eyes into shadows. The smoke made Milaka choke and cough. \nSuddenly the strong arms holding Milaka went slack. There was a great thump as the man fell to the ground, but none of the villagers took any notice.\nThe man writhed on the ground. He twisted in the dirt and curled into an infantile ball. His eyes bulged and his hands curled. Then his head flipped back and his mouth spurted forth a jet of scarlet.\nNo one noticed. But some of the man’s blood had found its way into the fire, and it hissed like a wild creature. The villagers nearby ceased dancing in surprise, before they, too, doubled over. \nNow all the people screamed in horror. They dropped their bowls and tried to run, but before they made it a few steps they fell coughing, vomiting blood.\nThe fire sputtered and crackled with it. The ground turned to mud with it. The people turned mad and fought each other. They grinned twisted grins, mouths stretched exquisitely like cruel gashes or melted wax. Their heads bent back upon their necks and their limbs contorted in the way of spider legs. Like bubbles in a boiling pot, their eyes bulged from the skulls, and like curled claws their hands beseeched the heavens.\nThis was what the leaves had done to them. \nFrom their mouths gushed red. It spilled down their fronts and stained their throats. It splattered in the air before them and made mud of the earth beneath them. Mixed like soup on the forest floor were hundreds of sickle-shaped leaves, and hovering in the air above their heads was a fine yellow smoke." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Pinch\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2729\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which an important message is cut off, leaving characters to wonder or puzzle out what was left unsaid." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "ELCv 28 (Earth's Last Chance vessel 28) Was slowing down after 5 months at ‘Elevated Distance Speed’. The 3 person crew were starting to feel the ‘pinch’. The ‘pinch’, as it had become known, was the phenomenon whereby the greater the distance from Earth the more the human heart and brain would become... panicked. Fatigued, strained and 'lost', as though there was an invisible bungee attaching everyone’s core to the planet. There wasn’t yet an acceptable scientific explanation for this effect. But the crew of the ELC 28 were really feeling it, they had just crossed the 960 million km from the earth, heading perpendicular to the gravitational rotation of the solar system.\n\n“It’s always worse going south” Carl said with a smirk, looking across the table at 2 distraught faces.\n\n“What do you mean south!?” Casper said angrily “There is no South, North, East, West. Just black, black everywhere!”\n\n“Listen I’ve been through this, 7 times!” Carl said trying to keep his cool and maintain a sense of leadership.\n\n“And that’s another thing,” Pearl said, getting drawn in by Casper’s outrage “How can this be the ‘Last Chance’ if there were already 27 previous ‘Last Chances’ that have failed? “\n\nThe ‘Earths Last Chance’ missions had been funded globally and quickly established as the best chance of survival for the human race, every nation had poured all of their resources and remaining workforce into it, since it had been scientifically established 50 years prior that humanity would not survive much beyond 3397, on its current trajectory, without finding another safe inhabitable planet, or a source of infinitely extractable energy.\n\nIt was a question that had floated between Casper and Pearl for some time now, what had happened to the previous 27, and how had Carl come back every time? The first 15 ELC missions had been manned by larger and more experienced crews. By the 20th there was no time to train anyone to the standard that was required. By this point, people were mandatorily encouraged to join a crew in a variety of ways, shorter prison sentences, the promise of financial security for their extended family, and the knowledge they may be helping the survival of the human race as a whole. But it was becoming ever harder to recruit new people.\n\nPearl was a space cadet in her 20s before the sudden, unexpected and overwhelming societal dread. Now she wanted to volunteer in the hopes her kids might survive.\n\nCasper had some experience as an astronaut, before being forcibly ejected after jeopardising a mission due to drug use aboard the ship, 5 years prior, he had been court marshalled but promised a complete pardon if he volunteered for the ELC missions.\n\n “Think yourselves lucky” Carl said “The first 3 missions I was on had 10-person crews, then 6, now we’re down to 3. It’s much easier this way. More food, more room. All we have to do now is locate the ‘BLHIP’ and choose who’s going in first”.\n\nThe ‘BLHIP’ (Black Hole with Inversion Potential, was a discovery made in the year 2868) A micro Black Hole less than 300 microns in diameter could, with the right equipment be ‘Inverted’ to create a temporary ‘door’ in space which could theoretically lead anywhere, The hardest part was locating the BLHIPs. The ELCv 28 was the furthest any ELC had had to travel so far, and it was understood that the effect of the ‘pinch could be life-threatening beyond 1000 million km.\nThe first attempt to send anything through a BLHIP in 2950 was an automated sensor-packed bot, but the bots would only be able to communicate data back to the vessel for a maximum of 20 minutes, before losing all connection. It was later deemed more cost-effective to attempt to send humans through, with the hope of reopening the door for them to return with any data collected. This was soon stopped after 5 failed missions as it was believed inhumane, as the participants were never heard from again, after entering the BLHIP until the recent determination of the definitive extinction of the human race.\n\n“Do you ever go first?” Casper said cynically.\n\n“Well no, not so far” Carl defensively shot back “Listen like it or not I am the Captain on this ship, I have the most experience and I’ll have to be here to guide us home”\n\n“Guide one of us home,” Pearl said “Only you and one of us have any hope of making it home right?” When she said ‘home’ her voice cracked sorrowfully.\n\n“Look you have to fight the effects of the ‘Pinch’, I know it’s getting to us all, but if we let it we’ll end up like ELCv 9, and no one wants that.”\n\n“What happened on ELCv 9?” asked Casper.\n\n“Let’s just say they never made it to the BLHIP” said Carl “The only reason I’m able to deal with the ‘pinch’ is because I’ve done this so many times, I’m used to it now, and I know how to keep myself together. But rest assured I’m feeling it too, this is the furthest I’ve been and it’s starting to put a strain on me.”\n\n“So you’ve never been in a BLHIP? But you’re happy to send us in knowing we won’t come back out!” Pearl said with a sense of righteous outrage.\n\n“Oh I’ve been in, Pearl,” Said Carl “Do you think they’d let me lead these missions if I’d never been in? And people come out all the time when there’s nothing on the other side worth exploring, and if they’re quick enough to realise that fact and get back through the BLHIP before it closes”\n\n“What was it like on the other side?” Pearl asked sceptically.\n\n“Black, Just black!.” Carl said\n\n======Scanner Deployment======\n\nThe standard procedure is to send through a scanner bot to establish the chances of anything worth exploring before sending in a human, the data received back from the bots is usually minimal, and often scrambled to the point that it’s not 100% reliable, then humans go through anyway.\n\n“OK Casper you can pilot the Scanner, just remember the beam can only hold the BHLIP open for 5 minutes so get yourself perfectly lined up,” Carl commanded.\n\nCasper sat facing the controls for the scanner and began maneuvering it into place.\n\n“If I’m doing this part that means I’m not the first one going in, right?” Casper insisted.\n\n“Afraid that’s not how it works, Casp.” Carl said firmly.\n\nThe scanner was guided through the 5-metre hole in space. The hole that had opened wasn’t black, as Casper and Pearl were expecting, but an iridescent glow of pink and purple. Beautiful and mesmerizing, yet somehow off-putting, like oil in a puddle.\n\nPearl and Casper had returned to sitting in the recreational/dining area of the ship while Carl poured over the scanner results. After 45 minutes Carl walked in.\n\n“Ok, do you want the good news or the bad news?” Carl said smiling.\n\n“What the hell does that mean!?” Casper reacted angrily\n\n“Keep a handle on the ‘pinch” Carl said calmly “No need to start losing it over every little thing. Ok, the good news is there is a strong reading of biological and atmospheric conditions within an area reachable in a Solo Flight Suit”\n\nThe 'Solo Flight Suits' were designed for independent space travel, with built-in directable propulsion and terrestrial landing capability. They had a range of up to 190,000 km in open space. But don’t have the power or propulsion to lift off once within the gravitational influence of a planet.\n\n“And the bad news?” asked Pearl\n\n“The bad news Is that one of you two is going to have to go in and try to reach it, and report back anything you find” Carl said glumly\n\n“But not you!?” Casper said red in the face.\n\n“Casper we’ve been through this” Carl said tiredly “The important thing is that, as SOON as you touch down, you report back with as MUCH information as you can gather! On your communicator, keep in mind you may only have minutes before the BLHIP closes.”\n\n“So who decides who goes in?” Pearl asks.\n\n“Well I’ll give you both 30 minutes and if neither of you have decided, I’ll decide,” Carl said matter-of-factly.\n\nCarl left them both sitting across from each other at the dining table and retreated to the cockpit, keeping an ear out for any over-reactive arguments. Carl knew that this was the time that anger had spilt over into violence in the past, his mind recollected the stories he’d heard about ELCv 9 and shuddered. ‘Not on my watch’ Carl thought to himself.\n\n“So do you want to go in first?” Pearl said trying to maintain a tone of civil diplomacy. “I mean, let’s face it we’re probably both going in eventually”\n\n“I take it from you’re tone that you’re not going to volunteer yourself, and that you want me to want to go in to alleviate your conscience,” Casper responded calmly but with an air of arrogance. “And next, I expect you’ll bring up your children and talk about how much you would love to see them again, to try to guilt me into doing the right thing, only the ‘right thing’ in this context just happens to be the thing that you want!” Casper's tone was becoming increasingly aggravated\n\n“Fine, I’ll go first,” Pearl said\nCarl, who’d been listening the whole time through the ships wall, walked into the dining area with authority.\n\n“Ok I’ve decided, Pearl as Casper said we both understand that you're probably desperate to see your kids again, but for that to happen you will have to go in. And Casper IF Pearl goes in first you WILL be right behind her, no matter what.” Carl said remembering his training.\n\n“Ok fine I’ll go first,” Casper said\n\n“Good choice,” Carl said, looking proudly at Casper.\n\n======First Entry======\n\nCasper suited up and stepped out of the ship's airlock. Carl and Pearl watched from the cockpit window as he powered towards the glowing hole in space. They watched as Casper fearlessly approached and slipped through.\n\n“Are you hearing me, Casper?” Carl spoke into the ship's communicator “What do you see?”\n\n“I can hear you alright,” Casper said with an excitable inflection, all sounds of the ‘pinch’ had gone from his voice “Wooow, it's beautiful”\n\n“What sort of planet is it?” Carl asked\n\nNothing came back from the communicator for what felt like hours but was only minutes.\n\n“It’s just like I re……...” Carl heard eventually, followed by a long drawn-out beep.\n\n“What did he say?” Pearl asked in an excitable tone.\n\n“It’s just like I…” And then it cut off, Carl answered.\n\n“Just like what?” Pearls said frustrated.\n\nI don’t know” Carl responded “Let's listen to it back again” Carl replayed the message “It’s just like I re……...” Came out of the machine.\n\n“Re?” Pearl said puzzled “Re what? Recognize? Remember?”\n\n“You’re going to have to go in after him, Pearl,” Carl said looking back at her.\n\n“And you’ll follow, right?” Pearl said pleadingly.\n\n“Of course, I’m not going to miss another opportunity,” Carl said\n\n“What does that mean?” Pearl asked frowning “It wasn’t ‘Just black’ the one you went through was it Carl? You were just too afraid to make landfall because you knew that would be a one-way ticket”\n\nCarl looked down ashamed “It wasn’t as simple as that,” Carl said “There are lots of planets that can come back with ‘breathable’ atmospheres on the scanners, but when people go through it’s a death trap. The one I saw when I went through was not right, the sky was orange and the land was black, I knew straight away, that if I touched down, I’d never be coming back.”\n\n“So you were scared“ Pearl scoffed “And yet you’ve sent plenty of scared people to their deaths, how do you know this one will be any different, and yet you are more than happy to send me through.”\n\n“Casper said ‘It’s beautiful’ Do you think he would have said that if it didn’t at least look safe,” Carl said encouragingly. “The BLHIP will stay open long enough for you to establish a connection with Casper, he should have made landfall by now if it’s safe, and you’ll know if you should turn back, and you can come straight back through.”\n\n======Landfall======\n\nWith that Pearl suited up and reluctantly entered.\nCarl sat waiting, watching, and trying to calculate how long it might take for Pearl to communicate with Casper, and how long he’d have before the BLHIP would close.\n\n“Anything from Casper?” Carl asked nervously through the communicator. “Is he alive?”\n\nA long pause.\n\n“Wait he’s talking,” Pearl said “He’s ranting and raving, I can barely make it out”\n\nAnother long pause.\n\n“He says it’s Eart……” Pearl said, with that the BLHIP closed suddenly.\n\nCarl sunk his head into his hands in despair, ‘It's Earth?’ Carl thought, was that what Casper was saying? ‘It can’t be, there are no BLHIPs that close to Earth, I would know. Unless one has formed since we've been traveling. Or maybe a new BLHIP is created when we travel though? Nobody knows for sure.’ Carl thought.\n\nHe sat and dwelled on this new information for some time. He could wait for Pearl to make landfall, then travel through, but if Casper was wrong then he, Pearl and the ship would all be lost. And if he was right, and it was, in fact, Earth. All that’s been achieved is finding a shortcut back home. Still would have lost the ship, and the Earth would still be on a collision course with annihilation. But at least he would have proven himself courageous enough to follow the crew through a BLHIP.\n\nOr he could open the BLHIP right now in the hopes he could at least save Pearl before she attempts to land. ‘But save her how, we’re all dead either way, if I bring her back on board we’ll just head back to Earth with no confirmed news of salvation’ Carl was distraught and angry with his inability to think clearly, he was supposed to be the one to keep a clear head and make firm decisions. ‘Damn pinch‘ Carl thought.\n\nCarl opens the BLHIP and tries to establish a connection with Pearl on the communicator, ‘It’s taking too long’ Carl thinks. Suddenly he can hear Pearl's breathing coming through “Pearl! How far are you from landfall!? There’s not much time” Carl shouts through the mic quickly.\n\n“I’m within the gravitational pull now,” Pearl says excitedly “Casper’s on the ground and he’s breathing! Without his suit! He says it’s safe, send a message home!”\nCarl quickly uses the onboard computer to send a message back to Earth.\n\n‘This is ELCv 28. We've found a new home, location details included. Begin the evacuation process.’ Carl hits send and prays that was the right decision. He climbs into his suit and heads towards the BLHIP.\n‘This is it’ He thinks\n\nCarl gets through just as Pearl is making landfall.\n\n“How was the descent?” Carl asks.\n\n“Fine, not much in the way of clear landing areas.” Pearls responds “A lot of flora and fauna where I am.”\n\n“Flora and fauna?” Carl says, “That doesn’t sound like the Earth I remember, have you got a connection with Casper?”\n\n“No his communicator cut off abruptly about a few seconds ago,” Pearl said concerned, ”I’m going to de-suit now”\n\nCarl tried to establish a connection with Casper, but nothing but static came through.\n\n“How’s the air?” Carl asked.\n\n“Clean, weirdly clean,” Pearl said taking deep breaths.\n\nCarl was getting close to the inescapable gravitational pull of the planet, he soaked up the beauty of this vantage point. It looked like Earth, green land and sun and oceans, Carl couldn’t contain his excitement, but something was different, Carl didn’t recognize any of the continents!?\n\nA scream pierced Carl's ears through his communicator. Then Pearl's voice came though panicked.\n\n“Carl…Carl, turn back now, get back to the ship, and send another message to Home!, THIS IS NOT EARTH. THIS IS NOT A SAFE PLANET”\nAll that followed was screaming, the sounds of bones crunching, and a strange, savage, terrifying deep roar.\n\nCarl checked the altimeter on his suit, ‘Now entering inescapable gravity’.\n\nThe End" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Haunted\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2360\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a child who carries on their parent’s work or legacy in some form." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As I slump into my seat, the cold plastic chair transforms into rich mahogany. The plastic utensils, without sharp edges – “to keep us safe” – melt into stainless-steel forks and knives. As I stare at my white paper cup, with my blue and white pills to keep it company, the cup slowly changes into a sparkling crystal glass, red wine swirling within.\n“Anna,” the man across from me says, voice slicing through the silence. I jolt to attention and my knee hits the table, spilling red wine over the rim. It snakes down the side of the glass, spreading across the white tablecloth like blood, filling the room with its nauseating odor. I let the blood spread, watching it, ignoring the grating laughter in my ears, keeping my eyes on the table as the writer – at least I think he’s a writer – rolls his shoulders and clears his throat. I don’t look up. I can’t.\n“Anna,” he says again, looking down at his clipboard. “It’s Thursday. And you know what that means.” The man smiles, pushing his oversized glasses closer to his nose, adjusting his stethoscope – no, not a stethoscope. It must be a scarf. Yes, he’s just adjusting his scarf. When I keep my gaze locked on the table and don’t respond, he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the plastic – no, mahogany – chair already biting into his back. He continues, “Whenever you’re ready.”\nI take a deep breath, eyes following the blood as it spreads, and spreads, and spreads–\nI close my eyes and see hundreds of accusatory fingers pointed at me, mouths hanging open in vicious smiles or contorted into chilling grimaces. A pair of obsidian-blue eyes surrounded by chubby cheeks stands out, those stormy eyes staring daggers – at me. Clumsy Anna, always spilling her fruit punch, nervous Anna, always running from monsters, crazy Anna, always telling stories –\n“Anna?” I latch onto the writer’s voice as it pulls me from a world of chalk-stained boards and swarming cafeterias, back to reality.\nHeart racing, I open my eyes and look up, shaking my head to clear it. “I-I’ll just start at the beginning.\n“My father was born in a small village in rural New Zealand. Years ago, the Maori, the indigenous people of the area, still had a voice. They ran the government, taught at the schools, and supervised the religious ceremonies. The town was small; everyone knew everyone’s third cousin. And it was poor. They farmed the land and sold their goods, barely surviving from one year to the next.\n“One day, a merchant from India found his way to this small village. But the people soon realized he was no ordinary merchant. He wore gold bracelets, the finest silks, and carried around jars of exotic spices. People whispered that you could hear those bracelets crashing together across the Aoraki mountains and you could smell those spices, honey-gold saffron and smokey black cardamom, sailing across the Pacific breeze.”\nThe writer marks something down on his clipboard, nodding to himself, then meets my gaze, brow furrowed. “Why would this merchant want to visit such a poor country?” the writer asks, leaning forward.\n“It was rumored that this man with the angry bracelets and magic spices, a prince from a faraway land, was looking to pave new trade routes with New Zealand.” I try to ignore the flickers in the corner of my vision, the tapping hand, the lifting glass. I keep my eyes locked on the golden sunlight spilling through the barred windows – no, they must be stained glass – as it cuts trails through the cobwebs decorating the chandelier overhead.\n“And my father, after seeing the merchant’s luxury and wealth, grew resentful. He couldn’t understand how his people survived like this, trekking miles to collect their own water, living happily in wooden wharepuni, when the merchant told stories of three-story houses where water did not have to be boiled before bathing; it was already there, warm and waiting at the turn of a faucet. \n“So, my father made quick friends with the merchant: even when the snow-capped mountains vanished behind clouds of smog, even when the Maori traditions disappeared from the schoolbooks, even when the preferred presidential candidate was found dead. When the merchant decided to return to India, my father went with him.”\n“What did your father’s family think about him leaving everything behind?” The writer asks, huffing a laugh. “I’m sure they weren’t very happy.”\nI meet his eyes then and, seeing the growing blue fire in my own eyes, he averts his gaze. Don’t look at the other seats, don’t look at the other seats. Sweat begins to bead my forehead, trailing down my back. The voices ring in my ears, their chant on an endless loop: clumsy Anna, nervous Anna, crazy Anna, clumsy Anna, nervous Anna, crazy Anna…\nWiping my brow and sending a pointed look at the writer, I continue, “Of course, my father’s family wasn’t very happy, to say the least. As an only child, he was favored to take over his father’s position as village shaman. So, you can see how they might have been a little upset.\n“But they weren’t just upset; they were devastated. The night before my father left, his father, the reigning shaman and my grandfather, cursed his only son.”\nThe writer leans towards me, eyes flashing. “Tell me about the curse.”\nI take a deep breath and my eyes catch on the spilled wine, now black against the white tablecloth.\n“It-it was in traditional Maori,” I say, voice trembling, “but it roughly translates to, ‘You leave your people, but you are blind. The wealth you search, you will never find.’\n\"And my father left, the curse his shadow. He lived with the Indian prince and became very wealthy. He sold spices and silks, sponsored searches of shipwrecks, and colonized lands, even if the native people resisted, even if they fought back and died. He always said that he knew what was best for them. At one point,” I lower my voice to a whisper, “he even owned his own people.”\nMy hands start to shake, and I quickly clasp them in my lap, out of sight. To my left, ice cubes slam into the glass walls of a cup that I already know contains whiskey. The sound of tapping fingernails becomes deafening. I squeeze my eyes shut. “But his-his shadow began to consume him. He began losing his vision, slowly at first, until he was pronounced legally blind exactly one year after leaving New Zealand,” I say, voice rising. “He was surrounded by wealth and luxury, but he couldn’t see any of it, from the chandeliers to the marble pillars to the crystal glasses. Nothing. He thought that the solution would be to find a wife, someone to fill the emptiness of a sightless life. But don’t you see?” Hysteria grips my voice. “Nothing can fill the void, it’s bottomless and endless and dark, so dark, it fills you, consumes you, and begins to seep from your skin, infecting everyone around you until–”\n“Anna, we’ve been working on keeping you on track, remember? Please, continue the story. We are at the part about your father meeting your mother, the beauty queen.”\nI blink a few times, trying to distance myself from that void, that interminable blackness.\n“S-so,” I continue, “in India the following spring, he attended a beauty pageant. Knowing that he couldn’t trust his own vision, he made plans to meet the winner. My mother, Miss India, all long legs, raven hair, and honey skin, was amazed by my father’s mass of wealth and enchanted by his stories of ancient curses and magic princes; they were married that same night. He was forty-five. She was nineteen.”\nI gasp as I feel nails pierce the skin of my hand from beneath the table, as bony hands wrap around my wrist. I try wrenching my hand back, and I meet the eyes of the owner of the tapping fingers for the first time. I hate that I can see her. I know she’s dead, I know–\nMy mother tightens her grip on my wrist.\nHer black hair tumbles down transparent shoulders in frizzy waves, partially concealing her tattered Miss India sash, and her broken red nails continue tap, tap, tapping against the table as she looks at me, those transparent eyes staring into my soul, searching. I finally snatch my arm back, hands trembling. The writer looks between me and my mother, brow creased. I hate that I know exactly what he sees. Or what he doesn’t see.\nI try to take a deep breath, but it rattles through my chest. I tear my eyes from my mother and continue, “Despite the age difference, they-they still had two kids, me and my…” I take a shaking breath, almost gasping for air. I know I can’t finish that sentence.\n“My father grew richer and richer, but he could never fix his sight, and as a materialistic man, he could never appreciate his luxuries. A darkness settled over the entire family. And my father, lost in his own world of darkness, began to drink.”\nA glass hits the table with a deafening crash, and I’m forced to look. In the seat to my left, I know exactly what I’ll see. My father will be there, whiskey clutched in his skeletal hand, his tan Maori skin turned ashen, his shoulders slumped, the smile lines around his mouth almost invisible through his thick beard. And sure enough, I see my father slam down his drink. After glaring at his wife, he turns his transparent eyes to me, the eyes that had once seen sunken treasure, rolling mountains, and conquered people, now sightless. Desolate.\n“And-and my mother, a beauty queen married at only nineteen, wanted nothing more than freedom. But she was forced to stay home and raise us, as my father would disappear for weeks, even months at a time, searching for treatments for his vision.\n“Each person was affected differently by this curse. Don’t you see?” My voice continues to rise as I try to control my growing panic. “When my father chose money over his family, he became blind. When my mother wanted freedom, she became trapped at home, raising us kids all by herself, until she was killed in an accident. And me,” I laugh, a dry, hoarse sound, “Well, that’s why I’m here with you, isn’t it? The curse has become its own beast. It realizes what you want most and does everything in its power to make sure you don’t get it.”\n“And how do you feel about this, the fact that your family seems to be ‘cursed,’ for lack of a better word?” the writer asks.\n“I want to escape this curse, to erase my past,” I say, fists clenching. “I want the memories gone – being the class freak at school, hearing the whisperings of teachers, seeing the looks from parents – I can’t take it anymore!” I slam my hands on the table, sending more wine spilling over the rim, watching as it coats my hands in its sticky warmth. “I’m ashamed of my parents and their mistakes. So, the curse will never let me forget. It haunts me.”\nI lift my arms, sunlight glinting off heavy metal chains, the chains that snake from my wrists to the arms of my parents, the chains that link me to them and their ruined lives.\n“My parents haunt me.”\nThe writer across the table blinks slowly at me, nodding to himself. “Good, that’s great progress Anna, really. You’re already doing much better than your father. He was really a challenge during his time here, with those, let’s just say ‘interesting’ stories of his.” As I blink, the writer’s scarf begins to change, shifting back into a stethoscope. A long, white lab coat replaces his brown tweed jacket. “I’m really impressed that you got through the entire story today. You seem much less distracted by the hallucinations.”\nAnother writer comes in from the hall. That’s strange – she has a stethoscope and white coat too. The two writers talk in hushed whispers, but I hear them. I can always hear them. \n“She only mentioned the school once,” the male writer says, checking his notes. “Maybe we can start getting her back, getting her acclimated to other kids her age–”\n“Are you crazy?” The female writer whispers back, anger creeping into her voice. “After all these years? Don’t you remember why she’s here? What she did to him in the first place?”\nI lift my hands, still covered in blood. The chain rattles. And I try to remember – the twelve-year-old boy with the stormy blue eyes that mirrored my own, ‘crazy Anna’ on his lips, rough hands gripping his shirt – my hands – unforgiving hands pushing him down, violent and angry against the pavement–\nNo, no, no. It’s just wine, not blood. Yes. Of course, it’s wine. That would be ridiculous.\nSlowly, so slowly, the chandeliers above become harsh fluorescent lights, the baby blue walls melt into a sterile white, and the smooth mahogany table is replaced by one of plastic. I inspect my hands, now chain-less, my plastic cup of fruit punch on its side, those blue and white pills watching me. I run my hands over the table’s coarse surface, fingers tracing the letters that read, Christchurch, New Zealand Psychiatric Hospital.\nWhen the writer – no, the doctor – turns to follow the female doctor, five black letters leap from his clipboard. I see SCHIZ dance across the page before he closes his folder. He smiles at me, one of those reassuring smiles that only doctors can manage.\nHe doesn’t know that the blue-eyed boy laughs through the bruises decorating his cheeks and neck, lifting his arm in a broken wave.\nHe doesn’t know that my mother weeps, mascara carving black lines down her ashen face. \nHe doesn’t know that my father smiles, lifting his whiskey in a secret ‘cheers.’\nMy mother cries. My father drinks. I swallow my pills. \nAnd my brother disappears." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Unspeakable\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1168\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story including the line “I can’t say it.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A tall and towering distinguished-looking man with hypnotic eyes stood on the stage of the Great Hall.\nHe titled himself the Professor and his close colleagues often referred to him as 'The Prof'.\n\nIt is after 3am in the morning but due to the urgency of events he has summoned his three closest assistants to learn about how he would soon reveal to all in this auditorium and to the world about a dreadful incident.\n\n\"My friends,\" he said, pausing to stress that the group's diverse political affiliations didn't matter because they were all now working together for the greater good of their country and their world.\n\n\"My friends,\" he said again. \"We've gathered here at this hour because something monumental has happened in the past few hours.\"\nThe solemn way these words were delivered left none of the group in doubt about the serious way they needed to react to what they were about to learn, and the distinct possibility that their whole fate and that of humanity was in the balance.\n\nThe Professor continued:\n\"In the last few hours or so contact has been made with the key Ambassadors in our country and they have been told to get here now....and I learn that most of them and their entourages are awaiting outside to enter the Great Hall to hear the earth-shattering news that I am about to reveal....\nSure enough, right now as you can see my staff are setting up tables in front of this stage so that everyone may know the news— which will come from me alone—....\"\n\nAt that moment one of the group on the stage raised his hand for permission to speak and the Professor nodded that he could do so:\n\"Thank you, sir, for informing us about this. I believe I speak for everyone when I say...the rumors are buzzing about, particularly on social media, and I was hoping you might right now tell us what is going on as all sorts of stories are flying around already?\"\n\nThe professor took a long breath and said:\n\n\"The events that has just happened will cause I believe great upheaval. And change to us all and forever.... ...I feel that this so crucially important...... but right now I can't say it...\"\n\nAs the group came to terms with the gravity of the situation, they fell into a stunned stillness. Because the group knew the professor was a courageous and fearless person, they could tell that something enormous was about to happen as it is clear the Prof is emotionally affected by what he will soon reveal....\n\nWithout further delay the Grand Hall doors were opened and the invited ambassadors and their entourages entered the place solemnly yet speedily. Anxiety was etched over all the faces of those who entered.\nThey were led to tables in front the stage and each table had a microphone.\nThe Grand Hall's doors were securely locked. With only a few of absentees, every table was full and there was great excitement bordering on chaos....\nAs the professor welcomed the audience, an immediate silence descended upon the room. As he was about to reveal what has happened the US ambassador jumped up, shouting:\n\n\"Tell us now as we are hearing rumors that a UFO has landed in your capital city...is that right?!\"\n\nEveryone in the auditorium burst out screaming that was with a mixture of dread and foreboding.\nThe Prof raised his hand to try to mute them as he said, \"I can't say that is what happened\".\nYet the audience continued their delirium of noise and then the Ukrainian representative spoke firmly into his microphone and said, \"Is it true that your country has used a nuclear weapon today against Moscow?\" \n\nWith that sensational suggestion another enormous din filled the room with people standing and shouting at the stage and at each other.\n \"I can't say that is what happened\" was the response, which was scarcely a denial. \n\nThe entire room fell into disarray with that comment. When the gathering seemed like it was going to explode, the UK ambassador snatched at a microphone and roared, \"well is it the case that COVID-19 has again been detected here and is about to spread throughout the world with no sign of any more cures?!\"\nPeople were yelling and demanding answers, when the Professors sole reply was:\n\n\"I can't say that is what happened.\"\n\nAt this point, the whole crowd was on the verge of rioting, but things calmed down when the Italian ambassador stepped onto the stage and snatched the professor's microphone, asking, \"So, it is that there is news that Jesus has returned?\"\n\nIn the face of the shocking revelation, numerous individuals in the room knelt down, clasped their hands in prayer, and cried out for forgiveness. However, the sole response they received was: \"I can't say that is what happened.\" \nAs if that weren't enough, the professor leaped to the edge of the stage and yelled:\n\n\"Keep Quiet!\nI shall now without any doubt describe what has just transpired.\"\nSuddenly, the entire auditorium froze and became deadly silent.\nRaising his voice to dramatically describe the awful news, he began to move his lips to articulate the events, but what he was about to say was so terrible that he could not utter a word.\nHis voice had disappeared!\n\n Nothing came out of his mouth despite his exhausting attempts to create a sound.\nNo words were uttered as the audience observed in complete quietness now, but nevertheless seeking to decipher his message.\n By using sign language, the professor then indicated to a staff member to procure a marker and a sizable white board for him. Once provided he wrote on the board in large letters, and after he completed it he held up the board for all in attendance to see it.\nAlmost everyone who read the message gasped in astonishment before trembling in fear and literally shaking with dread. Some even fell to the floor in fits of utter terror.\nA contented grin spread across the professor's face, indicating that his written words had the intended impact.\nBut then suddenly a door on the other side of the room swung open, and a group of sturdy nurses in white tunics sprinted over to the professor, rushed at him before strapping him into a straight-jacket and whisking him away.\n\nAn authoritative figure stepped onto the stage, his clothing bearing a tag with the words \"Head Consultant Compulsive Disorder Dept.\" He then proceeded to inform the audience that, for the next month, their privileges would be revoked, and their medicine dosage raised.\n \"I have warned you before do not give in to the temptation of a fellow in-patient who often tries to manipulate you into a state of intentional hysteria.\"\nAs these in-patients retreated back to their wards in shame, yet sheepishly for their ham filled and overdone performance, the head consultant looked down at the words on the white board which read:\n\"SOMEONE STOLE MY TOOTHBRUSH\"." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Greenland\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1862\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the line “We have plenty of time,” and/or end it with the line “We were never going to make it.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“We have plenty of time,” I say casually to my best friend Tulok as we make our way onto the beach. \n\nWe were fifteen when the Invaders first came upon us on those “long kayaks” we called them. Tulok and I were tasked to maintain a lookout this year and we were beyond excited. It was the first time we’d been chosen for this. This beach was the edge of the world and no one wanted the job. We took it because we’d be that much farther from the village that we hated all our lives. We were supposed to stay here for almost a year with seasonal visits from the elders with supplies. We’ve not seen anyone from the village in a month.\nThe bay freezes just enough that you can step onto the ice and observe the poor sea life suspended in time. Time deferred down in that bitter, blue cold. Our fathers taught us to pick at the ice and get to it. But it wasn’t the same. We wanted the hunt, the exhilaration of the hunt. We wanted more than just an easy target. We always fought against picking at frozen fish on the ice. We wanted more commotion. More confusion or flurries. We were bored that day. Clear, calm mornings like this used to be reassuring. What could go wrong?\n“Look!” Tulok screams suddenly. His eyes were gawking at the horizon, pointer finger dead straight. I first saw them standing on their long ships, barely making a difference from our perspective here on the beach. Large kayaks, enough to fill 20 men. Tulok runs down the beach and towards the rocks being slammed by the salteater to get a better look. He climbs onto the rocks and puts his hand on his forehead for shade. He needed a better look. I was still confused at that moment because I could barely tell what was happening but I ran feverishly to catch up. And as we stood there, gazing at the wonder of this new vision, we both felt something was terribly wrong. \nThese men, white, bearded and tattooed in their own way, held axes on both hands and looked upon our land with determination and confidence as they lowered themselves onto even smaller boats and rowed their way to our beach. \n“Gods? An animal, you think?” I asked.\n“A trick of the light?” he turns to me, eyes wide, filled with dread and uncertainty. \nTulok screams “Devils! They’re here to take us to the underground!” Their movements were calculated, beards beaded and braided. Dark, piercing eyes, I could see them even this far out. Suddenly, snow falls on all of us. These men stopped in the water, waist deep still and laughed or grunted, I couldn’t tell, at the snow falling on them. They continued on laughing and grunting beneath those red beards and cold eyes.\nHere on this beach, I wonder if this is fate or a test from the gods. While we wait for an answer, we brace ourselves and look to each other for comfort. We begin a tense, backwards walk away from the beach as these devils wade towards us. After a moment, one of the invaders, their Leader with the enormous blonde beard and braids, shining blue eyes, points to us and yells something in their devil language. “They’ve spotted us!” I hear Tulok scream. The terror in his voice was nothing I’ve ever heard before. This sent chills throughout my body as I looked on in helpless terror. Within seconds, our backwards retreat turns into a frantic run straight to the village. We ran so hard and with such ferocity that I collapsed before we could make it up the hill. We were not able to warn the others because Tulok had different plans. As he picked me up, he told me “We have to lead them away from the village. They will kill the others.” I could tell he was just as afraid, but if we wanted to save the others, we would need to be caught by these men and convince them we were alone.\n---\nTheir Leader was tall and terrifying to look at. His long, yellow hair and deep, shiny blue eyes dug deep into my mind. He and his I’m comrades wore thick, brown leather armor which held those massive axes, ready for war. As the man stood on the rocks on our shore, he scanned the terrain and withdrew an ancient amulet from his leather belt. He grunts at another one and points towards us. It sounded as if they were ready for a fight. Some of his comrades were so rabid and vile that they slipped on the wet moss on the rocks. Angry about this, they pushed and even punched each other with a dreadful glee that I had never experienced before. These muscular and overwhelming beasts would eventually push and plow their way towards the village so we kept pointing the other way, hoping they’d listen. To our surprise and disdain, they did.\nThey demanded our clothes, our weapons, and our food. They did this by pointing to our thick jackets and their thin clothes. They hacked away at the seals on the ice but would often just take bites out of the animals and kick them away from them. They built crude tents and a large cabin right on the beach during those first nights after arriving. Singing songs and spells to summon whatever gods they worshipped. They would look tired and scared after so much work on the beach. Some of them died within weeks, others after just days. They left a trail of yellow-haired bodies up the trail we kept diverting them to. By the first month they had already tied Tulok and I with ropes and grunt and howl at us in their language, always pointing north. Luckily, the village was east. As soon as the water thawed and the air warmed, however, they became violent and asked for more of everything we had.\nThey harvested every plant and flower during that following spring. Tulok and I still gave no indication that our village was just over the hills and the mountains beyond. Their giant axes of industry chopped and hacked their way up the first hills and down into the valley leading into the mountains. They spoke in that devil language we did not understand but we could fathom what they wanted other than more food, more shelter, or more clothes. They’d point to a tree and knock it down. Point to a field of flowers and yank them out of the ground, killing the color of our beautiful valley within a season. This same valley was where Tulok and I would play as children with our families. I cried to myself every morning looking out into the barren valley, desolate and blighted.\nThese brutes adorned their clothes and blonde hair with our brightest flowers. They chopped their way deeper into the valley and sang in that unbearable language that made the old men in their caravan cry. The Leader made himself a crown of green and yellow flowers. It took him several days to get the right combination of color and flower but he would smile as he got the combination just right. His blonde, yellow beard along with those bright, blue eyes rendered that crown into a menacing mockery of everything I loved about this valley. He placed it upon his head with all of the solemnity of a king. On a particularly bright and sunny day I looked upon his face and saw the hat they would think of as a god. It was beautiful and it made me recoil all at once. His men even had a ceremony to mark the occasion with prayers, wood burnings, and chants deep into the night. I had never known so much destruction on our lands. They kept pushing us into the mountains up from the valley. We gave them what they wanted.\nThe Invaders became tired and weak by the end of summer. They’d pushed us further up the mountain but looked weaker the more we pressed on. Many of them fell ill and would die on the trails we lead them on. “They pressed on too greedily and too heavily,” whispered Tulok as we became aware of their diminishing numbers. One by one, they would infect each other with the cough. They were coughing blood and crying out in agony right there on the hills. They could not carry on for more than a few hours a day. \nAfter what felt like an eternal summer, there were only three of them left. Docile and harmless, Tulok and I whispered louder to each other and devised a plan to rid these men for good. Their Leader, still wearing the crown of flowers, would slap and kick the remaining two men who managed to stay alive. His crown, now just dry stems and black petals, kept pressing on every day even as he coughed up more blood. His skin was hanging off his bones! The crown was only now falling into his eyes but he would stubbornly keep putting it back up. \nBy winter, we had successfully led them away from the others and towards the cliffs. Tulok and I had a glimmer of hope now. We were defiant now and would often ignore the men, complying only when they raised their axes at us. On a particularly bright and cold morning I woke to find the Leader with the flowery crown pointing his dull axe at me and grunted “The caves. Where are the caves?” I didn’t understand him in his tired, sweaty devil voice but I pointed to the path we were already on. Toward the cliffs I pointed with Tulok nodding knowingly at me and the Leader. They turn to each other and whisper something among them. After a moment, they turn around and begin their slow crawl to the cliffs. In all their greed, the invader never notices the one in front of them falling off the steep edge of a cliff once arriving there. They must have been so sick and disoriented, I wonder if they knew what was happening at the time. Could they know this was their end? Did they believe they would kill us all? I couldn’t know. All three of them fall to their deaths. “What did they say?” asks Tulok. “I don’t know,” I shrugged. I heard a scream that died with each passing moment, looking down at the men who took everything from us.\nIn this bittersweet moment, I look to my beat friend at and I cry. Deep, loud, uncontrollably passionate tears fall on my face. Joy and fear all at once. Tulok walked up to me and gave me the biggest hug I've ever felt. We must have cried there for an hour because we noticed the sun had fallen down. As we made our way down the mountain, I told Tulok we should keep this to ourselves. He stops in his tracks and looks me in the eye. “Of course. Let’s go home.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Go Get Dressed\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1885\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“It’s not only because he’s there, it’s just….” My chest tightened and the words just stopped. Tears poured down slowly onto my chin and then silently dropped into my lap. My hands were folded tightly and the back of my hand felt wet from it—the loss coming out in salty release. Marlene just stared at me sympathetically, her icy blue eyes examining mine.\n“Listen, remember how I told you what he did to me as child? The whole pond story? Ya know, almost drowning?”\n She nodded yes and placed her hands over mine. They were ice cold.\n “Well that’s only one of many times he tried to kill me or hurt me for fun. I’ve stayed away from him for years because having him in my life in any way just, it just, I can’t be—” My throat tightened like a cinched cord and I fought silently to breathe and be able to swallow. My heart pounded in my ears and chest. I couldn’t meet her eyes. My mind started to replay some of the worst moments of my life with my father and I didn’t really want to have a panic attack here with someone I hadn’t known a long time.\nMarlene took a hand-off of mine to reach next to me for a tissue. She handed it to me and I wiped my face and cheeks with it. Her voice was even and oddly calm as she spoke next. “Take some deep breaths Aspen. In and then out. Get control,” she breathed and counted until I joined her. “Count as you breath in one and out two.” I breathed deep and closed my eyes. Her voice was oddly mesmerizing. The flashbacks stopped.\n“What if he weren’t at the viewing and the funeral? What if he just didn’t show up at all?” She spoke slowly to me. In very measured words as I tried to breathe. “What if you had the power to keep him from coming?”\nNone of this made any sense to me. My breathing slowed a little and my throat opened up. Keep him from attending his own father’s funeral? There was nothing on earth that would keep him away. He didn’t have power of attorney, my grandfather had to seen to that but he wouldn’t sit this one out no matter what their relationship was like.\n“What do you mean ‘keep him from coming’? What exactly are we talking about?”\nMarlene put her ice-cold hand under my chin and lifted my eyes to hers. I never realized just how pale she was before this moment. Pale and cold. And her eyes are a truly unique color of blue—like my favorite crayon color as a kid—what was it? Sky blue, robin egg, no--cerulean. How had I not noticed these things? Maybe because it was always after work at the bar in the dark? Her black hair looked like a raven’s wing in the light—black with shades of blue. Was this the first time I really looked at her?\n“What I’m saying is that I can help you go to your grandfather’s funeral and more than that. I can get rid of your father for you. If what you tell me is true the world won’t miss him.” She stared at me, her eyes almost glowing.\nI stood up suddenly and walked across the room to look out of my living room window. The moon was rising, and the sky was clear. Moonlight was reflecting off the rooftops and across the snowy branches and yards. I turned from the window to the stand.\nMe, my sister, brother, and mother, looked back at me from a silver frame. The picture was out of focus, but it was clear we were happy. It was one of the many times we had gone on the run from my dad. We made it two states away into Pennsylvania. My mom had taken the picture at a Taco Bell somewhere outside of Pittsburgh. It was the only picture from that roll that turned out.\nThe next day my dad found us and broke my mom’s arm at the campground where we were staying. He shoved us all into his car and had his friend drive my mom’s car. To cover what he did to my mom he ran a stop sign hoping for small accident but instead my mother was killed instantly when we were t-boned by a tow truck. The camera had been thrown from my moms purse and out the window. I had crawled out the open window of the car and across the hot asphalt and glass to grab it.\nNo one else was seriously injured.\nWe were back at the farm a week later.\nI cleaned my blood and glass off the camera and had my friend get the pics developed. All I had left of my mother was that picture. My dad removed everything of my mother’s from the house and destroyed it. That picture had traveled with me for years in secret before I was able to display it on that stand.\nMarlene was right.\nNo one would miss my dad.\nMy mother on the other hand? I missed her every day since the murder. I put the picture back down and turned to look at Marlene.\n“What do you mean you can get rid of my father? The viewing is tonight and tomorrow, and the funeral and wake is on Saturday.” Our eyes locked. “Isn’t what we’re talking about illegal anyway?”\nMarlene walked over to me. “Let me worry about that Aspen. At this point I’m well versed in dealing with law enforcement,” she said matter-of-factly. “There won’t be much for the law to deal with anyway. I’ve been at this for centuries.” Centuries? Wait what the what now?\n“Ever notice how we only hang out after work at night? And how I never get drunk no matter how much Fireball we drink? Or how people just do what I want?” She walked over to the fireplace and grabbed a metal poker. Then she bent it in half right in front of me and then bent it back and hung it back up. It was swinging back and forth while I absorbed what she had just done. We only see each other at night. Centuries. Bending a goddamn fire poker.\nMy eyes jumped over to my bookshelf, latching on to the Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice.\nThen back to the poker still gently swinging.\nThen her unusually bright eyes and pale skin again.\nShe had a slight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.\n A vampire? I mean really? Is she really a…vampire? Like in the books I’ve read? It can’t be. Those are fiction not real. I mean, we hang out at night because we work the late shift—right? Of course, we have never made plans during the day. Really though? A vampire? Like a real--\n“The Vampire Chronicles got most of what I am right. And they are my favorite of all the books written about my kind for sure,” she turned and pulled The Vampire Lestat off the shelf and thumbed through it. “Always made me wonder if Anne knew some of us in real life. I’d love to meet Lestat—I have so many questions.”\nShe put the book back on the shelf and turned toward me. I stepped back. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m too old to need to feed on anyone at this point and especially not you. Trauma tastes horrible anyway. It’s so damn bitter.”\nOh, then I guess I should relax and ignore the fact that my coworker is a vampire and that she’s standing in my living room and that my trauma would be too bitter to drink. Ok she has a point there. I sat down pretty hard on the couch. My heart was pounding for a whole different set of reasons now.\n“Aspen I can hear your heart slamming in your chest. I’m not going to hurt you. Your dad, on the other hand, I have no problem killing. I’ve known people like him over the last thousand years and I’ve learned to kill them because they rarely change.\" She stepped back and looked out the window and tapped her fingers on the windowsill. I watched in real-time as her nails grew long and the tapping got more pointed. She was faintly silhouetted in moonlight.\n“I rather enjoy removing them from humanity. Sometimes I think I was created for it.\"\n“Why are you willing to do this for me? You don’t even know me that well. Vampires aren’t generally known in books for their hospitality and goodwill—at least not unless they are getting something in exchange.”\n“Well,” she said, fingers still tapping as she looked out the window, “I’m not a book character Aspen. I’m at an age where I can be as generous as I want. My kind doesn’t always make it this long but when we do, the perspective we get is rarely of the vindictive kind. There’s nothing a human could offer me anyway.”\nMy father dead at the hands of a vampire. I forgave him a long time ago but that doesn’t mean he should evade justice. I’ve seen the bruises on his new wife in pictures on social media. Maybe this is what the world needs. What I need. What my mother needed. Maybe all abused people need a Marlene. I know one simple thing, I want to attend my grandfather’s funeral and I can’t with him there. Grandpa was the only one who could restrain that monster. Well, that is, until now.\nAnd just like that the fate of my father was sealed. How often had I wished him dead as a child? And now a freaking vampire walks into my life and offers to do it within the hour?\nMy breathing is even right now. How about that? I actually feel good.\n“How will you do it?” I asked.\n“Aspen you don’t want to know everything. I will tell you I don’t make it pleasant for people like him and since I know you it’s going to be excruciating for him. There will be joint dislocation just for starters.” Her nails retreated and she turned around. “I honestly have no guilty feelings toward killing these psychopaths and sociopaths. They wreck people’s lives. I can’t see your memories, but I can feel them,” she sighed long and deep. “He will reap what he has sowed.”\nShe crossed the room again and sat next to me. “These predators prey on others, so I prey on them. I’ve killed a good many serial killers so this will be easy-peasy.” She grabbed my hands and held them in hers. Smooth and cold as the ice on the pond behind our house as a child. Smooth and chilled like marble.\nKilling my dad will be easy-peasy. Good god what is happening?\nShe gave my hands a squeeze.\n“Get ready for the viewings. You go grieve your grandfather and I’ll take care of the rest of it. I’ll be by for the viewing tomorrow night.” She stood up and was gone in a flash.\nGuess there’s no need to hide anything anymore.\nI went upstairs and got a shower and picked out a dress." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Kapo\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1117\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who takes nothing for granted." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "May 1, 1850\nDearest Sister Annie,\nI am writing to you from Kona Hawaii on my third week as governess to her Highness Emma Rooke, whom most people call Emmalani.\nShe walks timidly on the land, almost on tip toes hips swaying gently. I have never seen Emmalani run, at least not on land. She skims from her beach chair to the ocean water, slides in, and then she is simply grace incarnate. Clean even strokes, and at last in the waves, without hesitation she covers miles swiftly and surely. As governess, I remain on the beach, where the thought the idea of me rescuing my ward is laughable at best. I leave heavy footprints, each toe discernable in the concave shallows, but in spite of walking right behind her, I see no trace of Emmalani’s passing. To my thinking, the Mermaids are a Western invention akin to Centaurs of Greek myth. Lost fishermen and missing sailors gave rise to half human creatures and sea goddesses. Here in Hawaii, each family honors simpatico creatures, their aumakua. These beings are not half human, half animal, stuck in between species. They know they can transform. I myself have witnessed the elders standing in the waves close to shore and CALLING to their aumakua, chanting in their musical way, raising their arms, an outstretched welcome, and Annie, I tell you, the sharks COME. I do apologize for the capital letters, but pray you understand that I use them only for emphasis. You have often inquired as to the native peoples here, especially as regards their traditional beliefs.\nAs I write this, I have not spotted my ward for quite some time, and am starting to worry. It is hard to convey how at home Emmalani is in the ocean. Annie, the water is warm here, bathwater warm, that temperature after the kettle has been emptied, and it is the second child’s turn to bathe. Neither England nor New England have anything like it.\nThanks be to God, Emmalani is appearing in the distance and moving closer. Her gait belies her reluctance to be back on land, and once again, she tip toes, dripping ocean water to her waiting servant, holding out a dry wrap.\nThere is a small church here in Kona made entirely of coral. Emmalani’s family dwells near Waipio Valley which can only be reached on horseback through rivers and mud and sliding rock. Her retinue are seen joyfully fording the streams loving the challenge of the journey, almost as though the rough passage makes the destination that much more enjoyable. These Hawaiians are great athletes, though their sports would terrify our polo players. Years ago, a great slide or Lua was built down the slopes of Mauna Loa (the Long Mountain) all the way to sea. Daring boys and girls lay down upon heavy boards and rode many kilometers, picking up speed and once in the ocean, they take to riding the waves. \nHonestly, Annie, mermaids are a pale and fragile myth compared to these ocean loving natives.\nAfter a brief delay in writing this letter, I am sitting at a proper writing desk, and intend finishing this letter in time for the next post. Here it depends entirely upon the seafaring merchant class and the vagaries of tropical weather. \nTo continue the adventure, after a blessedly uneventful journey home, we are back at Aina Hau, one of the family residences in Honolulu. While in Waipio, a few of us gathered around the cooling fire to “talk story” with the elders and they told the most shocking tale! As I have written before, there are numerous gods and goddesses honored here. Though many in the royal class have accepted our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, some still practice the old pagan ways. Once the widowed Ka’a Hu Manu embraced the true God, all the ali’i were put under the tutelage of Protestant clergy. It is a long and complicated story, but suffice to say, this evening was one of myth and legend, thrilling in its way.\nOn the island of Hawai’i, there is an active volcano which one can visit and see molten lava up close. It is like seeing God at his most awe inspiring to witness the creation of new land, Annie, reminiscent of those days when we saw God in the clouds as we laid on the grass in our favorite meadow. Like when we saw the face of God in the tornado, for is He not gentle and good, and angry and powerful? But here, the Hawaiians, in their oral traditions and chants credit the goddess Pele with bringing the heat and energy of the Earth’s very core to the surface. Remember in history class, where we learned of the terrible fate of Pompeii? How Mount Vesuvius showed no mercy those thousands of years ago? We have always been able to love the God of the Old Testament, and to accept the love of Jesus as true gospel, while treating some of the stories as parables.\nAt the Talk Story, I learned that their goddess Pele had sisters, one of whom was called Kapo. This goddess had a most unusual talent. I am struggling to convey what I heard at that meeting in Waipio for it involves a woman’s’ private parts. I shall forge ahead and relay that in this story, Kapo’s lady parts were, shall we say, detachable. There are wild boars in the island, another animal that transforms between human and beast. They call this the Pig God. This Pig god is possessed of an insatiable lust, and Kapo, tiring of the constant pursuit, and declaring “is this what you want?”, detaches her lady part, throws it up into a tree, goes about her visits and errands, only to retrieve it later when the Pig God has finished his business.\nI know you must be blushing fiercely, and I tell you Annie, it was all I could do to keep from covering my ears.\nI believe the story arose from the sight of a lava tube, near the volcano, of the red rusty remains of the molten lava passing through - folding redly outward like, well there is no other word for it – labia – such as a midwife would see while assisting in the miracle of birth. The medical word. I mean, a perfect likeness, appearing on the floor of this one tunnel along the volcano coast.\nNow I must close and beg you my dear sister to speak no more of this. I give you permission to burn this letter lest I die of embarrassment upon the revealing of it to any but you.\nAffectionately,\nYour sister Margaret" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Nature's the Bomb\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1055\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Landan’s phone pinged again, disturbing the peaceful mountain hiking path.\n\nWoodrow Alfredsone’s right eye twitched from the tension building up in his body. It grew like static electricity in the air. ‘Will you turn that damn thing off? This is a relaxing father-son hike. It’s hard to enjoy the beauty of nature with your mobile beeping like a bomb.’\n\n‘Shh, this is important. Tensions are escalating in—’\n\nHe acted without thinking. He’d been absent for most of Landan’s upbringing – gone in the mornings and evenings. He was missing most weekends, and even when he was present, he was tense and exhausted. But what kind of a father would he be if he allowed his teenage kid to silence him with a ‘shh’? It was never too late to start acting like a dad. Woodrow grabbed his son’s phone – hateful device – and hurled it down the mountainside.\n\nThe black rectangle clattered and crashed and banged along the rocks. Its screen shattered. Bits of computer chips and internal wiring flew away as it spiralled to its death. ‘Dad! What—’\n\n‘ENOUGH!’\n\nLandan recoiled, eyes wide. He stepped backwards and tripped over a stone. He landed on his backside with a winded grunt.\n\nWoodrow inhaled through his clenched teeth. He wanted what was best for his son. And that involved working long hours to ensure that Landan never wanted for anything. But now – with the military contract signed and sealed – money was no longer a problem. Woodrow could now spend some quality time with his boy. The problem was that he’d left it a bit late, and Landan no longer cared whether his dad did anything with him. So Woodrow needed to find a way to crack through Landan’s ‘I-don’t-give-a-damn’ veneer. ‘No more. This is you-and-me time. I know I haven’t been around much son, but you should know I only ever did it all for you. I worked such long, long hours to give you everything you needed. To bring us to this point where we can enjoy this moment. Right here, right now, on top of the world, looking down upon the beauty of nature. We never have to worry about anything ever again. I’m finished with work – forever. So now let’s enjoy it, okay? I’ve waited so long for this time, so let’s finally enjoy it.’\n\nLandan’s shoulders drooped. The tension bled from his body. He nodded and raised his hands. He’d scraped some of the skin off his palms when he’d fallen, and tiny droplets of blood beaded there. ‘Yeah, yeah. Okay, Dad, okay.’\n\nWoodrow offered his boy his hand and dusted him off once he was back upright. ‘Good lad. I’ll buy you a new one when we get back down – God knows we can afford it, now. Hell, I can buy you ten of them! Now, come on, we’re almost at the summit. Not much further now.’\n\nThe trees thinned the higher up they got. The going became more arduous, and the air became cleaner. The path took a turn and led them out to a plateau overlooking the lands. The mountain dropped away, affording them a stunning vista of their local geography. The nearby city – their city, their home – sparkled like a teardrop.\n\nWoodrow was panting and sweating, his heart thudding like an out-of-control jackhammer. But Landan seemed none the worse for their little trek – the wonders of youth. He stood there with his hands on his hips, sweat around his pits, and gestured at the gorgeous views. He tried to speak, but both exhaustion and wonder stunned him into silence.\n\n‘Dad, I—’ Landan shook his head, unable to finish his words. ‘Wow. Nature is…’ He groped for the correct phrase. ‘Nature’s the bomb!’\n\nWoodrow grinned. But that grin didn’t have the chance to last long.\n\nAn air raid siren looped through the air, slicing it in half. Birds erupted from the trees in a flock that blotted out the sun. The sinusoidal screech of doom rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell. It reverberated in their brains, their bowels, their bones.\n\nHis smile faded, and he grunted like a caveman.\n\nA flash – brighter than a thousand suns – lit up the sky. A faltering heartbeat later, the thud came. It rumbled deep into their hearts, a gunshot to the head of humanity.\n\nWoodrow gasped and raised his hands to protect his eyes. He staggered backwards and crashed into his son, who was doing the same.\n\nLandan reached out and grabbed for his father, scrunching up his shirt in a fist. His pale face no longer revealed the man he was becoming. Instead, he’d regressed into the small boy he’d once been. ‘Daddy! What is that?’\n\nWoodrow could not speak. His tongue felt heavy and lifeless in his mouth. Shards of ice poured into his veins, and the hairs on his neck prickled. He had the vertiginous sense of falling with no end. All he could get out was, ‘Oh my God. Oh my God.’\n\nThe mushroom cloud rose on the nearby horizon.\n\nHis stomach rolled over, drenched in acid; no wonder the military had rushed to sign the deal. They hadn’t even lasted twelve hours after he jotted his John Hancock on the agreement. Woodrow lifted his thumb, and his insides shrivelled when the cloud dwarfed it.\n\nThe city beneath the mushroom cloud had vanished into rubble. An expanding ripple tore across the landscape from the point of detonation. Trees and buildings fell backwards as though they were props made of cardboard. The green earth exploded into radioactive dust. The landscape flattened. The blast sanded every feature and landmark away like an angle grinder. The soil rolled in a wave as though liquified.\n\nWoodrow had wasted his son’s childhood working towards a comfortable future. But all that hard work had branched them off into a timeline where it came back to bite him on the behind. There was money in weapons manufacturing and war profiteering. And such investments would indeed pay off – but not, it seemed, in the direction one would hope. Well, there was no future now. Woodrow had not missed the irony. He threw up his hands. ‘Aw, for God’s sa—’\n\nThe shockwave hit them, and all became a blinding white light, followed by darkness." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: My Turn to See\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1352\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a person trying to see something from another’s point of view." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My mama used to tell me that the mind of a child and that of an adult can never really meet. Not naturally. As a result, I felt that parents—at least one— had to put themselves in the shoes of the child. My mother did it for me. In those days when I’d return from school, terrified to tell my father that I needed to pay my school fees, that I needed a new pen or a new notebook, my mother would be the mediator. She’d be the one who tried to understand me. I never knew how hard it was.\n\nI thought everything was and would remain perfect in my own home. I worked day and night to make sure I gave my children all they needed for school. I wanted to give them the best education, I wanted to struggle for them so they won't have to. For my first born son and the two princesses that I’d borne after him. Luckily, we were blessed enough that they never needed to fear coming to my husband and I for provision. School fees were paid before they needed to worry about it, new uniforms were sown before they could ask and stationaries were in surplus at all times.\n\nI believed I had given them all they needed and had in the process erased all cause for fear in conversation. I hadn't. One could never be fully prepared for the sudden hurdles of parenting was another thing my mama had told me.\n\nI try to put myself in my son's shoes, I imagine seeing me through his eyes. I replay in my mind the scene from last Friday, with me as him, to see if I can better understand how he felt, to make sure I can at least be to him like my mother was to me.\n\nI hadn't looked outside that evening but I bet the moon was already out and the sky was a dark blue. I couldn't hear the crickets over the sound of the power generator but I bet they were loud, they usually are. It's been a while since I felt that tension of coming to speak to your Nigerian parents about something you know will drive them crazy, but I've felt other forms of anxiety since becoming an adult. I try to relate.\n\nI imagine myself as him, coming home that evening, holding my running shoes in my hand and clutching them hard so I don't see the tremble of my fingers. I imagine myself as him, dusting the loam off my bare feet because I can see my mother through the louvres of the kitchen window stirring a pot of tomato stew and I know she'd be angry if I dirty her floor tiles. I imagine myself as him, pulling down the door handle and stepping into the kitchen, my heart in my throat, thirsty but afraid to reach for the water dispenser, afraid to make any sudden move.\n\nBeyond that, I can't quite imagine anything else from his perspective. All I can see is my first child in front of me, all shifty eyes and fidgety feet, hunched over like a thief before the village chief. \n\n“Mummy, I want to tell you something.” He hadn’t asked that we sit down, just spoke straightaway as though he was trying to get it over with. \n\nGod knows I'd thought of everything I could while waiting for him to speak.\n\nMummy, the police are after me.\nMummy, I put someone in the hospital.\nMummy, I got someone pregnant.\n\nNone of what I thought was likely something my child would say in the near future but I refused to have assumptions in the face of what appeared rather serious, afraid that it might affect my judgement and harm my child in the end. I wanted to handle it perfectly, be the understanding parent and speak for him to his father.\n\nI wanted to support him but then he spoke and all those ideas flew away.\n\n“Mummy, I want to be a soccer player.\" I'd never have thought of this. \"Like, professionally. There's this under-17 camp that my coach wants me to signup for. . .but it's during school time.”\n\nI'd thought it was a joke. Wished it was one. Gone on my knees and prayed it was one, but I knew it wasn't, not with how solemn he sounded. I knew he'd thought it through for God knows how long.\n\nI should've seen it coming, all the hours he spent in the community pitch. I'd stupidly bought him a kit, shin-guards and all, thinking it was just a hobby. He did well in school, he was going to be an engineer someday. This was the wrong time for a phase.\n\nI'd burnt my stew that night because I'd spent too much time trying to enlighten him. My mother was right, children and adults were always on a different rational wavelength because children were too ignorant.\n\nI'd tried so hard to reason with him, told him why the whole thing was a phase and would never end well.\n\n“This is Nigeria bobo, your career would end on that pitch you go to. They just want to eat your money, you won't have any opportunities here. In the end you would have wasted a year or two. You'd end up confused about your future. If you can't salvage things at that point, you'll end up playing Bet9ja for a living. Do you really want to end up a gambler? What kind of useless coach would tell you to skip school for soccer anyway? Obviously that kind of person does not wish you good.”\n\nWhile I'd spoken the entire time he'd just stared at me with misty eyes, saying words I couldn't win against; “Mummy, please just let me explain.”\n\nI'd turned away from him under the guise of stirring my burning stew. “Let this end here.”\n\nI could hear his teary, croaky 'mummy please' and I wanted to be strong against it, because I knew, even though he didn't that this would never end well.\n\nWhen he turned to leave, a few words left my mouth, I didn't face him when I spoke. “Don’t tell your father about this.”\n\nThis was one of the moments of anxiety in my adulthood. I was afraid of him going to his father solely because there was a big possibility that his father would see reason in his words. His father would encourage him to try and fail. Who would consider my words then? My thoughts and feelings? Who would remember all the struggle I went through to give him a formal education, the same education which was a battle for me to earn but would be treated as trash by my only son.\n\nNonetheless, I felt a little ashamed when I thought about it afterwards. I've been considering it since that day. My parents never went to school and my mother, just like my father was sure I'd be better off a farmer like they were. What if begging in my stead for a new pen or a new eraser was just as hard for my mama as providing it was for my papa? \n\nI refuse to talk to my husband about it still. I want to understand my son first, hear him out at least, like I always believed I would. I can’t keep it from my husband forever and I can’t let him find out just yet, letting him try to convince me will be something I regret for a long time to come. I want to be the one who tried for the sake of my baby.\n\nIt's a cool evening now, the moon isn't out yet. I'm trying to see things from my son's perspective. I imagine myself as him, lying on my bed directly under the ceiling fan, with an arm across my forehead. I imagine myself as him, the knock at the door startling me alert, making me sit up to see my mother putting on the most docile smile she has.\n\n“Bobo, can we talk?”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Loins-A-Leaping: An A.I. Chatt Novel of Ostensibly Paranormal Mystery as by Anita Brake, AKA J.D. Robbed, with Martin Ross in Smaller Type\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2981\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Prologue\nAn Italian Villa\nItaly\nHer tiramisu now a decadent constellation of espresso-soaked crumbs across a vast nine-inch expanse of luxuriant eggshell Milanese Corel, the tip of her newly Botoxed tongue delicately savored the exclusive nespresso the Giardino Degli Ulivi shipped in daily from the Cluni di Vito Valley. She could be forgiven her cosmic meanderings – the renowned Dr. Tyson had addressed the conference this morning, and the former boxer and honorary doctorate in pugilistic romance had closed his keynote with a random prose recitation of When You Wish Upon a Star.\nDonatello, the muscular young waiter who’d earlier decanted her moscato with a deft twist and a tug, removed her dessert plate, accidentally touching her hand from the opposite side of the table. It lingered for a moment – the ristorante had earned five Michelin and four Goodyear stars for its exquisitely tacky raspberry drizzle. She yanked free first – she’d already enjoyed the favors of the bronzed and reticent boi di pool Leonardo, the masseuse con lieto fine Raphael, and village travel agent Michaelangelo, who’d sold her her Vespa rental policy. Tan aged muted insured tourists were normally her taste, but it was the off-season.\n“And how does the signora like the tiramisu Toscana di buoza con java a la madonna ciccione?” Donatello purred.\n “I (***) it -- it called to mind my favorite pasteria cucina di casuale off the Newark Airport Turnpike,” she murmured, savoring the memory of perpetual zuppa and breadsticks and the quaintly homicidal calls of the Jersey villagers.\n“Ah,” Donatello smiled radiantly, squeezing her thigh in the continental manner as he replenished her water and swept the crumbs from the Napolese red-checked table cloth. “As my people say, when you’re here, you are like famiglia.”\nShe looked down blushingly to retrieve her Discover Double Platinum card, but when she looked back up, he was gone, as was the local custom whenever one was ready to pay and vamoose. Though there were only three empty tables on the terrace and two inside and Donatello’s five brothers working the front of the house, she settled in with her ’22 Moscato for the customary 35 minute wait and gazed off at the Tower of Pisa and the Coliseum and Vatican City and Tuscany and the canals of Venice to the east.\nThe woman appeared as if out of nowhere, like a wraith from the pearly gates of Hell. Bundled in cloak and shawl and an ankle length skit and blocky goat-leather shoes, the blocky, compact woman swooped in nose-to-nose with the four-time National Book-ish Prize winner. Her eyes, set in a flat froggish face, were goggly and dead.\n“You (***) your tiramisu?” she sneered. “You (***) your continental breakfast, your morning McCafe di Latte, your how you say conference bag of swag. You (***) the crazy tattooed man with the voce di una bambina and the Jiminy Cricket.”\n“Mike Tyson is a global treasure,” the author whispered.\n“Basta fondu,” the crone shrieked. “Your kind, you talk of (***), you write of (***), you fill the Hallmark and the Lifetime and the Prima di Amazona with (***), but you know nothing of it. You take all meaning out of it, you sell it like lire candy at a 100-Lire General or a Euro Tree. It is an obscenity from your torta hole.\n“No longer! By the gods of Daniella Steel, I curse your tribe, your famiglia, your entire genre and your publishing casas! Only death and misery will come to you who henceforth blaspheme this most sacred of words. Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo!”\n“Hey, you!” a strong, ruggedly masculine voice roared. “How dare you terrorize this bella signora, the generosa tipper, this Rewards Club Triple Titanium member! Scram, you!”\nShe couldn’t understand half of Donatello’s threat, but she felt a throbbing pulse of gratitude as the hag glared back and disappeared eventually after fumbling with the terrazza gate latch.\nHer eyes locked with Donatello’s, and their bodies quickly became as one on the checkered tablecloth until the first screams echoed from the Motel Sei/Boyardee Arena-Convention Center below…\nChapter 1\nAlexis Integra Chatt muted her office/parlor TV as the Best of CNN scanned across the Boyardee Center ballroom, littered with the corpses of 323 of the world’s premiere romance writers sprawled amid blood and mimosa.\n“I came to you as a sort of last resort,” “Bridgit Towne” admitted. She’d been a hometown gal-pal from A.I.’s cupcake scone days, but they’d drifted apart after Alexis severed all cozy ties and set up shop in Atlanta as a steamy-adjacent paranormal investigator and notary. After the tragedy in Italy, Brigit had gone off the grid and abandoned her famous nom de plume.\n“InterpolCon was going on at the Extended Stay Italia next door, some old Belgian detective was investigating a murder on an overcrowded gondola, and this meddling mystery writer from Maine was visiting her great-aunt-cousin in Tuscany,” Bridgit resumed. “But none of them had a clue. Why I came to you.”\nAlexis noticed the writer worrying a beaded WWJCD bracelet. She’d never been particularly religious before, aside from a controversial wooing scene between her heroine Shonda and a brawny, no-nonsense Anglican vicar in The Christmas Wood. “You think this woman was some kind of supernatural manifestation?”\nBrigit grinned sheepishly as she spotted A.I. spotting. “I know it sounds crazy except maybe to you, but I always ask myself, ‘What would Jackie Collins do?’ I think she’d want to consider the possibilities. The old woman had eerie, soulless eyes, and the restaurant patio gate had a fairly simple latch mechanism, but she couldn’t seem to work it. As if she’d never before encountered a human patio gate.”\nIt seemed like flawless logic, but A.I. needed to dig in on the specific non-human entity with which she might be dealing. “Look, you want a glass of wine? I’m out of white, but Dvlknish found an old Amontillado behind one of the walls.”\n“I’d lo--, I mean, I would appreciate and enjoy some, but I gave up the booze after Italy. I’m a sloppy drunk, and I can’t afford to get loose-tongued – at least in the verbal sense. This thing has been a nightmare. We’re all running scared. I had to buy a Roget’s Thesaurus, and half my readers say they’re having trouble getting soft because of confusing synonyms and nuanced emotions. Try getting the juices flowing when Kristen looks deeply into Cody’s cobalt eyes and declares her ‘intense interpersonal regard.’\n“Without beach reading, tourists are venturing too close to the sharks. Tastefully Aroused Mothers for Editorial Decency have boycotted the major romance publishers. The TAMED wackos said we’re now promoting ‘sex without buffers,’ and as a result, there’s an epidemic of embarrassing moments at afterschool waiting zones and on public transit.”\n“And just what do you want from me?”\n“Find that old witch and make her lift the curse,” Brigit demanded. \nChapter 13 \n“So she what, smelled like an animal, had BO?” More and more woke were-creatures were going the Thinner/Drag Me To Hell route rather than simply dining and dashing.. I considered the possibility of full-moon shape-shifters until Donatello roared with earthy, robust, Old World laughter.\n“No, no, my lovely signora! When I was a foolish young man, I sought to become a fragrance millionaire, until I realized food service and customer seduction were my noble calling. And that the only, er, how you say, tail one finds in the perfume trade are financially strapped mid-life actresses. There is only so much Natalie Portman one can withstand, capisce? But I have retained one very specific talent — the ability to identify any fragrance, from Stetson to Obsession 5: The Arousing. This old village woman fairly, how do you say, reeked of Pfish.”\n“Fish??”\n“No, no,” Donatello chuckled hononymically. “Pfish, by Zuckerberg. ‘Hack into her IP.’ It’s very popular with one of our Premiere Molybdenum Reward Abusers; as I said, musky. And there was a faint note of sulfur — she reminded me of my precious Zia Maria in the village of Catania. Well, she was not precisely my ‘aunt’ — more like my nonna Sbarra’s nurse. Well, nursing student, well, pre-nursing—“\n“Whoa-kay!” Alexis sang, ringing off.\nChapter 25\nIt was unusual to see the Italy area code on her phone twice in a single day. Dvlknish was an ursine lump next to her, rumbling in post-coital contentment somewhere between a badger with a deviated septum and a woodchipper snagged on a driftwood badger with a delicately carved deviated septum. The Syburslovenian hacker/plagiarist was a manly sleeper and an earnestly motivated lo—, er, partner. Now I’m doing it, A.I. thought.\nThen she remembered the phone call, and slipped into the hallway to connect.\n“Bon giorno, Signora Chatt?” the policeman inquired. “I am so sorry to interrupt your, ah, shift at the lumberyard? You talked to a Donatello Gnocchi today. I regret to inform you Signore Gnocchi was murdered this evening. With his dying breath — well, his next-to-final breath — he asked our responding officer to tell you he knew how it was done, whatever it was.\n“Sadly, with his actually dying breath, he died before he could finish his final message. He seemed to indicate his, how do you say, grandmama, committed these horrific murders at the Boyardee. From what his manager told us, Sbarra Gnocchi died in Catania in 1921, when Etna erupted during her weekly trip to the Mercato Della Spazzatura Sfusa a Buon Mercato, or as you call it, Costco. Crushed after knocking over a palette of panini makers – you cannot make sudden geological noises around the old, you know?”\n“But he was positive his grandmother was responsible for the deaths?”\n“He looked straight up at my officer – he had very striking azure eyes, as deep nearly as the Corsican coast, by the way – and moaned ‘Nana’ before perishing. We will miss our young Donatello – no man was more skilled or generous with the parmesan grinder. Or with certain other implements of his trade, if you catch my--”\n“Whoaaakay.”\n**\nDvlknish grunted as Alexis squirmed anxiously beside him on the couch she’d snagged at Lovecraft and Derleth’s downtown . He’d always looked forward to NCIS Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday, especially after struggling all day with a new genre. Romance was the Syburslovenian immigrant’s meat – along with wild marmot, javelina, and ring bologna – and the growing wave of authorial panic had spread to the international bootleg underground. Her Knish had little knowledge of American law or justice, and he’d written himself into a corner following the Chapter 1 mandatory street execution of The Audi Attorney’s jaywalking client. Syburslovenians were soft on toxic microchip dumps and bioweapons storage, but they respected the yellow lines and the thin blue line that protected them.\nAs Alexis’ cheek and Dvlknish gnawed distinterestedly at his third heron leg, she became concerned over his peckish appetite. She patted his thigh, felt the hollow clonk of titanium, and patted the other one. They locked eye and eyes, and he grunted with a contrite grin, slurping heron skin into his maw.\nAs the Eskimos have literally dozens of words for snow, so the Syburslovenians have more than 100 guttural expressions for that deepest of human emotions. More confusing, all meant roughly the same thing. A broasted marmot, a coral sunset, an adorbs feline video, A.I.’s fingers on the pelt of his shoulder, L.L. Cool J charging into a hijacked luau on behalf of an obscure law enforcement agency that, oddly, every cop and civilian alike seemed to recognize – all were articulated within the same spectrum of affection.\nA.I. knew from her recent brief experience as an investigator of the arcane and uncanny that there was no value in playing chicken with the unknown. She grunted her desire throatily, and suddenly, Dvlknish abandoned all hope of discovering who the poi smuggling ringleader was.\nDuring the commercial break, pulling a jagged Cool Ranch from her sweaty hindside, Alexis filled Dvlknish in on Donatello’s murder and the mystery surrounding the untraceable mass hemorrhage of the world’s most distinguished romance writers. Her soulmate stirred and grunted contemplatively.\n“I know,” Alexis said. “It bothered me a little, too. He’d called his grandmother Nonna during our earlier conversation, and yet he used the non-Italian term ‘Nana’ with the policia. And there was the matter of the old woman’s and, presumably, the killer’s perfume…”\nDvlknish struggled from the couch and ambled for the bedroom. He returned a moment later flapping an Eastern European men’s fashion magazine, Coat and Coverings. Dvlknish located a center spread ad featuring a flamboyantly dead-eyed Mark Zuckerberg brandishing a slim flask of amber liquid, as a gaunt but blocky Syburslovenian supermodel fawned at his flank. Dvlknish scratched vigorously at the ad and pushed it into Alexis’ face. Her eyes widened.\n“Pfish,” she murmured. “I detect floral notes, an essence of lightly singed motherboard, but there isn’t anything remotely musky, as Donatello suggested.” Alexis paused. “But maybe Donatello was simply being more direct. And the vague side note that reminded him of his family in Sicily. Donatello’s nonna lived in the shadow of Italy’s tallest volcano.”\nA.I. bounced up and scrambled to her office laptop. Dvlknish attempted to reconnect with NCIS: Montpelier as she rapped away at the keyboard. Soon, Alexis reemerged bearing a sheaf of paper.\n“I got it! I jumped onto House Hunters’ list of dormant volcano-adjacent megahomes in the $1-$10 billion range. Donatello didn’t realize how on-the-head he actually had been. And there’s the final piece of the puzzle.” Dvlknish followed her index finger to the TV screen, where thanks to Amazon’s cutting-edge Fortuitous Network Crime Show Timing technology, a sturdy, bald man with an elaborate roommate-prank facial tattoo and the voice of some forgotten Warner Brothers cartoon character was hosting the Nobel Prize Awards live on Nickelodeon. As a rivulet of green slime doused a group of Stanford astrophysicists, he grunted excitedly.\nChapter 47\nLike most volcano lairs, mandatory safety exits were discreetly located at the base of the cone –you didn’t fuck with Micronesian building codes. The supervillain’s base was not terribly difficult to locate, thanks to the corporate logo carved into the side of the hardened lava slope. It was a Sunday, and she knew her prey was not about to pay overtime for a special forces-trained security detachment. The few dozen tech-slaves docked into their coding stations or playing foosball on their three-minute meal breaks were easy to dispatch or bribe with energy drinks and Takis.\n“I heard Mike Tyson was scheduled to officiate the Nobies, and I stopped to wonder why he hadn’t died with the rest of the romance writers,” I said to the man in the huge chamber next to the executive Starbucks, who peered at a bank of monitors now displaying dead and hyperactive Gen-plusser nerds.\n“Ms. Chatt,” Elon said, an Angora cat in his lap. He placed the steaming platter of feline au poivre on his mammoth desk, and his goggly dead eyes narrowed. “Do you realize how many Indonesian fifth graders I’m going to have to hire to make up for this loss in productivity?”\n“That’s why you did it, am I right?” Alexis forged on. “You dosed those poor simpleminded saps’ mimosas, but Tyson was keynote. Mike would never have drunk before a PowerPoint.”\n“My understanding was the authorities have been unable to trace the substance used,” the first man to ding the Moon with a recreational shuttle murmured.\n“Because it wasn’t a ‘substance.’ That sweet, hot cheese-grinder you murdered? His dying message suggested his grandmother had committed the conference slaughter, but I realized he was identifying the method of murder. Not Nana, nor Nonna, but nanobytes. You or your employees at Tesla’s Tuscan mimosery injected millions of destructive microrobots into the writers’ brunch booze. They deconstructed organ and membrane walls until the victims hemorrhaged to death, then exited through their capped and bleached orifices, blending into the eventually cleaned-up blood.\n“I knew we were dealing with some implausible tech-thriller weapon when I realized Donatello meant the old lady on the terrazzo smelled ‘Musk-y.’ SEC and CNBC filings show you bought and replicated Zuckerberg years ago – he’s so obviously AIed. As the staff at the Motel Sei will attest, Pfish is their sole Premiere Molybdenum Reward Abuser’s favorite fragrance.”\n“Very good, Ms. Chatt,” the Space X sky jockey and fire car maker purred. “Love -- exciting and new, right? Not for me. Employee families and external relationships, coitus in the server banks and cloning labs, three-minute lunches that turn into five-minute lunches as team members linger over their ramen and gruel and the latest Kristin Hannah or Celeste Ng or Susan Wiggs. Employees calling in sick to catch Hallmark’s third-quarter Christmas and first-quarter Valentine’s marathons? Love hurts – the bottom line. I cleared barely 18 figures this fiscal month, and the Dark Old Ones – er, I mean the board and stockholders – are extremely unhappy. Fortunately, you have no proof of your ridiculous allegations, so I won’t even bother to kill you.”\nThen Elon blinked as the item in my right hand glittered in the lair’s blue light. “You would have gotten away with it,” Alexis smiled tightly, “except the execution of a perfect mass murder and your role as the old village witch sapped your blood sugar and you grabbed a quick snack at the Giardino Degli Ulivi. Namely, their signature after-dinner Andes Mint. An Andes Mint degrades in roughly 3.14 minutes, or 10 seconds inside an expensive suit or pants pocket, and this wrapper from the scene of the curse is coveed with your chocolatey prints.”\nBefore Elon could leap for his phone and his attorney’s programmed number, three dozen Mossad-trained, taurine-fueled TMZ correspondent and gossip wranglers rappelled into the volcano.\n“You forgot,” Alexis ginned. “When you’re at Giardino Degli Ulivi, even illicitly, you’re like family.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Domiciliary Valentine\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2423\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two people falling in love via email." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "To whom it may concern,\nI hope this message finds you well. I wanted to inform you that I won’t be able to work this Wednesday, the 14th. I understand that this is short notice, but I have had a killer –\nBlank. The computer screen turns off as the power in the house shuts down again.\n“Are you kidding me?” Addison growls at her dim reflection in the blank computer monitor. The slick black surface reflected back her disheveled dark hair and her dumbstruck eyes glaring through their wide-rimmed glasses. She moaned as she stood up from her desk and looked at her phone. Even though the Wi-Fi router had shut off with the rest of the power, she luckily still had some bars of service on her cell.\nShe found the number for the local utility company. When she hit call, at first, she worried if her service would hold for a connection; now, however, she was stressing if someone would even pick up, as the other line continued to ring. Fed up, she ended the call and instead found their email address, [email protected]. The message she sent them wasn’t as formal as the one she was in the middle of composing, but it got the job done. She needed the power (more specifically, the Wi-Fi) back on as the only email she had access to on her phone was her personal – the professional email she used for such formal emails was logged in on her computer, and she forgot the password to that one some time ago.\nDing! Chimed her phone. It was [email protected], saying they’ll be sending a representative to her house “ASAP”. She was skeptical about how committed they were to that acronym, but she did admit they at least responded fast. She replied by telling them her breaker box was outside the house, and there would be no need for any face-to-face meeting. Before hitting send, she knew whoever was at the other end of that email might find that strange, so she added she had somewhere she had to get to, and would be walking instead of taking her car; Though of course, she would be doing none of that, instead retreating to her upstairs room and finding a book to read until she knew that whoever was coming had already came, worked, and left. Simply put, Addison wasn’t the most comfortable when meeting new people.\nShe sat near her bedroom window with the curtains pulled closed as she opened Sylvia Townsend Warner's \"Lolly Willowes.\" It was a book recently recommended to her by her online friends – a great read for a particular kind of shut-in, they’d said – and she was happy for an excuse to finally start reading it.\nThe sound of a vehicle was heard pulling into Addison’s driveway, and she surmised that this was some kind of utility van here to check on the breaker box. She was pretty impressed with how quickly this company responded, leaving out the never-ending ringing of their main line. She could hear faint tinkering coming from the side of the house but managed to tune it out. This went on for several moments until she registered the absolute silence from outside. Curious, she leaned forward and slowly pulled one curtain out so she could peer down. She instantly locked eyes with the utility worker standing near her driveway. He was wearing nondescript coveralls which didn’t seem to have any patches or company logos on them. His hands were on his hips as he stood there; how long he had been looking up at her window, Addison couldn’t say.\nQuickly she threw the curtain back into place and retreated to a corner of her room to be as far from the window as she could. Her hands were clutched tight to her breath as she took sharp exaggerated breaths. There she stood for several moments, doing her best to remain as motionless and soundless as possible as if the utility worker were to someone levitate up to this second-story window and try to spot her through it.\nBut nothing like that happened. Addison heard the utility van start up and back out of the driveway. She counted to ten, then slowly crept to her window. She pulled the curtain by a fraction of an inch and peeked one eye through the crack. Nothing. She gradually pulled the curtain back further and confirmed that the man had left. With this realization, she noticed she had been holding her breath since her advance to the window, and let out a heavy, shaky breath, then quickly took in and exhaled several more before her breath leveled.\nWhen Addison came back downstairs, she saw her laptop was booting back up. “Thank God,” she muttered delightedly. She slid into her chair with such enthusiasm that it swiveled thrice around. She grabbed onto the desk to stop herself and logged back in. She opened up her email and saw she had a message from [email protected], which read,\n“Hello,\nWe have a report that you have a power outage at your residence. Would you like us to send someone over?”\nThis was followed by a link to set up an appointment, and a confirmation of her auto-pay details. Addison surmised that there was a delay in communication, and whoever sent this email was not made aware that she had already asked for someone sent here already. She typed back,\n“Thank you, but your company already sent someone over to fix my blackout. I would like to thank you for how fast your overall response time was – five stars!” Sent.\nShe opened her drafts folder and was happy to see the previous email she had been working on was saved there. She was about to continue typing this one up when Ding! A new message popped into her inbox.\[email protected] had sent a message, asking, “Hey, [email protected], I hope you are satisfied with my service!”\nAddison snorted a quick chuckle. These people sure weren’t good at communicating with each other, which was funny considering how quick they were to respond to her. Good customer service, she supposed.\n“Yes very much, thanks! I didn’t get the name of your employee who came over and fixed it, but they did good!” She left out the part of that awkward eye contact they shared – it was probably not a big deal anyway, she was aware that she sometimes saw things in people that were more just her imagination.\nDing!\[email protected], “Thanks. My name is Levi, I’m the one who was at your house earlier. You have a very lovely home!”\nDespite herself, she smiled at the message. She felt a need to reply and keep this conversation going, but she wasn’t sure what to say. She chewed on her lower lip as she stared at the message, thinking. Finally, she leaned forward and typed, “Aw you’re sweet. This was my mom’s house and I did my best to take care of it when I moved in.”\n Almost instantly [email protected], or Levi, replied. “Was your mom’s? What happened?”\nAddison started to type her reply, telling the story of how her mother went missing two years ago, with her body found in the river almost three months after she was declared missing. She stopped herself; that didn’t feel like a story to tell someone she just met (would that even be the right term, as it’s all online?), especially through a company email. She read Levi’s question over again, and replied, “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about that yet.”\n“That’s okay, I understand,” Levi wrote, “I’m sorry if I upset you by asking.”\nNow it was Addison’s turn to begin replying instantly. “No no you’re okay, it’s not a big deal. I appreciate your concern tho!”\nNow Levi was asking what Addison did for a living, and she would explain how she took several stay-at-home jobs such as transcribing, data entry, proofreading, and the like. Their email conversations went on throughout the day until Addison said she had to get to sleep. They said their good nights, their nice-chatting-with-you’s, and Addison logged off for the night.\nThe next day, Wednesday the 14th, she had a small breakfast of buttered toast and coffee. She brought a second cup of coffee to her computer to see what work she had for the day. After a few hours, she concluded her workday, which excluded her usual last job of the day as she requested this day off, to have more of the afternoon to herself. Though she felt guilty for lying about a migraine to get out of work, it felt worth it when she checked her email. Skimming through the list, she saw she had two emails in her inbox which were both sent from ‘springsus@cs...’ the rest of the email address being concealed by the width of the inbox’s border. She opened the first one, which was curiously received at the same time Addison’s alarm was set to go off. She didn’t remember telling Levi what time she’d be waking up, so she decided this was just some weird coincidence. The email read, “Mornin’. :)”\nAddison beamed. She eagerly typed a response back. “Morning Levi! How did you sleep?”\nDing! went the notification, with a slight echo to it – Addison made a mental note to take a look at her computer’s speaker system later.\n Levi, “Okay I guess. It took a while to actually get to bed though, I had to stay up late.”\nAddison, “oh no! Why? Did you have a late night call for work or something?”\nLevi, with another echoing Ding, “Something like that haha. Its no problem, it all worked out :)”\nAddison, “I’m happy to know! Oh and, hey…”\nLevi, “Hey??? Haha :)”\nAddison, “Happy Valentine’s Day <3”\nLevi, “Aw, Happy Valentine’s Day! :)”\nAnother, almost immediately after the last, from Levi, “Hey, can I confess something to you?”\nAddison, “Sure, what’s up??”\nLevi, “Well, I really like you Addison, and in the spirit of Valentine’s Day I decided I didnt want to keep any secrets between us… :|”\nAddison, “You’re really sweet Levi. Whatever you need to tell me, I’ll understand.”\nThe echoing Ding again, as Levi’s reply read, “That makes me so so so happy, thank you! :)” As Addison read this message, another came through in the thread – a picture.\nIt was a picture of Addison’s house during the daytime. Addison tensed, and she started to worry that Levi was outside her house right now. But as she looked closer, she could see her bedroom window; she realized her curtains weren’t nearly as concealing as she believed, because she could clearly see herself sitting near the window, reading \"Lolly Willowes.\"\nDing! Ding…\nLevi, “I’m sorry I just really liked the view, and I had to take a picture.”\nDing! Ding…\nLevi, “Are you there, Addy?”\nAddison had stood up away from her computer and was now pacing around the desk. This was something she never even considered a possibility; how do you take the news of someone taking a picture of your house, especially with yourself in plain sight in the picture? If her curtains are that easy to see through, what else could people have seen? Had she just been on display for the world to see? Her heart was thrumming so hard in her chest that she just knew it was going to pop out of her chest and plop sadly on the hardwood floor. Her vision was tunneling as the room began to spin, and she had to sit back down in her computer chair.\nShe blinked frantically, watching her inbox filled with more and more messages from Levi. Ding!-ding… Ding!-ding… Ding!-ding… that progressively maddening echo with every new email. And why did he have to keep using that company email? [email protected]? Why didn’t he ever use his own? That’s when she realized – if this conversation was all under why thread, why were there two different unread emails, both starting with “springsus@cs...”?\nWith a vehemently trembling finger, she scrolled down the inbox until she found that second email from “springsus@cs...” which was received sometime around 11:00 in the am. She clicked on it, and read an email from [email protected], saying.\n“Hello,\nUnfortunately, we did not send anyone to your residence yesterday; our records indicate that we have not sent a company representative to your residence on file since last November. If you have any questions or would like to have a technician sent to check your utilities, you can contact us by…”\nAddison stopped reading. She felt like she was going to be sick – for a second, she wondered if maybe it would be better if she was sick all over her computer; destroying Levi’s means of communicating with her.\nDing! Ding…\nDing! Ding…\nDing! Ding…\nLevi was persistent and relentless in trying to get her attention. She looked at the limited space which revealed parts of the messages he sent, things like, “I’m so sorry if I…” and “Addis I love…” and, “please answer m…” and, “you’re being fuckin...”\nThen suddenly, the dinging stopped. In the brief moment of silence, Addison heard a strange click, then Ding! Ding…\nThis latest message from [email protected] gave the inducement, “Sent an image.” Addison didn’t want to open it; she knew she shouldn’t. Yet her hand moved the cursor to the email. With a tentative click, she opened the email.\nAddison’s mouth dropped open as the rest of her body went limp. She felt as if she were floating in a pool of carbonated water as prickles ran up and down her person, seemingly disintegrating her spine. What the image showed was a point of view through thin wooden slits, like the sliding doors of a hallway closet. Between these dark, thin strips of wood, in the illuminated view, she saw her own back as she sat in her rolling chair, looking at her computer, and the green mug of coffee she brought in from the kitchen earlier still sat on the desk.\nShe urged every muscle in her body to turn around, but her movements were slow, sluggish, and lethargic. Her eyes, through pools of tears, moved toward the closet with its slit doors behind her. Another email Ding! In her inbox, but now she realized that the echo was not an issue with her computer’s speakers.\nThe faint follow-up Ding… came from the other side of that hallway closet’s doors." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Pen-Ultimate\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2318\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a first or last kiss." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was a bit of a shock to see Sophie again at the door, on a Thursday evening during the pre-news sitcoms, because by all accounts she was quite dead. Peter Lander distinctly recalled kissing her passionately – bittersweetly, even, because it was their last kiss, and he knew it even if she didn’t – right before he blew her brains out with his Colt Python.\nHe knew he was right because Eileen made a big fuss.\n“Why the hell did you kiss her?”\n“She’s my wife.”\n“Not anymore!”\nTrue. And given the insides of her skull confettied all over the living room, and that later that week they put the rest of the package six feet under, and then a day after that they collected on the staggering life insurance – yes, Sophie was dead. She had to be.\nAnd yet…\n“Hello, Peter,” said Sophie, standing at their door.\n“Um,” said Peter. Dirt dribbled from her dress and hair and – actually, she was covered in dirt. No makeup, but her hair was done up, and frankly she looked like she might just have gotten back from a rainy rugby match, which she for some reason played in her funeral dress. And maybe she was a little paler than usual. Oh, and she had that gaping hole in her forehead, of course.\nSophie rolled her eyes, pushed past him, and muttered something about, “Why don’t I let myself in.”\nPeter followed her to the kitchen, where Eileen was making herself a vodka-cranberry.\n“Oh my god!” said Eileen. Her tone was shocked, but not the kind of shocked you get when you see a dead person walking around, but rather when you see the wrong dead person walking around, like when you’re in line at the express checkout but the old guy in front has more than ten items and it’s noisy and the AC doesn’t work and a greasy tween elbows you in the boob and doesn’t even notice, much less apologize. “Peter! What the hell?”\n“She just showed up,” he said, with a shrug. “What do you want from me?”\n“Right,” said Sophie. She placed a briefcase on the kitchen table – her lawyering briefcase, from back when she was alive and a-lawyering – and unclasped it. “Gather round. Family meeting time.”\nPeter and Eileen sat, though she huffed and crossed her arms and kept the vodka at hand.\n“Are you even part of our family anymore?” Eileen asked.\nSophie glared her silent. Then she pulled out piles of papers – old, yellow paper, covered in horrid red ink – all over the table.\n“Soph,” Peter said, and then he winced. He never really knew how to broach deeper topics with her, which was maybe why their marriage was so-so. “Um. What’s happened to you? Are you a… a ghost?”\n“She’s obviously a zombie!” Eileen snapped. “I told you to use the shotgun, but did you listen? No!”\nSophie drew herself up and sniffed. “I am not a ghost, Peter. Ghosts aren’t real.” Out of her briefcase, she pulled out, reverently, a ruby-red fountain pen – except it wasn’t merely ruby-red, it was ruby, with a gold nib – and placed it gently beside her. “Neither am I anything so gauche as a zombie.”\nEileen pouted.\n“I am a revenant.”\nPeter and Eileen shared a look. “What’s a revenant?” he asked.\n“I’ll put it this way. When I ran into the devil in Hell–”\n“Told you lawyers went to Hell!” Eileen said, sneering.\nSophie cleared her throat. “When I ran into the devil, I made a deal with him. He’d let me come back as an undead murder machine, so that I could wreak unholy vengeance on those who wronged me. You know, tear you limb from limb, eat your heart, and drag your sorry soul back down with me. Kind of one last big hurrah in the world of the living.”\nPeter gulped. Eileen dropped her glass, which wobbled on the table and spilled all over her lap.\n“Thing is,” Sophie continued, holding up a parchment covered in bloody writing, “I’ve gone over this contract hundreds of times, and as soon as I kill you, I go back too. But, not until.”\nShe took a couple fresher-looking sheets of yellow paper and slid them across the table, one each for Peter and Eileen. “So, I’m willing to offer you a deal. Feel free to read over that, but the gist is, I don’t murder you, and in exchange I get to live here, and get access to the millions from my life insurance policy.”\nPeter looked at his paper and gulped. “Is this written in blood?”\n“It’s Lucifer Ink, by Lucifer, Inc.,” Sophie said. Then with a distant look in her eyes, and an unsubtle tremble, she added, “Blood tends to boil down there.”\n“Oh.”\n“It is written on human leather though.”\nPeter and Eileen dropped their papers.\n“What if we don’t sign?” Eileen asked.\n“Then I murder you now and drag your soul down to Hell.”\n“Can we just shoot you again?” Peter asked.\n“Technically, yes, but come on Peter, use your thinking brain. I’m already dead. Even if you managed to destroy my body by blowing it up or something, I’d just come right back, like some cheesy slasher flick. And the neighbours would probably complain about the noise.”\n“Oh.”\nPeter and Eileen held quiet council for just a moment, wiggling their eyebrows and making meaningful expressions at each other. Of course, since Sophie knew them both intimately – one as a husband, and the other also as a mistress – their secret language was no secret to her.\nShe lay her ruby pen before them.\n“What kind of pen is that?” asked Eileen.\n“A pen par excellence, the pen-ultimate – the devil’s very own quill. Utterly binding on a soul level. I might have swiped it from his desk. What? Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I can possibly get into even more trouble.”\nWhat choice did they have? They signed. Then for a second, they shimmered in a red glow and experienced a pang of bowel distress, and it was done.\nAnd Sophie moved back into the house she paid for.\nHer old firm wouldn’t take her back when she called.\n“No offense, Soph – and I mean that! You were one of the best, for sure. It’s just, people already see us as ghoulish, and if we brought you back, well, it’d no longer be libel, would it?”\nSo she plopped herself down on the living room couch, right in the middle, so Peter and Eileen couldn’t cuddle up on it while watching a nice romcom or something. Not that they watched romcoms, because Sophie had control of the remote, and she binged trashy reality TV twenty-four hours a day.\n“Maybe someone else would want to watch something,” Eileen said.\n“Maybe someone else should get a job and buy the TV,” Sophie snapped.\nAnd twenty-four hours a day really was twenty-four hours a day, since Sophie didn’t sleep.\n“You mind turning that down at night?” Peter asked, after he caught himself humming a reality theme song in the shower. “It’s just, I can’t sleep.”\n“Yes, Peter,” said Sophie. “I do mind.” And then she cranked the volume up.\nThe only thing that competed with the blaring TV was the shrill ding of the doorbell, going off like clockwork, also at all hours of the day. Having some free time for perhaps the first time in her life, Sophie crawled the online shopping sites and splurged on whatever caught her eye. After all, her life insurance money was as much hers as anyone else’s, and given this was her retirement, she had nothing to save for.\nThe lack of responsibility felt liberating.\nThe living room was soon filled with unread books, unworn clothes, unwatched movies, unexcercised workout machines, and uneaten chocolate. Somewhere she even found a life-size alabaster unicorn, whose horn scratched up the low ceiling. And because she refused to budge from the couch – muttering something about the sentimental value of it being the place her brain was ejected – it fell to Peter and Eileen to get the deliveries.\nIt was exhausting.\nIn their spare moments, Peter and Eileen mostly stuck to the kitchen, where the blaring TV was at least a little muted. Having company over was difficult, because all their friends understandably kept bringing up “the Sophie situation”, and frankly it was getting embarrassing explaining themselves over and over, and stressing that “the living room was Sophie’s room” and so it was best to leave it be.\nEileen hit the bottle increasingly hard, and Peter took up smoking again. Easy, since Sophie no longer nagged him about it.\n“This isn’t working for me,” Eileen said one night.\nPeter nodded.\n“This isn’t how I pictured our early retirement.”\nPeter nodded again.\n“Are you listening to me?”\n“Christ, yes. What do you want from me?”\n“I want the life of luxury I was promised! I want to be able to host our friends with swanky parties!” She pouted. “I want my yacht!”\nPeter rolled his eyes–\n“Don’t you dare!”\nHe sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. “It’s not ideal, is it?”\n“What can we do? I thought we were rid of her.”\n“Be nice.”\n“No,” said Eileen. “I’m sick of this. I wish we never signed that stupid contract.”\n“Well, she would have murdered us. And, you know, the whole Hell thing.”\n“Whatever.” Then Eileen’s eyes lit up. “Hey! Maybe there’s a loophole. Where’s the contract?”\nStealing Sophie’s briefcase wasn’t too hard, what with the TV blaring and her attention focused entirely on the very real antics of the very real people on display. They brought it back to the kitchen for some privacy, and started going through the papers. Sophie’s contract with the devil was huge. It took them a solid week to go through it, a week made all the harder by the constant interruptions from deliveries – but finally, on Friday, they hit on something.\n“Footnote 28397”, Peter read. “Note that the revenant has licence to seek revenge on exactly one (1) former aggressor. As soon as such an aggressor is slain the revenant contract is concluded, and both souls become the property of Lucifer, Inc. Note that collateral damage is permitted–”\n“What’s that mean?” Eileen asked.\n“I’m reading, hold on. Basically, if she blows us up or something, that’s fine too. The contract’s done when one of us dies, but there’s no penalty, I guess, if we’re both dead.”\n“Super. So very encouraging–”\n“Shh! Wait, there’s more.” Peter adjusted his glasses and took a drag on his cigarette. “Note also that the contract will be concluded if any of the aggressors should die by any means, whether caused by the revenant or not. This includes but is not limited to: traffic accidents, war, acts of God, peanut butter, old age, or being murdered by someone else.”\n“Hmm,” said Eileen, setting her drink down.\n“Hmm,” said Peter. “What do you suppose that means?”\n“I guess,” Eileen hedged, “if one of us were to die, then…”\n“Hmm.”\nPeter set his cigarette down on the table.\nHe locked eyes with Eileen and neither blinked, as an ad for an energy drink roared in the background.\nAt once, she flew at the counter and he dived for the pantry, and they both kicked over their kitchen table.\nEileen grabbed the first things available to her: a cutting board covered in raw soon-to-be schnitzels and a gory meat tenderizer. She flung the floppy meat patties across the room and roared, hoisting her tenderizer into the air, and then with a shriek brought her cutting board up just in time to block the worst of a volley of canned pinto beans.\nPeter charged her with a battlecry, holding a jumbo can of tomato juice with both hands. He leapt at her right as she swung. Her tenderizer savaged his temple, but he tackled her.\n“I think we should see other people!” he roared, bringing his can of tomato juice down and down again.\nEileen screamed, desperately blocking with her cutting board and flailing her face tenderizer - until it finally connected with his jaw. It was enough for her to push him off and then roll on top, and now Peter was on the defensive.\n“It’s not you, it’s me!” she cried, and each time her weapon came down, torrents of blood – or tomato, it was hard to tell – splattered everything.\nThey rolled again when Peter was able to get a hold of a raw schnitzel and shove it into her face, and then again when she managed to can-opener his ear, and on and on it went until they both flopped onto the kitchen floor, gasping for breath, covered in cuts and bruises and meat.\n“Truce,” he wheeze.\n“Yeah,” she managed, and then coughed. “I thought killing was supposed to get easier after the first one.”\n“Hey, do you smell that?”\nEileen sniffed. “Is something burning?”\nLaboriously, they both sat up and found their kitchen to be on fire. The worst of the blaze was their table, which had been covered in Sophie’s dry old contracts, Eileen’s liquor, and Peter’s lit cigarette.\n“Aw, hell,” he muttered, as the flames drew closer. Then they both screamed for help.\nSophie ignored them at first, because their drama was just too much and nowhere near as interesting as TV, but it grated on her enough that she finally rose off the couch. By then the kitchen was a conflagration, with nary any raw meat in sight – neither schnitzel nor Peter and Eileen.\n“Damn it!” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “You two are just the worst!”\nAnd then she exploded into a cloud of sulphur and flame, and the house burned 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 Legend Of The Shamans\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 3004\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character looking for a sign." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Tan’ too’ an (the tribe’s great chief) declares to the village, “it is time for Hu a’ ka (the tribal shaman) to make solitude, to rest the mind and body to connect with the Muteesa. We must know what is to come. It is foretold that with this blood moon, comes great change. The visions must be known.”\n The Muteesa are spirits from the between world, spirit walkers, that communicate with those who have the gift of visions. The unseen spirit guides act as the communication link between the ancestors and the living shaman. The stories of the visions of this day to come are epic. Hu a’ ka makes his way to the plateau. Soon all will be revealed.\n Standing atop the desert’s tall plateau, Hu a’ ka gazes down on the village. Scanning the vast desert landscape, he marvels at the beauty of his people below. The hisa (air) is so clear, the tawa (sun) so warm, and the kuta’hana (balance of spirit and earth) so present, that he is struck by such a peaceful day. He can see and hear more clearly than most days. The horse’s hooves echo across the plain, while the children’s laughter rises as high as the huna (stars). He smiles at the loving oneness of the tribe. Each working together for each other, each as the other. The urge is overwhelming. He must bless his people, by giving thanks to the tawa (sun) and huna (stars). “This peace amongst my people’s spirits, it is good. Many blessings to you, my spirit walkers, for bringing my people such beauty, bounty, and balance today.” It is so beautiful that he cannot imagine signs or visions that might disrupt the peace.\n Behind him rises the scent of fired herbs. Their earthy aromas help relax his awakened mind. Small posak’a (revered gemstones, that shaman use to open great vision powers to channel the spirit world) are chosen for the ceremony. His rhythmic humming and quiet chanting send vibrations throughout the universe, announcing that Hu a’ ka is starting his vision journey. Rippled by the etherical vibrations, the spirit walkers turn their attention to the shaman, who is ready to receive.\n The encampment is filled with bustle and great hope that the spirit walker’s gifts of knowledge will be gracious. “Towa’qwa, stop tapping those turtle’s backs with those reeds! They know you are there. You must allow them to live their life without your interference. You are to be gathering berries. Father will need the berries to record his visions. Hurry! Make your way to the woods. Demonstrate that you are a wise ten-year old. It is important that the elders trust that you are nurturing your gifts”, say’s Hu’ a’ ka’s wife; Towa’qwa’s mother.\n Towa’qwa asks her mother, “Mother, must I gather the sage as well? I love the smell of the burning bush. May I also light the fire for father when he returns? I want him to be proud that I follow his footsteps so well.” Mother replies, “yes.” “Now off you go. Be careful, and be especially watchful on this holiest of days.” As she skips towards the forest line, her mother beams with pride. Her daughter’s love for all of life is un-naturally strong. She knows the young woman will fulfill her life’s calling well. That thought ends and is quickly replaced by another. She speaks aloud to the spirits of her ancestors, “She observes a little too much. I only hope that her distractions are not too great today, you know too well that she is my little wandering hawk.\n Even though she is only ten years old, the significance of Towa’qwa’s name, and her divine purpose within the tribe, is not lost on her. Like a fish, whose weight is crushed by the intent of the eagle, there is no escaping her fate. In her world, awareness of the body, spirit, animals, sky peoples, celestial bodies, and earth’s bounties feed each moment like sunlight to the plants. Each expressing signs, that aid an Indian in living a life true to their highest being. Family before her meshed the tribe’s history and visions into their song, dance, and cave drawings. Doing so reminds future family to seek the signs of the past, to predict things yet to come. The secret to a good life, is in the human connections. While still young, she understands that learning from the past, and incorporating those teachings into her being, will help unleash her ethereal abilities, and in doing so, guide her tribe’s future.\n The meaning of Towa’qwa’s name is revered; shaman. The spirit naming tawa ceremony on the day of her birth, honors her shaman Grandmothers who came before her, passing to her soul the gift of sight. This ability to see, understand, and interpret signs will alert her people to foreboding circumstances that threaten the tribe. Elders remind her often that teachings and celebrations are breadcrumbs that nature and the divine spirit ancestors leave for the tribal members. She however recognizes that she is the receiver, decoder, and messenger. Towa’qwa tries hard to recognize the signs that will inform her that her intuitive cycle has started, and that the spirit walkers have come to introduce themselves to her. It will be the beginning of many two-way spiritual pow wows.\n With the aid of the smoldering herbs, Hu a’ ka’s mind has transcended, like the caterpillar to the butterfly. All he sees is blackness, but his spirit is overcome with immense joy. His mind is clear, and his spirit is aware that the ancestral walkers are with him. A background of imagined drumming sends him deeper into trance. “Greetings Muteesa. Our elders are eager to know what is next for our families. Gifts are being offered in your honor, and we are grateful for your presence.” He is excited for their messages. Their excitement mirrors his, there will be no waiting. The image of a bear appears, signifying that joy and contentment will come to the tribe. Such an early sign of good futures surely signifies that this visitation will be positive. “Thank you for such generosity.”\n A fog is swirling before him. Each swirl brings a clearer picture of an event to come. Looking down towards the ground while still in this dream state, circular shadows appear to move swiftly move across the plain. Adjusting his gaze upwards to the sky, large stones are flying like eagles. It is a very strange site. Their movements silent like clouds. “I have not seen this before, help me to perceive.” The stones slow to a stop, and float down slowly from the sky, like the eagle’s feather. Hearing screams and commotion, he turns his gaze to see his people in fear. Terrified at their size once they rest on the earth’s floor, the tribe scatters in fear. The Chief however and his warriors do not scatter nor fear. They stand strong to protect their flock. In a row they proudly hold their formation, as the visitors appear from their crafts. \n “I do not understand. Your greeting was of continued peace. Please reveal more. What is this being? It is unfamiliar to me. Great family, should we fear and prepare for war?” While many would fear it’s alien appearance, a feeling of love from the being to Hu a’ ka washes over him. Hu a’ ka is confused, but not afraid. The experience is so real it’s as if he is there, the smell from the tribes burning fires and sounds. It is as if the Muteesa are communicating that all time stands still for the communication, and he can enter this future timeline, to join the pow wow. He watches from afar, noticing that exchange between the star people and the future tribal elders is friendly and welcoming.\n Next he is shown a reflection of himself in a water’s pond. He stares at his reflection, looking for the signs. Ripples now blur his image, and the creature’s features wash over his reflection. He stares intently, curious. Again, the feeling of intense joy washes over him like a large wave. The sight of the creature’s face over his actually feels comforting. Hua a’ ka communicates, “I understand.” Great shaman come to understand that all spirits are connected. All spirits are really one. “We are brothers then”, he proclaims. The smell of pipe smoke comes to his altered mind. A meeting between the tribe and a creature from the stars (hunas) is being witnessed. In his mind, he hears that the beings and the tribe are destined to meet. “Hmmm, yes, our chiefs are to meet and be fruitful. There is much for us to learn and share. They come in peace, and we will make peace with one another.”\n One last image appears. A comet the color of the blue flame is streaking across a night sky. “Ah my dear family, it will be said. When the blue flame comet comes next, we will be prepared to greet our visitors properly. I understand, the visit is a gift from you.” As one last burst of energy floods his heart, he knows this journey is ending. “Muteesa (spirit walkers), much honor, respect, and love for the messages of the future. Many thanks and blessings from our people to you.”\n As dark as it was when he entered the spirit walker’s world, it’s as bright with light as he returns. Refreshed and comforted, he is ready to share his experience with all of the eagerly awaiting brothers and sisters. Rising to gaze over the valley once more, it’s as if time stood still. The children’s laughter still echoing, and the sounds of busy preparations for his return float over the plateau. Time it seems, has stood still.\n Towa’qwa practices her rhythmic humming as she searches for the ripest berries. Creating the ink that will adorn the walls of their history is revered. Reaching for the ripest one, she notices a tiny lizard. “Hey tiny friend. Have you been sent here by my ancestors? I know that you come as an omen of survival.” Her mother told her to be especially careful today, so she kisses the top of his head and thanks him for his gift of presence and protection. Excited to now have company, “Mother would be upset, but you can come with me.” She slips the tiny creature into her second leather pouch. “You will love my tiny pouch, I made it myself.”\n “Look at that big bunch of sage! Want to smell it lizard?” Smiling, “father will surely like this sage. Let’s see what else we can find.” As the path descends, she freezes quickly. A bear is enjoying the berries at the river’s edge. She tries not to move. She stands still, eyes wide open. Suddenly all she sees is total darkness. Scared and concerned, she puts her hand over her heart chakra, she feels that her heart is still beating vibrations. Even though she is shrouded in darkness, she is definitely still alive. Suddenly, warmth and joy pour into her soul, ingulfing her from head to toe. The love is so intense, that she immediately recognizes the sign. The ancestors are here for their first of many visits to come. “The gift, it is real my lizard friend!” It is validation for years of hope, and much uncertainty. She is excited to experience the gift of sight. Not wanting any distraction during such an exciting moment, she mentally explains to her green companion, “it is time for you to rest sill my lizard. I am talking to my family.”\n In her mind the image of her father appears. She sends communication to her father via thoughts and feelings, that she is with the ancestors and actively receiving. The image of the bear at the water’s edge enters into her mind. It calms her, as a bear is a good sign that all will be well with the Indian. Still standing frozen in place awaiting more signs, another wave of warmth floods in, and instantly she is back into the beautiful day. The bear once there, dissolves into space. She didn’t completely understand, but she hoped that her father saw her and would rejoice. “Lizard, how happy am I? I can do it!” The lizard looks back at her with a neutral expression. “Well, you wouldn’t understand. It is a wonderful gift meant only for shaman like me!”\n Walking along the bank of the river, “We have done well together today. Let us celebrate. A berry for you, and a drink of cool water for me.” As she finishes cupping the water to her mouth, she pauses to gaze into the pool of water. Staring at the skippers as they skate across the top, she notices her reflection in the clear cold water. Towa’qwa is pleased by the image of her face. Reaching to touch the face in the water, she is surprised to realize that the image is now not her own. The reflection of a creature’s face, unlike anything she has seen, appears over her own, like a mask over her face. The now familiar warm wave of love washes over her again. “It is a sign!” Ripples return, replacing the creature’s reflection back to her own. While confused, she is not afraid. The Lizard, bear, and ancestors have comforted her today. They are reassurance that all is as it should be.\n Running back to the encampment, she shouts blessings to her grandmothers, who have gifted her the ability of sight. Looking ahead, she can see and hear the Children’s laughter. “Almost home lizard. I hope my father is there!”\nChapter 5\n The shaman’s reveal.\n With the entire village listening in awe, the mesmerized villagers remain calm. They trust Hu’ a’ ka’s premonitions. Interpreting the communication correctly is vital. Should the creatures be malevolent, the misinterpretation could be mortally devastating. An eon of concern regarding impending visitors from the stars would paralyze the people for their lifetimes. In the chief’s wisdom he sends the shaman to the hills. Recording this event while still fresh is imperative. It is vital for the future generations to understand clearly. The return of the blue comet will not be for many generations yet. So much passing time can cloud the stories meant for our children’s children, and the many children to follow.\n Towa’qwa hurries behind her father. “Great father, we must stop. I must know, did you see me today?” With laughter he replies, “of course my wandering hawk, I see you now.” “No, no”, she replies. “Today, with the bear, and your creature?”\n Hu’ a’ ka is haunted by his daughter’s words. “What do you mean, did I see you?” “I saw you father. I felt the warmth of the ancestors. I saw the bear that you said you saw. The creature showed himself to me too. I was with you father.” This is a first for Hu’ a’ ka. Prior spirit visits have been shown to him alone, or so he thought. Now the possibilities are swirling in his mind like eddies on the river. Could she have really been with the spirit walkers and me? There is now an obvious second possibility, that she may have been the spirit invited to meet with the ancestors, and that he was a mere observer? A third thought crosses his mind. Perhaps this was a joint vision where we three were in the spirit world together sharing a vision; the two of us plus the creature? Into his mind comes these spoken words, “time stands as still as the totem. It is this way great shaman, that we may all connect together across the universe’s plains. As long as all are open and seeking the signs, it will remain so.” Whispering to the heavens, “so the creature, myself, and my daughter, we were synchronized in vision? The creature saw us too?” A wave of joy vibrates through him. A loving confirmation from the ancestors living in the spirit world. In his mind he hears, “you are one.” As words spoken, it is true, and this he understands.\n “Come here little hawk, and bring your little lizard with you. We will slow down our walk to the caves. I need to hear all of the details of your first spirit journey. A shaman’s day of awakening must be announced and enjoyed! I am proud that you are open to receiving the signs. I am prouder that you are open to understanding the gifts. You have already achieved heights that I am now only able to. I see the great shaman in you.” As the father, daughter, and tiny spirit protector enter the cave, the happy father grasps little wandering hawk’s hand and holds it tight. “Yes, my wise daughter, we were connected in the vision. You, me and the creature, we are all one beautiful energy. Remember what you have learned. Remember what the signs felt like. It is most important to remember that we, as gifted shaman, one day too will be the Muteesa, connecting all kind from the universe for the greatest good. Learn well in this life. You will carry the knowledge of this life into the next. The messages from great shaman become legendary.”\n Lovingly, Towa’qwa squeezes her father’s hand in reply. Putting her other hand into her sack, she pats her new friend’s cool skin. “Hear that lizard friend, we are family. That means that you can live with me. I want to warn you first, it’s going to get interesting, now that I am awake. We will have many strange travels together. Are you up for that? Father also said that for all of eternity that we will be able meet. That day is when I move from my family to live in the spirit walker’s world. That surely will be wonderful. It’s a forever journey, together with you, my new family, I am not just the receiver, I am the connector. We are one.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Bite\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2990\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "JUNE 1666\nLONDON\n He had taken a room at the ‘The Town of Ramsgate’ inn, sitting quietly as a commotion raged following the discovery of a young woman’s body in the Thames, mere hours since her arrival from Rotterdam. \n He’d disembarked the ‘Gilded Lion,’ a Dutch three masted Fluyte. It had been squalid and uncomfortable, but the young woman he’d made the acquaintance of during the short voyage provided a singularly pleasant distraction.\nReading by candlelight, Carsten kept an ear open, listening for any utterances that may cause him to flee. She’d tasted pleasant, he smiled, although she’d been raised on a poor diet as her blood was rather thin. Returning to Honore’s letter,\nMy dearest Carsten\nA troublesome character whose companionship we have both shared is becoming problematic. His actions are drawing far too much attention to our kind, risking unfortunate interest and speculation.\nMy dear, destroy Lord William Rust. He can be found at either his London home or at Castle Loup in Hampshire. Be cautious, he is of both a fierce and cunning nature.\nBring me his head,\nHonore\n Everyone in England had heard of Rust. Generations of gossip identified Rust’s family as possibly Egyptian, or perhaps from the Americas? The earliest recorded fact was of a Baron Rust leaving France for England, supporting William, Duke of Normandy’s invasion in 1066. With William seizing the crown, Rust’s descendants strategically picked the right side in battle, acquiring land and property and a place at court. \n Carsten knew the invading Baron and the current Earl were one and the same. Throughout generations he’d avoid uncomfortable questions by disappearing prior to a death announcement and his heir, looking remarkably like his predecessor, inserted himself into public life with new clothes, few wrinkles, and the inherited filthy temper. His current incarnation found him living as the ninth Lord Rust.\n A shout from outside his window gave Carsten cause to stand and listen, “Her blood has been drained,” a man called, no doubt the neglectful manservant who’d allowed the young woman to slip away from under his nose. Carsten considered wringing the man’s neck to tie up any loose ends, but Honore’s request was his priority, and he simply gathered his effects and slipped from the upstairs window and across the crowded rooftops. He travelled for some distance, sniffing the warm air carrying London’s stench, then dropped to street level. It was filthy and crowded, even at night; the devastating plague of the previous year apparently forgotten. Carsten kept his eyes open for the occasional stones carved with street names before finding Hutton Street. \n Rust’s London house was a large red brick affair, quite different than the ramshackle jumble of overhanging timber and plaster homes and businesses scattered along the dirt road. Carsten brushed flecks of dirt from his ornate sleeves as he rapped the oak door.\n “His Lordship ain’t ‘ere,” a woman’s sharp voice informed him.\n “Ah, I presume he’s at his country estate?” said Carsten, his English perfect, his accent pronounced. He looked at the old woman leaning from an upstairs window. “Does he stable horses nearby?”\n “Who’s askin’?” she replied.\n Carsten was growing impatient, “I have to give Lord Rust a message. It is of the utmost importance.”\n The woman closed the window and Carsten could make out her heavy steps and cursing as she wheezed downstairs to open the door. Before she could open her mouth Carsten grabbed her throat and carried her backwards, flailing helplessly as he tossed her to the flagstones.\n “Horses?” The prone woman, injured and groaning, flicked her eyes towards the back of the house where Carsten instantly recognised the sharp equine tang. “Danke.” \n He decided not to consume her, she looked poor meat and he’d already eaten. Instead, he walked swiftly through the house and into the yard where the stables stood. The horses within began to whinny and kick, their usual reaction in the presence of a predator. Carsten, ignoring their skittishness quickly mounted a shining chestnut gelding and pushed the doors aside, riding it into the street. He let the horse, in its panicked state, simply bolt and lead him where he needed to go. He hoped it would be soon as he could hear the sound of the dawn chorus.\n#\n Rust sat idly. He tapped his smart new boots against an old coffer he’d ransacked from somewhere. His memory wasn’t what it was. He couldn’t remember how old he was, and despite the nonsense spoken about vampires living forever he was bloody tired out, immortality having lost its sheen hundreds of years earlier. He was in what he referred to as his ‘descendent phase,’ creating a new persona and burying his old one. A couple of new portraits, a new coffin entombed in the mausoleum and give it a few years he’d be back kicking up trouble for the latest King. Charles? Not the one who’d had his head lopped off, the new fellow. \n He was bored senseless. He fancied quitting the castle and getting back to some wanton savagery on the continent, maybe north Africa? Had to keep out the sun, mind you, and that left nothing but night campaigns which weren’t half as much fun. He’d received a letter from Honore, \n William\n Regretfully, word has reached me of your reckless appetites. An entire village! Your arrogance and foolishness have sadly not abated with the passing of time. This is far from an isolated case, indeed your carelessness has worsened since we last met.\n Must I repeat what you, above all others, should know? Discretion is required for our kind in positions of power and influence. Failure on your part jeopardises not only yourself but us.\n Your attendance in Madrid is required. On 15 July you will answer to your peers at the annual midnight assembly.\n Honore\n Rust had howled with laughter, pinning the note to his wall with a pugio. The massacre of a hamlet of serfs was simply his usual manner of controlling dissent; they’d begged for a reduction in their tithes due to crop failures so of course he’d made an example of the wretched peasants and butchered them one night, carrying several younger specimens back to the castle for his entertainment. The drained corpses were tied to poles and set alight along the highway as a warning; he had a reputation to uphold.\n Now he grew pensive. Someone was coming, and he knew they’d be one of Honore’s creations, educated in the ways of dispatching troublesome vampires. He could flee, of course, but why bother? He was tired, listless, depressed. Perhaps a final death would be better than hanging around waiting for his batteries to run down; he hadn’t created any new vampires in more than a generation, subsequently his powers were sagging. The desiccated bodies of his once vibrant, energy giving acolytes were past sustaining him, long into their death dream state within the mausoleum.\n Stretching, he loped into his long gallery, striding past the portraits he’d commissioned over the last several hundred years, reaching the staircase and bellowing, “Hackforth? Where are you, man? Blast it, come when called!”\n There was a scuffling and muttering from some distance away, slowly approaching the main hall, “Your lordship?”\n “Don’t lordship me you dog, fetch me my boots. Now!”\n#\n The horse, having held a steady pace and course through the night had grown weary and Carsten, needing to take cover from the approaching morning found a barn. His steed, watered and fed, rested as Carsten found a dark corner to lie down. He ignored the inquisitive rodents and insects that approached him, instead allowing his mind to chase down memories.\n He and Rust had met, perhaps twenty years past, at the annual assembly. He and Honore were still, at that stage, quite devoted to each other, so the other vampires treated him with a wary respect. Following a shambolic feast where dinner got up and made a run for it, Carsten bumped into the imposing Rust on the terrace of Honore’s chateaux.\n “I’ve heard so much about you,” Carsten had said.\n “Yet you still approach me?” Rust rumbled.\n Bowing his head, the hulking creature fascinated Carsten, “You know Honore?”\n “I do, and I know who you are too. Let’s look at you.”\n Rust gripped Carsten’s chin, tipping his feline face upwards. The senior vampire’s strength was unexpectedly powerful, the younger man feeling as if Rust could snap his neck like a hen.\n “As I thought, another minor aristocrat on the slide added to Honore’s coop. What do you want with me, child?” Rust’s voice was a low boom in Carsten’s chest.\n “I felt,” said Carsten quietly, smiling, “we may become acquaintances?”\n “Did you now?” growled Rust, “I’ve had a belly full of acquaintances and too few friends in my long existence, so I’ll have to disappoint you.”\n Carsten watched as the looming figure slipped away into the gardens, taking a swipe at a servant holding a lantern. Following at a gentle trot he came across Rust sat gloomily beside the lake, throwing stones.\n “Perhaps friendship would be preferable?” Carsten sat beside his silent companion.\n Rust was flummoxed; as the great hunter he was unused to being pursued. “I have no more need of friends,” he said quietly, looking side on at the younger man with his pale skin and long fair eyelashes.\n “You never know when you may need a friend,” Carsten said and slipped his small hand into Rust’s large fist.\n#\n Twilight settled across the castle grounds allowing Rust to take his usual evening exercise, trailed by Hackforth who huffed and puffed as he tried to keep up with his master.\n “This wall, here, remove it and replace it with…” Rust hadn’t thought further ahead than demolition, “another wall, taller, something the horses will leap.”\n Hackforth didn’t bother to argue, he just jotted it down and knew Rust would have forgotten by the next day. \n “And another thing, I’m going to town next week; find me something suitable to wear. I’m the umpteenth iteration of this blasted Earl; send for the tailors, I must be transformed. Dammit man, what’re you waiting for?”\n Hackforth walked away crisply, shaking his head, and muttering darkly.\n “I heard that,” Rust shouted at his servant’s receding back. He stopped, hands on hips, and surveyed his estate. At this elevated position he appreciated how the castle settled into the soft landscape, his boundaries miles hence in all directions. The moon was waxing, and the stars were quite brilliant. Had he not been out of sorts he may have felt himself satisfied.\n A noise alerted him. On the road bordering the forest he spied a lone figure on a mount. Despite the distance he could make out it was his chestnut gelding he kept stabled in town. “Damned thieving scoundrel,” he smiled, exposing sharp incisors, “I’ll have your hide!” The day was livening up, he thought, breaking into a fast jog across the damp fields.\n Carsten spotted the fast-approaching figure of Rust and gently dismounted, raising a hand, clearly confusing the older vampire as his speed slowed and despite leaping the large hedgerow with one bound, he stopped some distance back.\n “Carsten?”\n “It is, my lord, and I’m so very happy to be with you again.”\n Rust spat, “Don’t try and flannel me you turncoat, I know why you’re here. You intend to depart my home with my head in a sack!”\n#\n The two men sat opposite each other in the gloomy dining room. The place had, Carsten noted, grown somewhat more careworn. There were cobwebs strung between the candelabra and dust so thick on the sideboard you could lose a mouse.\n Rust, drinking from a large flagon, glared at his guest.\n “You look well, Carsten. Being a duplicitous hound clearly suits your temperament.”\n Hackforth stood at the door, “Sir, are you ready for the main course?”\n Rust waved his hand dismissively, “Not now, can’t you see I’m busy?”\n “Sir,” Hackforth turned, Carsten noting the elderly man was dragging a gagged and struggling small child with him.\n “You really are a monster,” Carsten smiled, “You don’t even let them ripen!”\n Rust threw his flagon at Carsten’s head, which he avoided with lightning speed and returned to gazing curiously at the fuming figure. It was only the years showing in the man’s eyes that gave away his age; a creature rising aeons ago with Honore and the others. The vampires watched as humanity rose, a herd upon which to feed and flourished, all the while growing wary of the power they amassed.\n “And the hag, is she well?” Rust prodded \n “The lady is very well, thank you. The real question is, my lord, are you accompanying me to Madrid? I have no intention of failing her, nor do I want to kill you.”\n “I’d like to see you try,” a wolflike Rust growled. “I thought you and I had an understanding?”\n Carsten nodded, smiling, “We do. In respect of our close friendship…”\n Rust snapped, “Friendship, is it? Why was I under the impression our relationship was more than a friendship, a commitment, more intimate? We gave it a name, I recall.”\n “We never used that word.”\n “I did, and you refused to say it back to me.”\n Carsten saw Rust was clearly upset, not just angry. This gave him cause to pause as he hadn’t appreciated Rust’s attachment to him; he had misjudged Rust’s depth of feeling.\n “Clearly you no longer care for me. I’ve waited, Carsten, for just a word from you; of your adventures and conquests, your travels, and discoveries. Yet, each time I gave up hope a letter would arrive, or you’d appear unannounced. This silly old fool adores you, and now look! I either travel to Spain in your duplicitous company to face certain death, or you dispatch me in my own home. \n“Had it been some other treacherous cove on the road this evening, my would-be executioner would be laid out on this table without his head.”\n Carsten leaned back in his seat, curious. He had experienced Rust’s affection but never believed it anything other than lust. \n “Nevertheless,” Carsten said quietly, “I have my orders.” He reached into his scabbard and quietly unsheathed a long thin blade, finely sharpened.\n Rust slumped in his seat, defeated, “Carsten, if we cannot be together, then let it be done.”\n The younger man stood and with a grave smile drew back his arm…\n#\n The storm in the Bay of Biscay was wild. The crew of the Spanish Galleon sailing from Cherbourg fighting to bail out the encroaching sea as it flooded the lower decks. Those who had bought passage lay in their bunks, praying, as the swell tossed the ship like a cork, sails in tatters, sea and rainwater mixing as it poured between the creaking decks.\n Carsten sat cradling the heavy leather sack he refused to hand to anyone on the exposed upper deck, preparing to be pitched into the wild foam at any second. “The things I do for you,” he said quietly, thinking of Honore, the weight of the sack bearing him down. If any crew approached him, entreating him to stay below else he be swept to his doom, he merely snarled at them and their natural instinct for self-preservation kicked in and they found something else more useful to do.\nJuly 1666\nMadrid \n Honore welcomed her kind as they paid tribute, passing before her, either placing flowers or gifts on a long low table and flashing their smiles. She had need of neither but appreciated (and expected) the gesture. She scanned the crowds of chattering heads, cutting through the prattle, listening out for Carsten. His ship had foundered, but knowing he was resourceful, she was convinced he’d made his way safely ashore. \n He was usually so prompt, so precise, unfailing in his duty; she had grown concerned. Could he be trapped somehow, on the seabed, aging until he was no longer of any use to her?\n “My lady!” A voice that drew her hand to her neck.\n “Carsten, my boy!” She unexpectedly grasped him, much to the disquiet of the rest of her brood who disliked the blue-eyed boy, her favourite, hoping he’d been finished off by the monstrous Rust.\n “His head?” she whispered.\n He leaned in, smelling her perfumed neck, “Lost, forever.”\n “Impossible!”\n “At the bottom of the sea,” he said sadly.\n She tried not to show her displeasure, although Carsten felt it keenly, as she broke away and drifted amongst the crowds, losing sight of her in the warm summer night of Madrid.\n1805\nThe Barbary Coast\n The huge man boarded the ship under darkness, leading a small party of marines. The American vessel, ‘Philadelphia,’ had been seized by the pirates of Tripoli and its crew enslaved; the ship too powerful and valuable to be requisitioned and used against its allies in the Mediterranean.\n The men were amazed and horrified at their bulky leader’s deftness of touch and heightened senses; silently identifying sleeping pirates and despatching them ruthlessly, tearing out their throats with his teeth. Under his fierce command they laid charges and set fires until the ship was ablaze, and they fled. \n At the harbourside the ‘Philadelphia’ exploded, its huge cannons flung high into the night, flattening buildings, killing hundreds.\n “I like to see a job done well,” he smiled at the youthful faces aglow in the flames, retreating to their vessel, secreted on the other side of the bay.\n “Sir, where did you learn to conduct a raid like that?” one man asked.\n “Oh,” he said, “On the Nile, many, many years ago. Now, men, I’ll leave you to carry on without me.”\n There was a muffled demand for him to stay with his regiment, but he refused.\n “I have some unfinished business to the north.”\n “The Admiral will demand a report, sir!”\n “Dammit man,” the man grumbled, “Just say William Rust, he left for a bite to eat!”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Perceptions of Concurrence\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 2909\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character runs into someone they’ve seen in their dreams, or enters a building they’ve dreamt about before." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Life is not linear. We are born from the spirit realm and return when life has gone full circle. The only passing of linearity in our lives is the tangent lines that touch at individual points of our circular lives... A first tooth... A first kiss... A first kill while hunting... All tangent points in our lives. One memorable tangent point in a young man’s existence is the notable passage to manhood from adolescence.\nBeing Native and Christian, I, Rob Ambrose, have a duality to my nature and received the rights under both banners. First was the Confirmation in the Anglican Church and First Communion. Next was the rights of passage for a Native male. I was undergoing a vision quest. During my hungrily, thirstily, and sleeplessly induced vision, I became timeless and seen my past, present, and future concurrently.\nMathematically, what was happening is impossible as a functional line in geometry is planar and extends from a point to positive and negative infinity. When three lines intersect at a point, concurrence occurs. The past, the present, and future are all one when in spirit form. When the three phases of life are concurrent, you are not mortal. You have entered the spiritual realm and The Great Maker will fill you with needed knowledge.\nTo make matters more complicated, one cannot find a straight line in your life, even though we measure time progressively. Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, hours become days, days become weeks, weeks become months, months become years. Years are numbered progressively, yet every year is a repetition as seconds again progress. Day becomes night becomes day.\nI just come back to base camp after four days. It was early night, and the Elders were waiting around a fire. The Elders asked me to have a seat near the fire and brought me bannock, beans and cheese on a plate with a bottle of water. I quickly consumed the food and rested. They asked for a recounting of my vision. I told them the following in a daze of exhaustion:\n“I saw a man wandering between two villages. The man was prominent within the community of authors. He carried books with him and told me he helped publish writers. He had a Misi-Kinepikw hiding in his shadow, unseen, and unheard to him. It followed the man everywhere he went as he went from village to village.”\n“The man seemed to interact with my family members and collectively they shook a fist at me like they were angry. They turned their backs on me and ignored me after telling me I was wasting my time. At one point they inverted a cross hung on the wall and laughed, telling me again that I was wasting my time.”\n“There were two buildings in the dream. One an apartment building in Winnipeg that Death haunts and the other an office building in Toronto where dreams go to die. The first building seems more relevant to me as I get the impression I’ll live there in the future. In the apartment I saw a trophy case with many awards placed in it. I also heard a baby crying in the apartment. I noticed a beautiful woman smile when I turned to get a glimpse of the child.”\n“I think Death is a sign of you dying in the building. Perhaps you will live there for many years with your family. Perhaps you take your own life. I’d say some in your family have driven you crazy for your beliefs. I’d avoid those you saw in the vision, they only wish you harm.” said one Elder as he sat chewing on a piece of bannock.\n“You must defeat the Misi-Kinepikw and not fear the man. If he truly doesn’t see the serpent, he isn’t part of the problem. The Misi-Kinepikw just knew that you may approach the man to help you. He may be the trigger for your family to turn their backs on you.” said another Elder as he slowly stirred the coals of the fire with a partially charred stick.\n“Your family scorned you because they feel you are wasting your time being Christian and writing. They turned on you and poisoned your life with the Misi-Kinepikw. If you avoid the ones who scorned you, you will avoid a lot of the struggles they can put before you. They may want control of your powerful destiny.” said a female Elder outlined by the flames of a rekindled fire.\n“Yes... Those who have poisoned you bit deep like the Misi-Kinepikw decided. You should avoid talking about writing in front of them if you can’t avoid them.” said the first Elder who was deeply contemplating.\n“You must overcome fear of failure to find the path of success. If you fear yourself, you will gain fear of others.” declared the female Elder as she took a sip of water and secretly thought I wouldn’t fail.\n“Written works will heavily centre in your life, making you a prominent person in society, so the great evil has claimed a piece of your life through the selfish people around you. The serpent has stung but not completely rid you of your existence or we would not have seen your future at all.” said the Elder Shaman.\n“The woman could be a lover. Maybe it was your mother, young and beautiful when she had you... I believe it means you will find a young lover who reminds you of your mother.” said the female Elder, wondering if romance was in the air.\n“Perhaps the inverted cross means you are in Hell, or they want to send you to Hell. You come across as a decent person. You havn’t been involved in crime. They might blame you for other people’s actions. The Misi-Kinepikw has them fooled. You bear the sins of others.” said the Elder Shaman who happened to be Christian as well.\nAfter they gave advice on what my vision meant, we all went to bed and slept till morning. I returned to Winnipeg with the new name Kitchi, meaning Brave. To unbend my mind, I started writing to understand perceived reality… To fact check life. I write a lot. I keep a journal that I write in daily. My brothers and sisters snicker every time they see me with it. The journal helps keep me on track so I do it, anyway.\nMy unbelieving family continually condemns me as a waste of time. A written off failure of the highest order who only thinks of Himself. Here I thought Christians put God above themselves and always tried to keep Him in mind… The whole copilot thing… Jesus is my salvation. Because of my newfound faith, I am told I am crazy. Which is what? A mindset? A tortured reality? I sum it up as an existence without substantiation.\nThey pushed so far that I lost my job, lost my girlfriend and all of my friends. The Elders warned me to stay away from those who didn’t want my success, but they are hard to avoid when you live with them. I eventually had enough abuse, and I had to be hospitalized. I underwent in-depth psychological testing. Turns out I was schizophrenic and placed on medicine. One thing they taught me in the hospital was how journaling can be used for mental health.\nAfter stabilization, they released me to wander the public, a free person in a free country, with what the new voice journal dubbed undeserved free money. In this case, Employment Insurance was earned as I worked almost forty hours a week previous to my hospitalization. When this temporary supplement ended, I proudly went back to work at a new job. I also put my name in at an apartment building near the job site.\nMy life is still straight and true as the arrow used to pierce the apple on William Tell’s son’s head. For the same reasons, I refused to let my Misi-Kinepikw above me and dared not bare my head to my brother ever again. As with the intended purpose of the second arrow, I refused to break and give in, even if I failed. In flight, the arrow flexes and bends or it would snap with the pressures of stress caused by the dynamics of flight. I guess I’m used to flexing by now; I barely skipped a beat before moving on to rekindle my life. I hoped to be deserving, as deserving as those with apparent disabilities.\nThe physically disabled who seem to stand out in our society as disadvantaged are already fully recognized. Mental illness, the unseen, unheard cry for relief, not believed as a real illness must become the past belief of our society. We must become able-bodied like our kindred, confined to wheelchairs and crutches no more. So I wrote a novel with the intentions of getting a real bonafide traditional publishing contract one day to gain a voice for the unseen sufferers.\nIronically, my life coincided with guarding books and patrons at the Millennium Library in downtown. It was as if things were rolling into high gear. It was reassuring now that I had started a book. I took it as a sign I was on the right path. This posting would not be permanent but I would continue as a security guard for some time. As a bonus, I got the apartment of my dreams. Yeah, the one from my vision.\nI still remember the first day here. I opened up the door and pure sunlight had flooded the place from the non-curtained window, revealing rich laminate flooring in all the rooms except the bathroom where they laid patterned linoleum. There was a pass-through from the kitchen to the dinning room above the counter and kitchen sink. It would make serving food and collecting dishes convenient. They had painted all the walls standard white, and the suite had a storage closet, too. Finally, part of my vision had come true.\nLater, guarding the gang infested apartment building I had transferred to, I had another breakdown and went on long-term disability. I came to believe that the Misi-Kinepikw closely tied my faith and conviction of writing to my breakdowns and what would give me the perseverance to continue with my dream would be its defeat. I wrote often now that I was able and started a website to promote myself.\nWhile writing often consumed my free time, I also scoured the Internet for publishers. I saw a picture of an office building one day and remembered the second building. Now full of bright, intelligent faces from the website that proclaimed them the premium force behind modern publishing. Certainly a tangent point that would make me noteworthy, maybe break me out of the circular depression I felt I was in.\nOne of them, Ron Patois, a literary agent with international connections, could make someone like me an overnight sensation. I already had a crude, sketchy, well-intentioned book that was rushed off via a web form’s synopsis. Too late, I remembered the Misi-Kinepikw. Although I had not really stirred the wrath of Ron Patois, I had awoken the Misi-Kinepikw and it bit. It drove me crazy and as a result my doctor re-hospitalized me. I guess I finally had met the powerful man from my vision and he was indeed a publishing agent, but uninterested.\nI realized only I could change my predicament. Long ago dumping my full plate into the alley’s dumpster when recommitted, I grew weary and worn down, for a while forgetting the book of my dreams, and concentrated on poetry to heal. I rekindled a collection of poems, called A Collection of Poems for the Inspiration of Modern Man.\nWhile writing poetry, I attended my father’s appointment for an MRI. When loading up my grandchild-less father after the appointment, I looked up and noticed Ron Patois. He was jogging away, so I smiled and wondered if I could still sway his opinion when I realized to enter short story contests could gain momentum.\nSeven contests later and not even a long-lister in them led me to conclude that maybe the dissenters in my family were correct in assuming I was wasting my time. I clung to faith like Jesus at the Last Supper when Judas’ betrayal caught up to him and the Centurions hauled him away for crucifixion.\nPerhaps it was time to turn my back on the dissenters; To become Son of Man. I hadn’t lived at home for years. I had been crucified upside down like the Rock for the last time. Struggling mentally for years now, I came out of my shell through a mental health worker.\nI spontaneously made random friends on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Soon I found the indie publishing movement on Twitter through #writerslift and commercialized my website site. I pulled together some cheaply crafted eBook versions of my poetry collections and put them for sale online. Sales were slow but started rolling momentum as weeks became months.\nI now have several eBooks with a small profit. Have yet to meet the woman and am in my mid-forties. Maybe I already met her and lost the opportunity when I let her slip away, but still I waited for my future wife. I must be in the right building. I feel like I belong, satisfied with where I am, and it’s affordable on long-term disability. Still struggling mentally, I gained momentum after cutting family loose.\nI was awake one sleepless night and saw a documentary on PBS entitled Poetry in Motion 2.0. The documentary featured different poets from the 70s and 80s who preformed their work for the camera. One such poet was the notable Amiri Baraka who caught me off guard with a piece that was recited with a saxophone playing. Death stalks the stairs of a certain building was all I heard as the saxophone created a cacophony to keep the listener jumping. Death? Why here? Was I about to die as lonely as the wind?\nI had a roof over my head, plenty to eat and a new mental health worker who seemed quite interested in me continuing my writing endeavours. I tried to think of places to meet women... The coffee shops... The local bars... The park right across the street. Then I realized that none of these conventional ways were acceptable because of COVID-19. I did what the unconventional do. I Called on the power of the Internet.\nAt first I thought Internet dating was a joke as I only met women who wanted gifts of cellphones, prepaid cards, and access to my bank account. I wouldn’t give in and try them out, they only amounted to gold diggers. Women who looked for affluent men with big padded bank accounts. Then a hit to left field turns into a fumbled play and an eventual home run as I finally cash in on a writing contest.\nWhen I intended to spend the fifty dollars earned on a King Can of Budweiser, I got dressed up and headed to the local vendor, not knowing the bar had recently reopened to a diminished capacity. I was standing there when a former friend, from another tangent point, came along and we reacquainted. He mentioned we should go to the bar. I decided it would be worth it to have a beer in the bar and followed him.\nI walked in behind him and was surprised by who I recognized... An old friend was playing pool all alone. She was looking fine, dressed to the nines, wearing tight jeans and a halter top. Her tanned, toned body was definitely muscular and very appealing as she leaned over the pool table to make a shot. She pulled her brunette hair back into a ponytail and I envisioned her leaving with me.\nI blushed as memories came flooding in. I was already in love with her. When I saw her eyes, I instantly felt an undeniable attraction. An old country song came on... Tight-Fitting Jeans... I knew it was time to make my move. I walked over and asked her if she was playing alone.\n“What are you waiting for? Get a cue and join me. Hurry!” she ordered.\n“Okay, if you say so.” I replied meekly as I went and grabbed a cue from the bar.\nWhen I returned to the table, she asked, “What are you doing here?”\n“I came for a beer with my old friend.”\n“Is that all?” she asked as she took a shot at the balls already in play.\n“Yeah, I finally won a writing contest.”\n“Really?” she said as she pointed to the corner pocket and sunk the four-ball.\n“Yeah.” I sheepishly replied, hoping to hide the nervousness I felt at meeting her.\nWe played two more games of pool and finally sat down at a table to talk. We had a couple of drinks and I told her of my hard won victory. When we talked of ourselves, we stared deeply into each other’s eyes and I could sense the kindling of a flame. The rest is history. The girl of my dreams led to family, complete with three children, fame, fortune, and knighthood. The greatest tangent point I had ever encountered pulled me out of circular dullsville. I had taken a chance, hit on my dream girl, and left the local watering hole with whom would become my wife." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Love Will Tear Chad Apart\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1093\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a successful marriage proposal, or one that goes horribly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The blue ocean shimmered and sloshed against the underwater hotel room’s window.\n\nBrooke Goodmane’s heart trilled hard and fast. Chad had been gone for a few minutes now, giving her time to think. The holiday, the fancy hotel, it was all too much. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. She needed time to find herself and discover what she wanted from life. But she didn’t want to hurt the man who loved her. If only she felt the same way about him. And now this? Whatever ‘this’ was? Brooke paced back and forth, her hand rubbing a red spot against her collarbone. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered to the empty room as the reflections of light rippled across the ceiling.\n\nA blur of movement and a flurry of bubbles exploded from the corner of one of the windows.\n\nBrooke flinched away and screamed, hands raised.\n\nIt was Chad. He descended from above, grinning through a regulator mouthpiece and waving at her. He was in a red Cupid-styled swimsuit. He also had fluttery angel wings drifting behind either side of his oxygen tank. Even his mask was heart-shaped. He held a sheet of paper wrapped in plastic in one hand and something else hidden in the other.\n\nHeart slowing down from the shock, Brooke gathered herself. She hadn’t even known such tacky scuba equipment existed. Who on earth – besides Chad – would buy that crap? She forced a smile and a wave, hating the way the grin felt fake on her face. ‘Hi Chad,’ she said, knowing he couldn’t hear her.\n\nBehind him, the endless ocean waited, blue and beautiful and full of possibilities. Chad swam to the window and clung to the side, his red fins treading water. He revealed what he had in his other hand – a ring box. He popped it open for her to see and slapped the paper against the tempered glass. The message read: ‘Brooke, without you, I’ll sink like the Titanic. So I got you a rock like the one that crashed the boat and killed all those people. I’ll never leave you high and dry. That’s why I’m now deep and wet. Baby, will you marry me?’\n\nBrooke gasped, and her hand went to her heart. And it was a rock, too. How he’d managed to swim whilst dragging along that monster was a mystery. But could he buy her love – forever – with a flashy ring? Was that what she wanted? Was that indeed who she was? Brooke realised the answers to those questions were ‘no’, ‘no’, and ‘hell no’. She deflated and shook her head. ‘Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. But no. I’m so sorry, Chad, the answer’s “no”.’\n\nChad frowned. He clung to the window, the sheet of paper with his proposal fluttering in the ocean’s currents. The ring shined in the sun’s rays, which had begun to fade as afternoon became evening. The diamond sent light flashes through the nearby waters like an SOS beacon. The question was evident on his face: ‘Why?’\n\nThe tears started to fall. Brooke couldn’t do this – not whilst she was looking at him. She turned her back and leaned against the window. She slid down to the floor and bared open her heart. ‘I’m so sorry Chad, but I can’t marry you. I need to leave, to go see what life has to offer. To find out what lies in the hidden corners of the ocean. And I don’t think I can do that with you.’\n\nBehind her, Chad sagged. A flurry of sad bubbles escaped his mouthpiece. The hand holding the ring box drooped. He didn’t see the shark coming.\n\n‘You’ll see, today is what’s best for both of us. We can’t go on like we are, drifting like a liferaft in the ocean, waiting for some sign of rescue. I have to do what makes me happy. And so do you. You’ll find something after me. The type of girl who makes you feel frightened yet alive, someone who makes your heart race and your blood pump.’\n\nChad banged against the window, screaming around his regulator mouthpiece. Bubbles streamed away from his face; his eyes were wide and white like the shark’s. The water changed from blue to red.\n\n‘No, Chad. I need to say this. It would be best if you heard this, too. Well, I mean, I know you can’t hear this. But I hope you can understand me. I know this is tearing you apart right now. Your heart feels like it’s ripping out of your chest. But one day – some day soon – you’ll pick yourself back up and put the pieces of yourself back together again. Trust me, you’re going to wash ashore someplace a completely rearranged man. Nobody will recognise you.’\n\nChad thrashed back and forth in the mouth of the predator. He’d lost his mask, and his air tank spiralled away, punctured, leaving a trail of bubbles. Ribbons of blood streamed away from his gaping injuries, and red froth foamed from his mouth. He slapped against the window, but weaker than before. The shark shook him like a dog with a chew toy, making his hair sway like seaweed.\n\n‘A lot of people will tell you that this is the result of a maneater, but that’s not true. I—’ Her voice hitched. ‘I do care about you. But I can’t see a future where you’re in it. I’m so sorry that I left it until now to say something. I was too scared. Scared of life without you. Scared of hurting you. But seeing you out there, with that ring and those words…’ She sobbed. ‘It was the epiphany I needed to make a change.’\n\nThe shark banged the window with her caudal fin as she turned and swished away. She left blood and gore in her wake. The plastic-wrapped paper drifted off, destined to become more rubbish in the seas.\n\nThe tears slowed, and a sad smile surfaced. God, she should have done this ages ago. It had felt like an anchor was dragging her heart down to the ocean’s depths. But now, with the ties cut, she felt light and free. Brooke rose to her feet. She did not look back. You made your choices, and then you moved forward. That was how you lived. She all but floated out of the room. ‘Goodbye, Chad.’\n\nChad’s severed arm – still holding the ring box and twitching like a fish – drifted past the window into the abyss." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dream Spirit\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 3000\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character runs into someone they’ve seen in their dreams, or enters a building they’ve dreamt about before." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My ears rang at the sound of the scraping metal and squealing tires. The pain in my right arm was unbearable. I crawled out from the driver side of my car and struggled over to the other vehicle. The man inside was older, easily older than sixty. I tried my best to find his vein, any vein, to see if he still had a pulse. I couldn’t reach any place where I knew a vein was, and cursing myself for my lack of medical knowledge, I tried to pull him from his laying position across the two front seats of his old truck. My arm hurt too much, and I was too weak to move him more than an inch. I attempted to find a vein in his neck again until I noticed the stick shift impaled deep into his body.\nI crawled backwards through broken glass and barely managed to stand. I began to walk, if you could even describe it as walking, to the farmhouse I saw down the street through blurred vision. The image of the man’s bloody side wouldn’t leave my mind no matter how much I willed myself to focus on getting myself help, and my tears refused to stop flowing for him.\nThe house seemed so far away. I fell on the road more than a few times before finally reaching the driveway that led to a barn and branched off toward the house halfway between the big red building and the road. It must have taken me twenty minutes just to reach the mailbox at the start of the gravel road from where the accident happened. It took another ten to reach the front porch as I grew weaker and my pain increased.\nI knocked on the large door as hard as I could as I fell onto the wood beneath me, just barely able to make any noise. I managed to pull myself back up with my left hand against the trim around the door, listening to quiet shuffling just beyond the thick wooded barrier. I thought the man whom answered must have been close to the door. I can't imagine he could have heard my weak attempt at a knock if he were further in the house. When I looked up, I came face to face with the barrel of a shotgun. Still holding my injured arm, I winced from another stab of pain. A few seconds later, I heard the voice of the young man.\n“What the hell are you doing on this land?” I glanced up to get a look of his face. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-three; about the same age as me. He had a handsome face with well-groomed black hair, and he was tall. It got harder to breathe. I tried my best to communicate with him.\n“I need help.” The young man gave me a confused look. I noticed his hands were steady holding the gun, but there was no malice in his eyes.\n“What…” he said, lowering the gun to point at the ground, “…I don’t- w-what are you doing? I asked you a question, why aren’t you saying anything?”\nI breathed out a breath of sadness and pointed to my mouth, shaking my head. A look of recognition crossed his face seconds before I fell once again. I heard the loud thud of the shotgun against the wood and felt strong arms trying to hold me, cautious of my injured arm.\n“I need help,” I tried again. I couldn’t see the look on his face; I was in too much pain to do anything but hold my arm. I listened to him slide his gun into the house and felt his large hand caressing my back.\n“Okay, come on,” he said, lifting me up so I didn’t have to walk. “Let’s get you inside.”\nHe carried me into the house and closed the door with his foot. It seemed effortless for him as he walked me over to the large L-shaped couch in his living room, laying me down gently and fixing pillows behind my head. Even though I was fairly heavy, he had no problem moving me. I didn’t see him leave the room as he retrieved a white box with a red plus sign on the lid. He kept moving in and out of the room, gathering things. All to help me, I assumed. I focused on my breathing and kept hold of my arm across my waist, trying my best not to get my blood on his soft, light brown colored couch.\n“Here,” he said quietly, lifting me by my back, “can you sit up for me?” I did my best to do what he told me but had barely enough strength to meet him halfway. “Take deep breaths, okay? I’m gonna clean your arm and bandage it up. It’ll hurt, but just keep breathing through the pain. It’ll make it easier on you.”\nWith skilled hands, the stranger cleaned as much of the blood from my arm as he could, and checked the wounds. I think he was looking at how deep they were, to see if any needed stitches. He wrapped a lot of white cloth around my arm after applying disinfectant and salve to each wound, even the small cuts. He finished with a tan wrap around the white cloth, securing it with little metal pieces that stuck into the fabric. The man then gently tried bending my arm at the elbow, only causing me minor pain. I guess he was checking to see if it was broken. He continued his investigation of the rest of my body, taking care of and putting bandages on all the cuts and bruises on my legs, left arm, and my forehead. Those didn’t take as long as my arm did.\nI remember in the accident that my right arm had been stretched out to the passenger side, while the rest of me was behind the wheel and protected by an airbag. The passenger airbag failed to deploy on impact. My arm was nearly shredded by the broken windshield, and would have broken from bending back behind me if the passenger seat didn’t stop it from moving in that wrong angle. The man in his old truck swerved out of control and rammed the passenger side of my car from the front. He would have hit my driver side and killed both of us if I hadn’t turned the wheel to the left. Even so, it made my car roll once over and land upside down. All I could think to do was crawl out and see if the man needed help. I didn’t even grab my phone or bag.\nThe kind stranger took me out of my memories by covering my legs with a blanket that had triangles and lines neatly patterned on it horizontally, with a black bird in the middle. It seemed hand-made but was clearly top quality. I looked down to his first aid kit and noticed that only a few bandages were left. The rest were on me. There must have been almost a hundred in the kit before, all varying sizes. I felt bad that he had to waste them on my cuts. He reached for my face and felt around my jaw. Most likely trying to see if there was some physical reason he could identify to explain why I couldn’t speak. He sighed and left the room with the supplies he brought in, coming back with a green-tinted glass and handing it to my left hand. I began drinking the water slowly.\n“Your muscles seem fine,” he said quietly. “No bone damage with your head, only a minor cut on your forehead. So why can’t you speak?” I handed the empty glass back to him and tried to communicate. He gently grabbed my left hand and stopped it from moving. He held it in the air for a moment before placing it on my lap and exiting the room once more. When he came back, he handed me a notebook and a pencil. “Will this help?” I nodded and took the pencil in my left, the notebook in my right. Good thing I was left-handed, or I might not have been able to write.\n“I am mute,” I wrote. “I can’t talk.” I turned the notebook towards him. He blinked at the page and looked back to me in shock.\n“O-Oh…I, uh…I’m sorry.” I shook my head at him and wrote on a new page.\n“It’s okay, you didn’t know.”\n“So, that was sign language you were doing?” I nodded. “Okay. I don’t really know sign language. Or I guess you already know that.” He chuckled nervously.\nI figured he must have been tired from tending to me, so I pulled my legs, still a little sore, off the couch and turned to face him fully. I then patted the spot next to me for him to sit too. He stood up and repositioned the blanket so that it was covering both our laps instead of just mine. It took me way too long to finally notice at that moment that below his t-shirt, the shorts that I thought he was wearing weren’t actually shorts. They were boxers. I immediately felt terrible that he rushed to the door for me so fast and then tended to my injuries, so focused that he didn’t have the time to put on actual pants. At least I had comfy shorts on, this poor guy wasn’t even wearing pants!\n“I’m sorry you didn’t have the time to put pants on,” I wrote. He laughed heartily.\n“You know, I didn’t even think about that when I went to answer the door.” I gave him a look to show him I felt bad. “Don’t worry about it, I don’t pay enough attention to anything.”\nWe shared a carefree smile, and I shook my head at him. I began to look around the living room we were in, noting how big it was. His L-shaped couch covered a lot of ground and had one side facing a big tv on the wall with pictures of people with tanned skin and black hair just like his. They extended around the room, mixed in with a few photos of pretty views of the desert that filled the area around his house. I looked over to where the dining room was, past a wide entryway, with a big table that sat eight people. My eyes finally landed on the shotgun laying on the floor in front of the large wooden door that he carried me through. I heard him sigh behind me and I turned to look at his troubled expression. He must have noticed what I was staring at.\n“I’m sorry about earlier. When you came to the door, I mean. I just…” He looked really torn up about it. I was confused by that. I showed him the notebook.\n“Why were you so scared?” After a long moment of silent contemplation, he let out a heavy sigh.\n“I keep having this dream where a girl with an injured arm showed up knocking on my door,” he confessed. “Nobody ever comes out here on the reservation, so I was a little paranoid, I guess. I grew up with my grandpa always telling me ‘you never know when níłchʼi,' spirits, 'are going to show up. Can’t assume they won’t take the chance to attack you.’ And the girl never said anything to me in these dreams, just stared blankly at me. And that kinda freaked me out.” He nervously fidgeted with his hands. I showed the notebook to him.\n“Me not talking must have scared you.”\n“Yeah, a little. And living alone really makes you really paranoid of other people, you know?” He wore a nervous smile as I turned to the next empty page, readying myself to respond. “I’m really sorry for that. And…” He leaned closer, inspecting my face. “I don’t know, you just- your eyes look so familiar, like they were exactly the same as the girl…I mean, exactly the same.”\nI tilted my head and signed, “mine look the same?” I then remembered he didn’t know sign language and reached to write it down for him. I was too used to signing in conversation and giving immediate replies. It felt awkward to write everything and took too long.\n“Heh. It’d probably be useful for me to learn sign language, wouldn’t it?” He chuckled and I smiled with him before tilting the notebook for him to read.\n“My eyes are the same as the girl in your dream?”\n“Yeah, just the same. All hazel and pretty, and-” He immediately blushed when he realized what he had said. “I-I mean, well they just- you know, they look nice?” He looked away and kept rambling, further solidifying his embarrassment. “I guess you get told that a lot. Not that they look like another person’s, but that they’re beautiful and I, uh, I just…” He trailed off and I felt both amused and bad for him. Not bad enough to not let him suffer in his embarrassment, though.\nI finally poked his shoulder and showed, “just my eyes look like hers?”\n“No, you…” He hesitated as he looked me up and down, possibly registering what I looked like for the first time since answering the door. “You look exactly like the girl I saw in my dreams. Or, I guess maybe it was you that I saw in my dreams. My grandpa would say the good spirits told me and guided you here.” I nodded at him. He looked up and around the room. “I always think that when he left me all this and the land, he left good spirits to take care of it with me. That probably sounds really weird to someone who didn’t grow up hearing about all that, but its what I was taught.”\nI shook my head quickly and wrote again. “It’s not weird.” He smiled for a second before reverting to his thoughtful expression from before.\n“In my dream, you didn’t have any visible injuries or blood on you, though. You were obviously in pain, but just stood there and held your arm. I kept asking what was wrong the first few dreams, but after a while I got kinda angry that it kept coming back when I'd fall asleep, and I just kept asking ‘what do you want,’ ‘why are you here,’ stuff like that.”\n“So why the gun?” He grimaced at the paper.\n“Because I knew I wasn’t asleep, and when I saw you through the window I didn’t think about anything else but that dream, and my grandpa’s warnings about evil spirits, and I just…” He shrugged and put his head down. I leaned down under his head and waved to get him to look at me again. I held up the notebook after he straightened his back against the couch.\n“I get it. I wouldn’t have even opened the door.”\nHe let out a laughing sigh and placed his hand on my knee, still covered by the blanket I now guessed someone in his family had made. He stared into my eyes for a long while. It must have been at least a few minutes before he shook his head and took us out of the trance we didn’t realize we both had gone into.\n“Uh, you in any pain? Do you want me to grab you any medicine?” I shook my head.\n“I’m just a little bit tired,\" I wrote. \"I only need to lay down for a little while.” He nodded and stood up. And there were the boxers again, taunting my inconsiderateness once more.\n“Okay,” he said, contemplating something for a moment. Then he smiled at me. “Do you want a big bed or a little bed?”\nHe moved his arms to gesture a caricature of my two options. I smirked back and spread my arms wide, careful to keep my arm from hurting. He nodded in agreement as if that's what he would have chosen too. I tried to stand up, but I winced a little. He held his hands out to stop me.\n“Hang on, let me help you. I don’t want you to strain yourself.” Thank God for nice muscles that result from years of hard farm labor, because he lifted me up from the couch with no effort at all. “I’ll take you to the spare bedroom downstairs. It has the biggest bed.” I left the notebook and pencil on the couch with the pretty blanket and let him carry me downstairs.\nHe opened the door to one of the spare bedrooms in the basement and closed it with his foot before carrying me across the dark room, unable to turn the light on with me in his arms. He laid me down in the middle of the huge bed and sat on my left side facing me. He reached over top of me to check the bandages on my right arm, making sure they were secure before carefully laying it back at my side and keeping his hand on the bed next to it. Then he looked up at me and stopped at my eyes again. Eventually, he leaned down and kissed my forehead lightly.\n“I guess I should say good night,” he whispered. He chuckled a little as he looked down at me. “Good night, dream spirit.”\nDespite his words implying that he should leave, he didn’t move. He stayed there, leaning over me for a long time. At first, I found it a little odd that I didn’t mind in the slightest. Once he finally moved closer, the way he and I wanted him to, it occurred to me that we still did not know each other's names. But, for some reason, that didn’t bother me at all. Neither did the fact that he never left the bed that night." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Aunt Cass\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2752\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a successful marriage proposal, or one that goes horribly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "If I felt anything for the man sitting across from me at the dinner table, it would have been an incredibly romantic evening.\n\nThe restaurant was dimly lit, we’d each had two glasses of red wine, there was a string quartet playing a lovely tune at the center of the dining room, and Samuel looked handsome that night. Well, for him. His suit was a size too big and he had gotten a weird haircut that week, but he’d never looked better.\n\n“Champagne?” he asked me.\n\nDear God, I thought to myself. He did not put the ring in a champagne glass.\n\nThree minutes later, our waiter set a champagne glass down in front of me with a sparkling diamond ring at the bottom of the glass.\n\nI squealed and smiled at Samuel. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.” I kissed him, because that’s what you do when you accept a marriage proposal. I slipped the ring on my finger.\n\nI did not want to and would not marry this man, but my squeal of enthusiasm was real. I was thrilled to be his fiancée at last.\n\n_____\n\n\nA year ago, I received a different marriage proposal, from a man who is Samuel’s opposite in every way. Theodore is handsome, clever, ambitious, and can fill out a suit. We met at the magazine where I'd been working as an associate editor for five years. He started with us as a weekly humor columnist, and we began dating almost immediately. I was hesitant at first; I had avoided romantic entanglements ever since an incident during my junior year of college. Eventually Theodore’s small gestures won me over - saving the Times crossword for me and laying it on my desk every morning, surprising me with coffee from my favorite place in the Village.\n\nOnce I agreed to a first date - dinner at Bistro - I fell hard and fast. I had never been in love like that before. I couldn’t wait to open my eyes and see him beside me every morning, and there was no moment of my life, exhilarating or devastating, that I didn’t want to share with him.\n\nI did try to stop. I tried to keep things casual, suggesting that best friends with benefits could be an option for us. Theodore just laughed at me, his blue eyes sparkling. It was impossible; we were clearly meant to be more than friends. The inevitable was drawing closer and closer.\n\nWhen Theodore suggested dinner at Bistro on the second anniversary of our first date, I started to panic, Aunt Cass’s voice echoing in the back of my head.\n\nI tried everything I could to cancel our anniversary dinner. I blamed a family commitment, but it turned out that Theodore had gone to my parents to ask for their blessing, so that plan failed. I told Theodore I had a deadline at work, but the editorial staff was in the loop and had cleared my schedule for the weekend.\n\nThe night of the Bistro dinner, we left straight from the office.\n\nTheodore went downstairs ahead of me to get a cab, and I looked frantically around my office for a reason to stay.\n\n“Do I have any messages?” I asked my assistant.\n\nSamuel shook his head, giving me a dopey grin. “None.”\n\n_____\n\n\nThe thing you need to understand is that I desperately wanted to marry Theodore. Everything about our relationship was amazing - the sex, the conversations, the unconditional emotional support. Everything.\n\nAn engagement, however, was out of the question.\n\nWhen we got to Bistro, Theodore had reserved a quiet table in the corner. I observed all the small details - the music, the lighting, the flowers - and I suddenly felt dizzy, like I needed to sit down.\n\nTheodore pulled out the chair for me to sit - yet another sweet and small romantic gesture that made me love him even more.\n\n“I can’t marry you,” I exclaimed.\n\nI’d never seen a person’s face crumple like that. He was thirty-one years old, and he looked like a distraught toddler.\n\nTheodore let go of the back of my chair and started to back away from the table silently.\n\n“No,” I said, seizing his hand. “You have to let me explain why.”\n\nThat’s when I told him about Aunt Cass.\n\n_____\n\n\nIt’s really hard to explain Aunt Cass.\n\nOur family was Italian, passionate, loud, and full of characters - an aunt who made racist comments after three glasses of wine, the cousin who would always end up passed out around a table, and Aunt Cass, who everyone said could predict the future\n\nIt supposedly started when she was a kid. Her mom asked her about having a play date with a friend and five-year-old Cass said she couldn’t go because of Uncle Joey’s funeral. Uncle Joey, healthy as a horse, collapsed and died of an aneurysm two days later.\n\nAfter that, her predictions were a regular occurrence. Sometimes Aunt Cass delivered warnings, attempting to help family members avoid a negative consequence - like when she warned my oldest cousin, Mia, not to go to a school dance or she’d risk a grave injury. Mia stayed home. The limo her friends rented was in a horrible accident, and three kids ended up in the hospital. Other times, Cass’s predictions were more definitive, unavoidable, like when she told her cousin Freddie that he was about to be fired. He was furious, stormed away from the Sunday dinner table, called her a liar. Yet when his boss called him into her office two days later to give him the bad news, no one in our family, not even Freddie, was surprised.\n\nIt was accepted family lore that Cass’s predictions were accurate. For that reason, I did my best to avoid her. Occasionally, her predictions were positive, like when she told my sister Tori that she’d get into Julliard - but for the most part, they were gloomy and eerie, words that would haunt you every moment until the prophecy was fulfilled. Aunt Cass tended to make her predictions in private conversations during our weekly Sunday dinners at Nonna’s house, so I stuck with my sisters during those evenings. I did my best to never be on my own and in Cass’s eyeline.\n\nThen one night during my junior year of college, we were watching TV in Nonna’s den and my little sister stole my dessert - just snatched up my chocolate chip cannoli with a wicked grin on her face. I whacked her in the arm and retreated to the kitchen to get a new one.\n\nIt happened so fast. There Aunt Cass was, smiling at me as she brewed the coffee, and all of a sudden she was speaking.\n\n“You’ll have three men in your life,” she said casually.\n\nI froze, one hand about to select a new dessert. Was this how it happened? Aunt Cass had cornered my sister Isabella last month to tell her that she’d never be a movie star, but Isabella hadn’t mentioned such an informal tone.\n\n“The first one will break your heart. The second man will become your fiancee, but will die before you can marry. The third will be your happily ever after,” Aunt Cass continued. She handed me a napkin and a paper plate for my cannoli.\n\n“Aunt Cass, I -” I wasn’t typically speechless. I had goosebumps on my arms and legs.\n\nShe left the room, and I heard her start talking to my Nonna about a doctor’s appointment she was taking her to the next day. Aunt Cass had delivered her prediction, and now she was ready to return to small talk.\n\nI didn't tell anyone. I had a boyfriend at the time; we’d been dating for three years, and we talked about marriage and kids. Six months after Aunt Cass’s prediction, I caught him cheating with my best friend. It was upsetting, but I wasn’t surprised.\n\n_____\n\n\nThis was the story I told Theodore that night at Bistro. The look he gave me afterward was scornful.\n\n“Gia, you can’t possibly believe that nonsense,” he said.\n\nI was crushed. Theodore had never looked at me like that before - with something close to contempt. He didn’t know what it felt like, to be in my family and watch impossible things occur and know that disbelief did nothing.\n\n“I can’t - I just love you too much to risk it,” I exclaimed. My eyes filled with tears.\n\nI did love him - I loved Theodore with a strength of feeling I’d never experienced before.\n\nThe second man will become your fiancee, but will die before you can marry.\n\nIf he died, I would want to die as well. The thought of losing him was too much to bear.\n\nHe stood there, absorbing the information, and I could see a shift in his expression. I was becoming a different person in his eyes - a kook, a nut job, someone not serious or stable enough to love and marry.\n\nIt was infuriating that Aunt Cass had done this to me. I was twenty-nine years old, and her prophecy had been haunting me for a decade. I avoided intimacy, I resigned myself to a lonely life. I was scared of never finding someone to love, and equally afraid that when I did, they would die and it would somehow be my fault.\n\nEnough. A small voice inside my head pushed Aunt Cass out, and I felt calm and resolute for the first time in weeks.\n\n“It’s really nothing,” I said, striving to make my voice sound conversational. “It’s just a hard thing to shake, and I’ve been -” I paused, sensing it would give my next words more impact. “I’ve been lied to my entire life.”\n\nIt was as if a light that had flickered out reignited in Theodore’s eyes. He looked at me hopefully.\n\n“Give me a little time,” I said to him. “I just need to - work it all out.”\n\nSomeday, maybe, I’d be able to give him a different answer.\n\n_____\n\n\nOur co-workers were shocked when I started dating my assistant Samuel a week later. He had always had a crush on me - he was young, impressionable, sweet, dopey. It was refreshing to be with him; everything with Theodore had been so intense, and my relationship with Samuel was easy. We had to transfer him, of course, for HR purposes, and he ended up as the assistant to the editor in the office next door to Theodore.\n\nIt was challenging, watching Theodore from afar for all those months. I watched him, watching me and Samuel, and I wished I could whisper what I was really thinking into his ear.\n\n_____\n\n\nIt was simple to encourage a quick engagement and wedding. From the beginning, I told Samuel that I wanted to wait until after marriage for us to have sex, and he obliged; I blamed my Italian-Catholic upbringing and he was supportive.\n\nThe abstinence was part of my plan to keep us moving forward. Nothing encourages a man to speed up a wedding date like a vow of chastity.\n\n_____\n\n\nAfter I accepted Samuel’s proposal, after we told our families and started making plans for a wedding, after we set a date that was just six months away - I waited.\n\nIt was agony. Theodore started to date. I couldn’t invest in wedding planning with any enthusiasm when I knew the event wouldn't actually occur. My mother adored Samuel, who was happy to help with choices and errands, and they planned happily together while I pretended to be busy at work.\n\nI was at the office late one night when Theodore caught me by the hand as I was leaving.\n\n“What are you doing?” he asked me. “I thought you just needed time.”\n\nI walked away. He would understand soon enough.\n\n_____\n\n\nThree weeks before the wedding, I started to panic.\n\n_____\n\n\nThree days before the wedding, Samuel took me to dinner at the restaurant where he’d proposed. It was the last time we’d see each other alone before the wedding; he had a bachelor party the next evening and I had a bachelorette, and then we’d have the rehearsal dinner. It was so sweet that he’d thought, just as Theodore had, to bring me back to a restaurant where we’d had a beautiful memory. It seemed I was destined to have boyfriends who excelled at romance.\n\nI didn’t feel romanced.\n\nI was terrified. I was waking up screaming at night, and I felt tremors in my hands and feet periodically throughout the day. I couldn’t eat.\n\nI knew what true love was - I’d had it with Theodore. A marriage with Samuel would be devastating for me after the years I’d spent as Theodore’s lover, and if the wedding actually happened - well, my parents would throw a wild fit if I even mentioned the word divorce to them.\n\nI needed to end it.\n\nWe took a walk through the park after dinner, and then we went up to the roof deck at the top of my apartment building. It was a cool evening. I walked over to the edge of the roof to stand at the railing. The building was twenty stories tall. I felt Samuel wrap his arms around me, rubbing my bare arms to keep me warm.\n\n“Do you want my jacket?” he asked.\n\n“No,” I said.\n\nThen I seized his arm and swung him forward. I watched him fall twenty stories to the street.\n\n_____\n\n\nIt occurred to me during the memorial service that everyone in attendance would have been at our wedding.\n\nThe death was ruled an accident by the authorities. No one had seen Samuel fall. After years of feeling like I lived beneath an unlucky star, things were working out in my favor.\n\nAunt Cass hugged me tightly at the funeral. “I’m so sorry, baby girl,” she said, crying and whispering so that only I could hear. “I hate when I’m right about these things.”\n\nI hugged her back and wished that I could thank her, for saving me from a worser fate. There was no way to know if I could trust her, though.\n\nThe plan wasn’t always supposed to be this. For weeks, I’d waited for some accidental calamity to befall Samuel. I would have grieved it - he was only twenty-eight years old - but I wouldn’t have had to resort to what I did.\n\nIt simply wasn't fair, the way Aunt Cass’s predictions ruined lives, ended lives.\n\n_____\n\n\nAfter everything was over - the funeral, the memorial service - I called Theodore and asked him to dinner.\n\nHis voice sounded perplexed. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “I’m so sorry about what happened.” It had been about a year since I’d rejected his proposal.\n\n“It was terrible,” I said quietly. “He was so young.”\n\nTheodore was silent for a few moments. I wished that he was in the room with me, that I could look at his face and guess what he was thinking.\n\n“And you’re calling - to ask me to dinner?” he asked slowly.\n\n“Things are different now,” I said. “Bistro? 7 p.m.?”\n\nThere was another beat of silence.\n\n“I’ll pick you up at 6:30 p.m.,” he said.\n\nWe hung up and I frowned. He didn’t sound excited. But then, I’d broken his heart a year ago, and it might take time for things to mend.\n\n_____\n\n\nWhen I opened the door at 6:30 p.m., two uniformed police officers were waiting to patiently explain to me about the footage that had been found on a neighbor’s security camera and the motive that had been revealed to them by the love of my life.\n\nI used my phone call to reach Theodore. “How could you do this?” I asked him. I didn’t even recognize my own voice - it was high-pitched, wild and frantic. “Who’s going to be my happily ever after?”\n\n“I don’t know,” he said coldly. “Maybe the lady in the cell next door.”\n\nHe slammed down the phone. That was ludicrous, I thought to myself. Aunt Cass’s prediction had clearly stated that there would be three men in my life.\n\nI held the phone to my ear briefly after he hung up. I needed a moment to breathe.\n\nAll I could think about was Aunt Cass, with her words that had haunted me for the past ten years.\n\nThe woman was insane.\n\nShe ruined lives." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Declaration\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1005\n\nPrompt:\n\nAn apparent coincidence occurs. Write a story about a character who suspects paranormal, spiritual, or criminal causes." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Declaration\nThe appointment letter from the SAV College was brief. It stated:\n“This refers to your application for a teaching post in the Economics department of our college. The Governing Body is pleased to appoint you as a Lecturer in the Department of Economics in their college. You should report to the Principal within a week of the receipt of this letter.\nThe appointment is subject to your furnishing a declaration that you do not take any alcoholic beverage.\"\nI was very happy. The unemployment level in the country was very high, and I had secured this appointment after dozens of my applications had been rejected. My first class academic record and my prowess in sports had not so far helped me in securing a decent job. This offer, therefore, was like a gift from heaven. As regards furnishing the Declaration, I could honestly furnish it; I had given up alcohol five years ago after being involved in a car accident, caused by my having taken a peg too many. I had escaped police action then but had decided that enough was enough. I furnished the Declaration and joined my duties without any delay or hitch.\nI soon became at home at the College. The Principal was accessible and was very supportive, the colleagues were all very pleasant, and my students liked me. The college had excellent sports facilities, and I soon became in charge of the tennis stream, as I had played a lot of tennis during my own college days. I felt quite settled and was looking forward to a very productive and satisfying career.\nThis idyllic state was shattered when one day the Science department of the College, which was located in a separate wing, organised a small party to mark the opening of a new laboratory. I noticed that one of the members of the science faculty had been in the same college where I had done my post-graduation. He was a couple of years junior to me, but what worried me was that he was the leader of a small band of moralists who led the anti-drinking movement in the city. This group was particularly vociferous against those students of the college who frequented drinking parties. It was true that I had given up drinking five years ago, but those days at the college I had no such taboo, and this man had known this and had seen me in some of these parties. Finding this man on the college faculty gave me a shock. What will happen, I thought if he denounced me to the Principal or the Governing Body? The SAV management was not going to accept even for a day somebody on their staff who had been a habitual drinker. Or, would he start blackmailing me, knowing very well that I would do anything to avoid being sacked. The unemployment level in the country was very high and I just could not afford to lose this job. Will he demand money to maintain his silence? But how could I fulfil his blackmailing demands? As a lecturer in Economics, my salary was just enough to meet the rent of my apartment and other daily needs, and I had no financial support from my parents. I lost my peace of mind, my teaching started suffering and I could see that both my students and colleagues felt that there was something drastically wrong.\nBefore the downward slide could go any further, I decided to make an assessment of what his real intention was. After all, I thought, I was a rational, educated man and should not allow an imaginary fear to ruin my life. From the Administration office, I learnt that my tormentor’s name was Sudhakar and he was teaching Physics. I decided to keep a watch on his movements and also find out who his close friends were. These steps, however, only added to my certainty that his intention was nothing short of criminal, for I found that he had no close friends; he was a real loner, as all criminally inclined people are. I also discovered that he had taken a flat just a couple of streets away from where I was living, and would necessarily be passing my house on his way to college.\nFinally, I could not stand the tension and uncertainty anymore. I decided to confront my tormentor and frankly ask him what his plan was. If he showed any intention of taking advantage of his knowledge, I would straightaway go to the Principal and submit my resignation. To face unemployment and financial hardship would, I thought, be any day better than to be ignominiously kicked out of the college on the ground of having submitted a false Declaration.\nThe next day before my classes started I walked up to the Science block and sought out Mr Sudhakar.I extended my hand, and said,\n“Mr Sudhakar, I am Mishra, from the Economics department.”\n“Pleased to meet you, Mr Mishra. But I am not Sudhakar; my name is Arun Vaidya.”\n“What did you say? You are not Sudhakar? Are you not from the S.D.College, Delhi?”\n“Sir, no way. You appear to have mistaken me for someone else. I did my entire education from the Science College, Patna.”\n“Oh, anyway, it was a pleasure to meet you. Now that we have met, we should keep in touch.”\n“Surely, sir. We will do that.”\n I came back to my part of the College with a song on my lips, and a jauntiness in my steps! What a relief it was to know that my tension of the last few days was totally baseless! When the evening came, I decided it was a time to celebrate; I opened my almirah and from behind the row of books took out the bottle of Black Label which had remained untouched for the last five years. I comforted myself with the thought the declaration I had submitted when joining my job was cent per cent right on the day it was submitted." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Love Judith\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 2754\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two people falling in love via email." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Detective Womack had a sharp eye for detail after twenty plus years in the Homicide Unit in Baltimore. Once the home of Edgar Allan Poe, the original literary creepster, his mind was on the newest homicide case as the forensic team took pictures of the murder scene.\nHe put his hand to chin that had doubled over the past decade as he lived on a carbohydrate diet of doughnuts and bread.\n“Another lonely hearts email club.” He shook his head.\n“Hard to believe who was who.” Officer Ronwick examined the desk of the victim while wearing his latex gloves. \n“Happens more than you think.” Womack mused as he watched the officer.\n“Love can be a strong motivator.” He shrugged.\n“Love? I doubt that was the true motivator.” Womack shook his head again.\nThe facts and physical evidence did not agree with any sort of quick solution. He knew solving this case, he would have to dig deeper to find what had taken place. He was in possession of the victim’s laptop where a whole email painted a sordid picture of lust and greed. Specialist Hortex had helped him access the victim’s internal records that included over two hundred emails between the victim and the main suspect of this horrific murder.\nFace it, decapitation was a very dramatic act of maliciousness.\nDoc Kearney had carefully wrapped the victim’s head in a black bag where it would be stored pending an autopsy.\nAutopsy? It is a physical fact that the traumatic removal of someone's head was very often a definite cause of death, still there may have been some extenuating circumstances that needed to come to light. What they could be, however, was secondary in this brutal assault. \nJudith, \nTroy, here. Just checking in to make sure you’re alright. In your last email, you expressed tension between you and your ex-bf. He sounds like a real jerk from what you told me. I would be happy if you sought refuge with me.\nTroy\nThe date and time was from three weeks ago. The generic headings did not indicate any sort of love connection. Yet. Once there was a spark, however, the flames were sure to follow.\nTroy,\nI am in such trouble, I do not know if I can stand it much longer. My ex has made it clear that he wants to hurt me bad. I spend most of my time looking over my shoulder. \nJudith \nJudith appeared to be a person who lived in the fear of being stalked by an abusive boyfriend. This was not anything out of the ordinary, unfortunately, since men tended to be the aggressors in these types of relationships. It also appeared that Troy had the upper hand since he seemed to follow the strict rules of grammar. Womack knew that wasn’t much of a clue, but sometimes the smallest of detail could become a major hinge pin in a case. \nEspecially a case that had grabbed the attention of the media with its headless victim. The chief made it quite clear that the sooner they solved the case the better.\nJudith,\nIt seems to me that you are not safe and it would be better if you had someone looking after you…\nWomack read the email very carefully as this seemed to be a turning point in their relationship. It was still not enough to point a finger at a suspect, but his instincts told him that it could lead him in a more definite direction. \n“Did you find anything?” Womack asked as he propped the laptop up on his lap as he sat in an easy chair.\n“Naw.” Officer Ronwick shook his head feeling that he was wasting his time poking around the desk area even though the murder happened just feet from where he was poking around. “You?”\n“Nothing solid.” Womack sighed.\n“You think something as brutal as what happened would have a bunch of clues pointing to a suspect.” He reasoned, “I think something was definitely going on between the two of them.”\n“It would seem that way.” Womack pressed another button to read an email.\nTroy,\nYou know how desperate I can become when I feel stalked. He was a brute and my mom told me as much. I shoulda listened, but she is a drunk…\nWomack began to wonder if maybe someone from the outside of their love circle may have extolled vigilante justice. The broadsword was heavy and difficult to wield. It was an awkward instrument of death at best. In order for someone to use it to behead someone, the person would have to use both hands on the hilt and then fight gravity to bring it down on the victim to sever the head from the body.\nBut that’s exactly what had happened. The murderer had done precisely that in such a manner that the neck sustained but a single stroke, separating the head from the victim’s body. \nEven medieval executioners paid to deliver a single fatal blow to the condemned, but due to a variety of reasons, would often miscalculate and have to take extra blows before completing the execution. There were some old medieval records where the condemned prisoner had to receive several blows before their head fell into the basket next to the chopping block, meaning that the poor wretch had to endure a great deal of suffering before finally being dispatched. \nWhoever murdered the victim had delivered an expert blow considering that the victim was not bent over a chopping block.\nThe next email seemed ominous as he read it. There were all sorts of red flags that began to swim in his brain.\nThe murder scene was one of the most grisly he had ever seen in his career as a homicide detective. Even when he closed his eyes, he could see the living room where the victim lay in two pieces and the sword left next to the body covered in the victim’s blood. His stomach turned when he opened the door to the small apartment. Blood soaked into the tightly weaved carpet as the computer sat on the desk waiting for a response. A response that would never come. \nTroy, \nCan we meet later? I really need to talk to you. A coffee klatch? Some place private? \nJudith\nJudith,\nLet’s meet at the Starbuck on Hoster Avenue near the pier. They have a wonderful selection.\nTroy\n“You gotta hunch about that headless case?” Piccolo, the chief, asked the next morning when Womack walked in.\n“No, I don’t have anything new.” He shook his head.\n“The mayor’s on my ass. We’ve got the media crawling all over this one.” Piccillo ran his finger around his collar and gritted his teeth. “We got all sorts of ghouls callin’ us at all hours. Cliff, you gotta start puttin’ the pieces together before the nuts start comin’ outta the cracks.” \n“Chief, I am working on this.” He shot back, “I stayed up half the night goin’ through the computer and still there is nothing in there that tells me a thing.” \n“You are the best of the best. I’ve got faith in you, Cliff.” He put his fists on his desk, “We gotta get this case shut.” \n“We will, but we have to make sure we got our man.” Womack sighed.\n“I heard the murder weapon weights a ton.” The chief sat down.\n“I could barely lift it.” Womack leaned against the door frame to Chief Piccollo’s office. \n“Who besides Arnold Swartzneiger could lift that thing?” He shook his head.\n“Beats me.” Womack shrugged before shuffling back to his office.\nFor his entire career on the force, Cliff Womack had been a cautious man. When he took the detective exam, he studied just like he did in college for his physics exam in his junior year. When he was put in charge of a case, he looked at it from every possible angle despite the political pressure that was put on him from time to time. The main suspect was not strong enough to even lift the murder weapon. \nTroy, \nMy ex is threatening me…\nJudith’s ex was Millard Hommel who was a truck driver and part time body builder at Gold’s Gym with a bunch of other muscle junkies. He would look mythological holding the broadsword above his head, but he was on a cross-country run when the murder went down. He had an iron-clad alabais. \nJudith, \nI am not much of a muscle guy like your ex, but I will protect you, I promise…\nReading this email, made Womack smile for a moment as the pint size superhero would be lucky if he could manage to lift a broom over his head. From what he had gathered, Womack found Troy Tonsick was a Marvel Comic and video game junkie known in the local gaming community as Mighty Holofenes. Since he wasn’t well versed in this subculture, Cliff Womack did not see Troy Tonsick’s handle as any kind of evidence.\nThere were some emails that Troy had attempted to delete, but even when deleted, some cyber trace remained. As it turned out, Specialist Hortex could access deleted emails from a user’s file and he showed Womack his secret.\n“You are gonna be the chief of police one day.” He marveled at Hortex’s skills and ability. Hortex just smiled and turned on his heel, leaving Womack to access some of the emails Troy Tonsick had deleted. \nJudith, \nI feel we are becoming closer. I must admit, I have never had a girlfriend before…\nTroy,\nPlease do not assume that we are forming a relationship. After dealing with Millard, I feel I need some space…\nJudith,\nPlease hear me out, since our meeting at Starbucks, I feel a closeness to you I have never felt from anyone else…\nTroy,\nYou have no idea who I really am…\nWomack frowned as he read Judith’s explanation of her twisted background, of abuse and abandonment. After his divorce a few years ago, Womack lived in his own isolation and loneliness. He could understand how Troy Tonsick was feeling. Loneliness was a weight heavier than the murder weapon and could cut you to pieces if you let it. Sometimes he heard his neighbors argue and fight through the thin wall of his apartment. The things they said to each other could really damage their self-esteem. Just hearing them made him sad and lonelier. \nTroy,\nIt would be better if you left me alone. Find someone who will treat you right. I am not that person…\nThere was a heaviness to these words, because she was trying to distance herself from him, but in his response, he did not heed her warnings. Her past records showed some mental health issues including a suicide attempt that landed her a stay in the Baltimore Psychiatric Hospital. Womack knew the big ugly brick building down around Main Street when he had to visit some of the patients involved in the cases he was working. It was well known that anyone spending time in that place was truly sick. \nUnder her name included a handful of felonies for minor incidents of pickpocketing and pandering. She had been on the streets before she turned twenty and had been to rehab a couple of times for heroin. Judith Oakford had been on the fringe of the community most of her life. No wonder she wished to keep her distance from Troy Tonsick.\nIt didn’t work out that way, however, as they were headed for a trainwreck that could not be avoided.\n“Anything new?” The chief put his head in the door of Womack’s office.\n“I have a gut feeling, but so far nothing solid to hang my hat on.” He scratched his balding head.\n“I need to talk to the press in an hour. C’mon Cliff, throw me a bone.” He begged.\n“If I am wrong, they can come at us with slander.” He ran his fingers over his head, “You remember the muck we got ourselves into over the Jennings case. We almost lost that on a technicality.”\n“I suppose.” He sighed.\n“When I have solid evidence, I will scream it out.” He shook his head.\n“What about the ex?” \n“Solid alabais.” Womack showed him the paper with Millard’s boss’ statement.\n“I wish there was something we could find that would give us what we need.” He chuckled.\n“Dear God, it is just so convoluted.” Womack threw his hands up.\n“Something will turn up.” Chief Piccollo shrugged.\nAs it turned out, that is exactly what occurred. As Womack picked through his cafeteria lunch, he heard someone speaking at a table nearby. \n“Yeah, the victim was beheaded just like that guy in the Bible, the assyrian king…” One of the uniformed guys said when talking about the case.\n“King Holofernes?” the other person said.\n“Holofernes? Where had he heard that name before?” Womack mused. \n“Got him drunk and this woman took his head off.” The uniformed guy explained to his wide-eyed partner. “He was going to destroy her town.”\n“Who?” He asked with a smile on his face.\n“I think her name was Judith from Bethulia.” He completed the story.\n“Where did you get all this from?” His partner asked.\n“From the Bible. My wife and I read it together.” He shrugged.\n“Holy mackerel.” Womack felt as though he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. \n“Coming.” Sounded a voice from inside the apartment when Detective Womack rang the doorbell. Slowly the woman opened the door, “Can I help you.” \nWomack flashed his badge, “Are you Judith Oakford?”\n“Who is asking?” She appeared to be very alarmed when she saw the badge.\n“Detective Womack from Baltimore Central.” He answered.\n“What can I help you with?” She appeared as if she wanted to run away as she half shut the door.\n“Did you know an individual named Troy Tonsick?” He put his hand on the door.\n“Not familiar.” She shook her head.\n“I have some emails that say you corresponded with him a month ago.” He squinted.\n“I correspond with a lot of people. I am in sales.” She smiled, but he could tell the smile was not true.\n“Mr. Tonsick was found murdered.” He tilted his head.\n“I’m sorry to hear that.” She did not sound genuine.\n“I have evidence that suggests you may know more than you’re telling me.” He pressed the door open. She began to panic.\n“I can assure you that I had nothing to do with whatever happened to him.” She turned her head a bit so he could not see her facial expression,\n“He was beheaded.” He said with a certain emphasis on the last word. \n“Oh my God…I don’t know anything about-” \n“Cut the crap, lady.” He sniffed. “I have evidence. I did not have the final string until this afternoon.”\n“I am going to call the police.” She was flustered. \n“I am the police.” He took a step toward her, “I am putting you under arrest for the brutal murder of Troy Tonsick.” \nIt would come out in the trial that Judith Oakford did know the Old Testament story about Judith who beheaded the Assyrian king, put his head into a sack and had one of the servants dispose of it. In a tearful confession, she explained why she had done it when the Mighty Holofernes had tried to force his way into her apartment. She was able to fend him off and then planned to kill him at his own apartment. She spoke of the horrible nightmares she had of him trying to seduce her. The emails were explicit and graphic. \n“One night when he was playing his online game, I snuck in.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks.\n“Why did you choose to murder him using such a weapon?” The prosecutor asked.\n“It seemed only fitting that I followed my namesake, Judith, to the letter.” She looked over to where Detective Womack was sitting stroking his chin, “I was perceived as weak, due to my gender, but when provoked, I can be as strong as any man. All my life I have been thought of as a physically weak woman, but when motivated bringing that sword down on him was no problem. When I brought it down, all of the rage and anger that I held in for my entire life, came roaring out of me when I made the perfect strike. I watched his head roll across his carpet with that bewildered expression frozen on his face.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Saviours\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1507\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone losing faith in an institution." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I was young when I used to believe we could change the world step by step. I was radicalized by reading because then I’d learn about things we seldom speak about at home. Well, my mom’s boyfriend did, but he was aggressive, too, so I didn’t like the things he said. It’s funny to see a grown man talking about abuse and freedom and then seeing him do the opposite of his words to his partner and the kids that lived with him, but that’s a story for another day.\nMen are weird like that. They like authority, they are socially authorized to keep it, yet they are the first to question it.\nSometimes, I think the very same people who talk about social issues do so to inadvertently gain power and legitimation for themselves. Are the ones who do bad things openly wrong? But of course! Yet, I believe there is something of deeper treason in those who claim to fight for good and freedom yet turn out to be not so different from those they criticize.\nI enrolled in studying social sciences notwithstanding the mixed opinions of my family. I landed a good job on my own merit, despite some of my classmates (now, ex-friends) telling me I only got the work because if better people had been present, I wouldn’t have a chance.\nAs you grow up and develop your own interests, you get set apart from others. It must have been around those times when my high school friends stopped including me in their outings.\nIt’s funny because according to some right-winged friends of my family, I was a lost cause: a leftist. But, according to some of the people I met in college, I was a closeted right-winged woman. You can never please people. Do you want to know where the joke is? In some aspects, my right-winged family members weren’t very different from my supposed leftist college mates: money, trips around the world, expensive clothes and recreational drugs. I’m not criticizing their lifestyles, it’s just that I don’t like to have the very same people who criticize me and the system (‘because they give too many stimulus checks’, ‘because they are too repressive’, ‘because they focus too much on minorities’) benefitting from it at the first time.\nTalk about repressed issues and white people clichés.\nAnyways, despite all the disenchantments and loneliness, you discover when you are in your mid-twenties, with a degree and a new job, I was still trying to have good expectations about what was coming.\nMy job was of a delicate nature: in a governmental institution concerned with indigenous populations. My activities included travelling with anthropologists and social workers to indigenous reservations, talking with them and seeing how we could help with their issues. The national administration wasn’t exactly generous with their money and we were terribly criticized for our performances.\nBecause we were too slow.\nBecause we could have changed some details in our plan designs to achieve different results.\nBecause we were too fast.\nBecause some calls were too late.\nBecause the bureaucracy was too complicated.\nAs I said above, you can’t please everybody.\nAnd yet, I still believe it was better than doing nothing.\nChanges weren’t immediate. People gave odd looks. Anthropologists would say I was too by-the-book. Social workers would say I was too slow handling paperwork.\nIt’s hard to get along with your coworkers when everybody has their own idea of how to save the world. And may luck save you if your outlook of things is different from them or you missed a detail!\nSometimes, the people who are supposed to be on the good side judge you worse than the ‘bad guys'.\nI’ve read too much about pressure and violence among people towards their own groups. That’s what I’ve seen working: gender violence justified by people saying ‘it was their culture’ despite women being perfectly capable of understanding and communicating what was wrong. Struggles and divided opinions among members of the same community because an Oil company was interested in working on gas extraction, promising benefits for the reserve. TV and Radio propaganda talking about ‘order’ and ‘progress’. \nColleagues giving side-looks to me and others and speaking behind our backs because they didn’t like each others’ procedures, because they felt odd because they sometimes just like to be offended at something.\nPrejudices are hard to fight. The issue with social justice culture is its purity: you are given more standards and mistakes are severely punished. Because if you are on the side of the good, then you have to do things perfectly. Pressures among colleagues are the worst. Same with the competition.\nWe were given small amounts of money by the national administration. We tried to do the best we could out of it. Yet, it was terribly hard to choose what to do.\nEducational courses? Welfare? Better roads? Water access?\nThere is something deeply upsetting about making suggestions to your colleagues and receiving derisive answers and ‘social murder' after that. Sometimes, people would give the cold shoulder for weeks.\nAt this point, I can’t help but wonder if this was about the indigenous people we tried to help or about them. There is this annoying social recognition and Romanticism in social fights. Everybody wants to be the hero. Everybody wants to be the saviour. Everybody wants to be the good guy there.\nSo much goodness covers dirtiness and cynicism.\nThe Oil company deal was a huge mess. The community was divided: some members were emigrating because it was hard to find jobs. Others chose to stay at the chance of finding jobs within the Oil company. \nThey needed archaeologists to make impact studies before the Oil company started working there. They needed lawyers and advisors to mediate. They wanted to make the choice for themselves because letting the government workers intervene would be paternalist. The idea of archaeologists working there was promising because if the scientists found something, then it would help tourism, right? There were talks about museums and the TV news. The community had their own hostel for visitors. It was another way of making money.\nReal-life is complicated. People are forced to make choices. I’d strongly advise against accepting the deal, but then, it was me forcing my opinion on others.\nSome feared pollution. Others feared the promised amount money would be too small in the long run. Some were excited at the promise of getting jobs. Others desired progress in their living places.\nThere were negotiations. Mediators. Ugly looks. Distrust. Negative feelings. Hope. Illusions. Cynicism.\nThe provincial administration was pushing for the deal. They would receive a lot of money in taxes. The native opinions were divided. My colleagues would distrust one another.\nOne day, I decided I could take it no more.\nI was bitter. I didn’t know if I could find another job.\nI was told I was a coward, I was weak, that ‘they always knew’ I’d give up. I wasn't made for the job. That I was made for better things. That I was underqualified. That the future would be good.\nNaturally, those were the opinions others had of me. When I talked about my feelings, they all interrupted me or refused to hear my words because ‘they could understand without me telling them’.\nHow can you understand something before hearing the participants?\nPrejudices and preconceptions are the worst. People believe they know me, my beliefs, my circumstances better than myself.\nIn the end, I gave up. Sometimes, the saviours are equal or worse than the groups they criticize. People are greedy, evil and without empathy. Add it to centuries of exploitation and racism in communities from other cultures: so far yet so close to us.\nSolutions are slow. They are not easy, despite what neighbours, co-workers and others like to say under their guises of superiority and sufficiency.\nSometimes, all you can do is try, try and try. And sometimes, it won’t be enough.\nWhat is an institution? Their people, their intentions and aims and history. But sometimes, enough is enough.\nBecause there is corruption and internalized racist ideas inside the saviour conceptions. I don’t like it when judgemental people end up being not so different from those who cause harm in the first place.\nSometimes, ‘good intentions' are just not enough. ‘Good intentions’ hide things, too.\nThere is no objectivity in social sciences: we are ideologically charged, too. Gender violence. Violent childhoods. Poverty and discrimination. I can't forget those who were ignored or dismissed in their calls for help. People can feel bad and sad and isolated within their own original groups, too.\nI was young when I used to believe we could change the world step by step. I still believe it, too. It’s just that I don’t believe anymore in the institutions that are supposed to do it. We can’t fully change them fast enough to see the desired results. And often, those desired results speak more about ourselves than the people we are trying to help." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: PRAYER -- OM SHANTI\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1541\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character doing something they’ve done hundreds of times — only this time, it’s taken on a new meaning." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Lalita was reciting her daily prayers. As it was nearing its ending, she concluded by reciting the Shanti Mantra, --- Let all people be in happiness, --- let all people lead a healthy life, --- let all people see the noble things only, --- Let all people experience that which is good for all, --- let no one suffer, --- Let peace prevail everywhere. Om Shanti Om Shanti Om Shanti. Then she prostrated on bare floor and showered a bunch of flowers on her favourite God Ganesha. She folded her hands and with closed eyes meditated for a few seconds. Then she came back to her practical world of daily routines. Her son Prakash was just waiting to bounce on her. “Amma, I am deadly tired of you. What do you gain by wasting your time here in the name of worshipping? I have been waiting for breakfast. It is not yet ready. Don’t you understand that time is very precious for all of us? Particularly morning time? A little delay at the start of the day is leading to a long-stretched delay throughout the day, in all our endeavours. You simply forgot what you have taught us in our childhood. Don’t you know Work is Worship? You never practice what you preach. You keep reciting Peace-Peace-Peace to all, but you bring in irritation and anger in others. Come Friday! Your prayer session gets longer and longer and very elaborate. Oh you -- Gods and Goddesses! Will you not open her eyes?” He was shouting at her Ganesha with folded hands.\nLalita was not disturbed by Prakash’s long sermons nor by his shouting. Such occasion was not a first- time event. Neither for him to shout nor for her to continue her prayers. She laid plates on the table for all and served the breakfast for Prakash. She told him softly, “Why do you get wild on me? I had neither left my duty halfway nor asked you to come and help me out. I had already finished attending to your needs and then only I went and sat for my pooja. You could have just peeped into the kitchen and checked if breakfast was ready. If only you had helped yourself, all these heart-burning and irritation could be avoided. Do you know one thing? This negative energy like unwanted anger, irritation, harsh words --- yield nothing to you nor to me. Now you are young. You may be thinking your angry-young-man image is adding something to your personality. But actually, it is not so. In the long run, it will have a bad impact on your health. Better you change your temperament right now. It is my simple advice that in your own interest, you somehow try to find time for a few minutes and offer small prayers. Try meditation for a few minutes, if not daily at least twice or thrice a week. When I say this, you tend to ignore, but when a doctor ….” Lalita was still lecturing on…\nBut Prakash cut it. He neither had patience nor time. He was already getting late. He had to catch up with other odds and then leave for collage. He was boiling inside with hot temper. It was almost a daily routine. His mother always going her way on her prayers and he thrashing it as waste of time. Today she went a step ahead and started advising him to adopt her methods and offer prayers. He stomped his feet and slammed.\nMonths and years rolled on and time few off like a feather. Prakash finished his studies and got employed. He was now in USA. Away from homeland and homefolks.\nPrakash couched in the garden chair at the patio, was gazing at the children busily splashing water on each other in the mini swimming pool. What a cheerful easy-go-lucky life for them! Of course, a few ladies were there at a distance and overseeing them. All of them enjoyed their fun-time. As though, they were eagerly waiting for the week-end to turn up. A faint thought of envy overlapped him. For him, life was different. He was longing for a respite from the monotonous grinding of strenuous pressure from office work. Deadline for completion of target was fast approaching. His boss was bound to question him. He being European, did not consider Indians as worthy enough of being taken as bright and clever. He lost no chance of demeaning them. A humiliating affair for him almost on all days. The very charm of working in a multi-national-company with a handsome salary was lost by his boss’ bad behaviour.\nOverwhelmed by his self-pity and remorse, a sense of depression engulfed him. Under such moments of melancholy, he used to feel home-sick. He missed his mother very much. The very thought of his mother, brought a line of smile and a ray of brightness. Then he remembered the collection of songs he had recorded on a pen-drive and brought with him to America. Though he brought it with great enthusiasm, he had not played it for once also. Today he had a strong urge to listen to her voice. He went inside and took out his laptop and the pen-drive. Since most of renderings were devotional songs, he thought it better to have bath and sit with strict discipline and follow decorum. For a second, he was wondering how he happened to nurture such an obedience for his mother. He who had always been after her to wash off her silly behaviour of offering prayers, was today finding himself in her footsteps. The distance, --- the physical distance of being cut off from her, had brought him closer to her on mental plane. He did all those things which would please her. Surprisingly, he found it soothing and comforting. He played the song. He patiently listened. He closed the eyes and with folded hands as he prayed. He joined her and whispered the Shanti mantra along with her in the same tone and same pace. Om Shanti, Om Shanti, Om Shanti. It was an unique experience to him.\nIf only somebody told him some years before that he would be like this, he would have dismissed it as sheer non sense. But today he was different. The pen-drive continued to play. His mother was narrating about the essence of prayers. “Praying for oneself is a mere selfish task. Sometimes it may seem to be a barter --- like telling God, I do this and you do that for me. Prayer is meaningful only when offered selflessly and for the benefit of all around us. We should pray for all our kith and kin. For example, see this Shanti Mantra. ‘Let all be happy, let all be healthy, let all see and spread positivity, let nobody see any evil and let no one suffer. Let peace prevail for all’. It is not confined to me or you or just our family. It encompasses all around us. In the happiness of people around us we derive ours. See how thoughtfully our ancestors have devised this mantra and in a very few words they conveyed a very strong message. In fact, they have elevated us to be a better soul.”\nPrakash who was drifted away into a different world, came to his senses when his mobile phone rang. His very boss was online. Strangely the very act of his boss calling him did not irritate him. Probably the soothing effect of prayers he completed just now. The boss asked him to come over. Matter a bit urgent. Prakash took the laptop and dashed. The pen-drive hooked to it, did not matter. When he met his boss, he came to know that it was not for any office work. Something very different. Rather personal. His boss had been to his doctor who after thorough check-up found him to be on high blood-pressure. Apart from the course of medicines, doctor prescribed something more. He advised him to pursue yoga and meditation. Then the boss immediately remembered Prakash. Being Indian, he must be adept with these typical Indian methods.\nFor the first time, Prakash heard his boss speaking something pleasing. Indians and adept at something! Great! Prakash smiled and instantly logged on his laptop and played the prayer songs rendered by his mother. He too hummed along with her. His boss said he was aware of Gayatri Mantra but not Shanti Mantra. He asked for the meaning of those hymns. Prakash was ready with translation. “Let all people be in happiness, --- let all people lead a healthy life, --- let all people see the noble things only, --- Let all people experience that which is good for all, --- let no one suffer, --- Let peace prevail everywhere. Om Shanti Om Shanti Om Shanti.”\nThough he had heard and said it hundreds of times before, this was the first time he understood the real meaning of Prayers, particularly Shanti Mantra. He thanked his mother wholeheartedly. “Amma, you are great. Prayers are meaningful when uttered and offered with sincere feelings for the benefit of others. You preached peace and it prevails. Now I have to practice it.”\nLet Peace Prevail. Om Shanti. Om Shanti. Om Shanti." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: This Time Is Different\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1320\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character doing something they’ve done hundreds of times — only this time, it’s taken on a new meaning." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "This time is different.\nThe hundreds of times I had gone with Aiyana it had been considered a result of our misbehavings.\nA punishment.\nBut this time is different.\nIt’s an adventure.\nIt’s a new perspective.\nIt’s a chance to save ourselves from a terrible fate. \n*****\nI follow Aiyana’s dark, chocolate-brown locks that shimmer from the water’s reflection. Her animal pelt dress glows in the dim moonlight like a lantern, trailing farther and farther away from me. \n“Wait up, Aiyana!” I call, as I pause to gulp a breath of air. She slows down and strides toward me. I can see pools of glistening water filling up her emerald green eyes, which reflect all the fear she’s been holding back. \n“We can’t wait, Chenoa! I know we’ve always been scared of the woods, but this time is different! We have to save our families from dying!” She says, voice trembling. Even scared, her voice sounds like the blooming of blossoms. \n“I know!” I yell, channeling my fear into anger. “Don’t you think I know that? But running aimlessly isn’t going to help us! It’s just going to get us lost! We need to have a plan!” \nIt all started a couple weeks ago, when the river that we drink and hunt from started losing water. None of us knew what to do, so we ignored it and carried on with our lives. The water lessened and lessened, and yesterday was the final straw. The huge, normally gushing river of water had decreased into a thin, pencil-like stream of liquid. We needed to find the source of our problem, and get rid of it. \nI soften my voice, realizing that fighting isn’t going to help anyone. “Do you have any ideas?” I ask gently. \nAiyana nods her head towards the river. “I think we should follow the river upstream and find what’s causing the river to stop flowing.”\n“Good plan,” I reply as a soft breeze ruffles my locks of wavy, copper hair over my honey tanned shoulders. “C’mon,” I say, as I lead Aiyana upstream. \nAs Aiyana and I trek through the woods, I notice many differences from all the other times we’ve been here. The shadows of trees caused by the moonlight are peaceful, almost like a version of the tree sleeping. They aren’t twisted shadows that resemble demons from the depths of the Earth. The soft humming of the cicadas is beautiful compared to howls of animals with sharp teeth and claws I swore I heard every time we’ve been here. As I gaze into the dehydrated river, I notice the silver scales of tiny fish reflecting in the moonlight, nothing like the sharks that the elders told us about. The more we head upstream, the more I realize. \nMy mind’s imagination is wild, and it twists everything around. And the obvious truth.\nThis time is different. \nAfter an hour of hiking, I hear a low growl. \n“Did you hear that?” I whisper. Aiyana nods her head, and we pause to look around. \nFinally I notice a pair of bright yellow eyes, shining like a beacon in the night. The eyes vanish and I hear the sounds of leaves being crunched on. The leaves rustle around us and I catch glimpses of sharp teeth reflecting in the moonlight. It’s a couple of minutes before the first snow-white wolf prowls towards us. \nI cautiously back away from the wolf, grasping Aiyana’s hand. The wolf continues to pad towards us, and I notice 2 more wolves behind the white one, obviously the alpha. Then 3 more follow, then 4, then 5, until we’re surrounded by 15 wolves, all baring their teeth at us. Some of the wolves are ash gray, speckled with black. Others pitch black with spots of white, resembling the night sky. \nI know I shouldn’t be thinking this, but why are they not attacking?\nAiyana leans over to my ear, and repeats my question out loud.\n“Why are they not attacking us?”\nAiyana and I continue backing until we are cornered up against a tree. \nThe alpha prowls up to us, growling. Then, points his head to the moon and releases a wounded cry. \nAnd then I notice, why doesn’t the pack have any pups?\nThe snow-white wolf meets my eyes, and nods his head, almost like it’s telling us to follow it.\nSo I do. \nI run with the wolves, and Aiyana starts to follow, not doubting my actions. \nThe wolves run upstream for a while, before they pause and turn to face us. And finally I see a couple of pups all dangling from a high branch of a tree. ‘\n“Aiyana,” I say, “can you stand below the branch and catch pups in case they fall?”\n“Sure, Chenoa,” she replies. \nShe paces to a spot underneath the high branch and I start shimmying up the tree. I gently grasp a pup, and climb down with it and bring it to the pack. I do this a couple of times, but the last attempt doesn’t go so well. As I’m ready to grab the last pup, it’s paws lose balance and it tumbles down the tree.\n“No!” I shriek, expecting the worst. But Aiyana comes to the rescue. She jumps and catches the pup, landing like a superhero. \nI exhale slowly as I make my way down the tree. I look around and notice the wolves are gone.\n“Where did the wolves go?” I ask. Aiyana half-heartedly shrugs and walks up to me.\n“C’mon, let’s go,” she says. \nI walk, side by side with Aiyana, exhausted. When I finally walk into a tree, Aiyana and I agree to take a break and rest for the rest of the night. \nI wake up to the warm, golden rays of the sun which blanket my face. I look around and see Aiyana, tiny freckles dusting her nose and high cheekbones. I lean over, and gently shake her awake. In an instant, her emerald green eyes pierce into my golden honey ones. \n“Chenoa, we have to hurry!” She yelps when she sees the sun in the sky. She jumps to her feet and starts walking towards the river. \nMy heart drops at the sight of a thin line of mud which used to be a river filled with life. \nI walk up to Aiyana and we take off, sprinting upstream, the wind at our backs. After a couple miles of sprinting, we decided to pause for a while. \n“How much longer do you think it will take?” Aiyana pants, her cheeks flushed red from the wind. \n“Not long!” I exclaim, despite the fact we’re exhausted. I enthusiastically point at a humongous birch, splayed across the river, droplets of water spraying everything around it. \nWe walk up to the birch and examine it for a while. \n“How are we supposed to move this?” Aiyana complains. \nJust as she asks this question, the wolves appear and Aiyana backs away.\nBut I don’t.\nI recognize these wolves, and they recognize me. \nThey recognize I need help.\nKarma is wonderful.\nThe alpha beckons the other wolves to follow as he pads past us to the birch. The wolves line up against the tree and they start to push. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the birch starts to move. I walk over, and Aiyana follows and we help. All of us strain our muscles, pushing as hard as we can and finally the birch budges and moves out of place. We watch as the birch explodes into tiny smithereens, and as the river seems to escape its prison.\nThen, we run.\nAiyana, the wolves and I run with the river as it starts its flow downstream again. \nAnd I learn, there’s many different ways to be in a situation. \nAfter all, the hundreds of times Aiyana and I have been out in the woods, it hasn’t been like this. \nThis time is different." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Shackled\n\nGenre: indigenous\n\nWord Count: 1386\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character doing something they’ve done hundreds of times — only this time, it’s taken on a new meaning." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Mother had dragged me to many weddings in my lifetime. Sometimes it was a friend of hers. Sometimes it was a relative of fathers. Sometimes it was a friend of a cousin of a friend’s friend.\n\nToday was no different. I still had to sacrifice my Saturday sleep. I still had to empty my wallet for clothes and gifts. I still had to squeeze into an Ankara dress worth two months of salary. But this time, it was my sister dragging me to the wedding.\n\nWe arrived three hours early to help the bride prepare. No, let me rephrase that. My little sister, Ngozi, hauled my half-sleeping form into the backseat of a taxi. Then, after an hour of weaving through traffic, hollering at other taxi drivers and stopping for fuel, our dilapidated ride arrived at the bride’s house.\n\nThe entire compound was alive with busy young women. Even the bride was running helter-skelter, shouting demands into her cell phone while watching over the cooking. She reminded me of Mother; running round the house every morning in a loose blouse and wrapper, tackling back-breaking chores while the rest of the family slept. No doubt the groom was doing just that; sleeping, while his beloved shouldered all the responsibilities alone.\n\nFour hours later, the cooking was done. I heard —as I lifted the dishware into the trunk of a black jeep decorated with red ribbons— the bride yell at a bridesmaid over the phone to hurry. She had left for the venue two hours ago to manage things on that end. I didn’t understand her urgency. It was common knowledge that guests typically arrived two hours late.\n\n“No! Set it up there, not here! Somebody decorate the high table! Where is the DJ?” We arrived at the venue just in time to find the bride —Temilola or Damilola, or something like that— screaming at the people running from one canopy to another. She welcomed us with a tired smile, her round face glistening with sweat in the afternoon sun. Then, after we unloaded the jeep, she hurried into it and drove off to the makeup studio with her maid of honour.\n\nWe immediately started placing the coolers of food on the blanketed tables in front of the canopies. The early birds had arrived; just a handful of people scattered under the white and yellow canopies.\n\n“Mma!” I heard a familiar voice call my nickname. Soon after, I was trapped in the suffocating embrace of Father’s mother.\n\n“Good…afternoon…ma,” it was a miracle that I even managed to get those words out as I breathed in herbs instead of oxygen.\n\n“How are you? I hope you're studying hard at college. And Ngozi? Where is she?” Grandmother finally released me from the hug. She was dressed in a yellow blouse and red wrapper. Her short hair was wrapped in a matching red hair tie, or gele, as it is natively called. There was another elderly woman beside her, dressed in the same attire. But, unlike Grandmother, this woman was thin. So thin, in fact, that she looked like she might break if I so much as shook her hand.\n\n“I’m fine. Ngozi is over there,” I pointed to another canopy in the open field.\n\n“Enjoy this wedding oh! The next one will be yours,” Grandmother’s friend joked. In the past, my response to such statements had been to nod and smile politely. But now, the mere thought of it made me shudder.\n\n“I’m glad to see that you aren’t letting your mother’s sins affect you,” Grandmother put a chubby hand on my shoulder. I resisted the urge to shake it off.\n\n“Oh, so she’s that Adamma?” her friend asked. Grandmother nodded, and the fragile woman looked at me with pity in her eyes. My hands curled into fists at my sides, and I turned to leave. I didn’t need to hear another lecture about my mother’s ‘wickedness’.\n\n“Where are you going?” Grandmother stopped me in my tracks, “Come and greet the rest of the family. NGOZI!”\n\nAnd just like that, Ngozi and I were dragged into the tradition of mini-family reunions. As usual, we spent several minutes greeting men and women who we hadn’t seen in years, and they marvelled at how much we’d grown. This time, however, there was a fresh face in the mix; a cheerful baby boy. Father’s son, not Mother’s.\n\nSoon enough, the groom, his family, and the other guests arrived. The ceremony began with an opening prayer. I didn’t bother listening though. It was always the same; committing the day into God’s hands, thanking Him for the couple, wishing them a long and happy married life…\n\nLong and happy. I snorted, and Ngozi gave me a curious look. “Sorry,” I whispered. There was no use explaining. She wouldn’t understand; no one would.\n\nAfter the exhaustingly long prayer, it was time for the bridal train. Everyone cheered as the bride danced into the field, her anklets jingling with each step she took. Her caramel skin —and her bright red wrapper— shimmered in the afternoon sun. But most impressive of all was the smile that lit up her face; never wavering.\n\nThe bachelors sitting behind me, however, seemed to be more interested in the bridesmaids swaying behind her. They laughed and whistled as they took their picks. When I was 9, at the wedding of an uncle I’d never met before, I had asked Mother why the bachelors always did this. She had smiled and said, “Because they are men, and men will be men.”\n\n“Men will be men,” I muttered through gritted teeth, digging my nails into my palms, “and women will be trophies.”\n\n“What did you say?” Ngozi turned to me again.\n\n“Nothing.” I tried to return my focus to the bridal train, but they were gone. I had missed the entire performance.\n\nI had always failed to notice the important things. I hadn’t noticed the bruises on Mother’s skin, or the exhaustion in her eyes. I hadn’t even noticed the pregnancy tests filling the trash cans at home.\n\nThe bridal train returned a few moments later for the most important part of the wedding; Igba Nkwu, the wine carrying.\n\nThe bride was given a glass of palm wine. The groom sat among the other young men. They were all dressed in blood red native attire.\n\nThe bride made a show of looking for her groom in the crowd, but the smile they shared before she began her “search” gave her away. Soon enough, he’ll be sharing that smile with someone else, laughing behind her back as she fell for all his tricks.\n\nThe bride tried, and failed, to wipe the smile off her face as she weaved through the red sea of men. She knelt before her groom, presenting the palm wine. The crowd cheered. He took a sip, then she. Then he took her hand, and helped her up. They danced hand in hand, faces glowing with smiles as they approached the high table.\n\nThey knelt before the bride’s father. He gave them his blessings and, after the vows were taken, downed the glass of palm wine. He then rolled up a fresh N1,000 note, and put it in the empty glass.\n\nThe deed was done. They were married.\n\nThe rest of the ceremony flew by. The couple left to change their clothes. Food was served, and a comedian kept the guests entertained.\n\n“Look at this!” a man standing a few rows ahead of me shouted at his wife —it was easy to identify couples at weddings, they always wore matching clothes. He pointed at the little girl holding his hand, her pink dress stained with mud. “Look at what your daughter has done!”\n\nYour daughter, because children only belonged to the father when they were good. Otherwise it’s the mother’s child; her mistake.\n\nThe wife bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”\n\n“I’m sorry” Mother’s last words. The only words on her suicide note.\n\nThe newlyweds returned to receive gifts and well-wishes, after which the ceremony would end. The gifts were mostly household objects and money. I personally had nothing to give, but it felt wrong to leave the innocent woman without a warning.\n\n“I pray you have a son very soon,” I said. Because if you don’t, he’ll find someone else who will." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: SETI\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1774\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone finally gaining access into their family’s very old computer." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "So sad. Mom has passed away. Cancer. I have to empty out the house so I can sell it. I hate going through so many memories, but I will have to. I’m going to have an estate sale, so I must prepare for it. The saddest part is that in 1995, Dad just up and disappeared. Mom came home from shopping, and he was gone. No note. No sign of being unhappy. He just left, and we never heard from him again. \nFor the rest of her life my mother never got over that loss. She had hoped the police would solve the problem and bring father home. When that failed, she hired a private detective. He worked the case for a whole year before apologizing and giving up. She would sometimes turn to me and say, “There is no real reason for your father to leave me. We were happy and very much in love. So, whatever happened to him must have been out of his control. You’ll see, someday we'll learn the truth.” And that’s why I say it’s so sad. She died without learning that truth, that oh-so-important truth.\nI may never learn the truth either. I don’t even care anymore. I’ll roll up my sleeves and get started. My girlfriend, Allison, is here to help, and I’m sure it will be easier with her here. Also, the people who will run the sale are here, and they are pricing the few items I’ve already stacked in the middle of the dining room.\nAllison calls me to join her outside at the picnic table. “Look what I found in the bottom half of the china cabinet! It’s a photo album of when you were a kid!” I stroll over and sit down beside her. “I hope there aren’t any pictures of me as a baby naked on a bearskin rug.” I chuckle. Allison flips a page. “Ho, look! Here’s a picture of you when you were born! Look at all that hair. It’s even parted to the side! Your parents look so proud.”\n“Yeah, we were a pretty happy family until I was twelve. That’s when my father left us. No explanation. He just up and vanished from the face of the earth, and I never saw him again.”\nAllison knits her eyebrows together. “Oh wow, that must have been quite a shock for your mother. Did she remarry?” “No,” I sigh. “In Mom’s eyes, they never divorced, and she didn’t know if he had died, so they were still married as far as she was concerned. Now she’s gone, and I’m done waiting. Until I saw that picture, I forgot what he looked like.” \nAllison snuggles closer and kisses me on the cheek. “ Well, even if your mom brought you up alone, she did a great job! You’re the most wonderful, kind, sweetest man I’ve ever met.” I kiss her back. \n“Yeah, what you’re really thinking is how such a pretty baby grew up to be such an ugly old man!” She punches my arm. “Oh, you! And what’s with the old? You’re only thirty-four!” A voice from the back door calls my name. “Mr. Douglas? Is there anything in the attic you’d like to bring down for the estate sale?” “Oh, sure. We’ll be right there.”\n …\nAllison tells me she has to run an errand but will be back Saturday for the sale. The attic is your typical attic, with plywood floor open beams and a sixty-watt bulb hanging down. And, of course, dusty as hell! It is interesting, though. There is stuff up here I haven’t seen for years. Some of it will end up in the Goodwill bin, like old, outdated clothes and shoes. I see a stand-up lamp and the old twenty-four-inch console TV. How the hell did Mom get that up here? I’ll never know. There are a ton of books, baby furniture, and old toys. I find things every family has, like a game of Monopoly, Clue, and even an Ouija board! I chuckle out loud when I see the game “The Amazing Kreskin.” Poor Mom, I remember her using a metal fob on a chain that was supposed to locate lost items and people. She waved that thing over a map of the United States but it never pointed to a single place. \nI must say the estate salespeople work diligently to empty the attic. “Mr. Douglas? Are you going to sell this old computer?” I turn to see my father’s old Gateway. Mom must have stored it here for when he would come back. Then I have a bright idea! What if there is something on it that might show what happened to Dad?\n“No. No, I will take that home, just put it in the box there.\" I can’t believe Mom saved the box. It is spotted like a Holstein cow. I never understood that.\n …\nThe week after the sale, I set up the Gateway and hook it to my cable and router. I push the on button and see and hear the old familiar opening screen to Windows 95. What a hoot! The next thing it does is to ask for the password. “Damn!” I had brought home a filing cabinet full of computer. “Maybe I can find the password in there,” I think. While rummaging through the bits and pieces of paper, I come across a notebook entitled “SETI.” I put it to one side to look at later. I even try it as the password, but it doesn’t work. I’m so frustrated that I’m star to talk to myself. “Most people use their pet’s name as a password, but we didn’t have a pet.” I rock back and forth in my squeaky computer chair.\nSuddenly, I bolt straight up and snap my fingers. “Wait a minute. Dad once told me about a dog he had as a kid! What was its name? Butch? Buddy? Buster? Yeah, that was it, Buster!” I sit back down and furiously type in Buster. The screen goes black and comes back to the home page. It’s light blue with a bunch of file icons running down the left-hand side of the monitor. Right away, I notice one is labeled SETI. “SETI again? What the hell is this SETI shit?” I open the search on my iPhone and typed SETI. The search takes me to Wikipedia: >David Gedye conceived SETI (search for extraterrestrial intelligence) along with Craig Kasnoff. It was released as a download called SETI@home. This program uses idle computer power to search for radio sources over 67% of the observable sky.< “I’ll be damned,” I whisper. Out of curiosity, I click the icon. A swirling and rotating graft appears. It displays information such as data analysis, data info, user info, a timeline, and a power graft, all against a background of a vast starfield. Leaning back in my computer chair, I raise my eyebrows as I watch the figures change and dance across the screen. Dad’s SETI notebook catches my eye, and I decide to see if any hints would explain his disappearance. \nIt begins: “April 5th, 1995. I downloaded a new program today called SETI@home. It will make me part of a vast network of home computers searching for alien life! Sounds exciting.”\n“April 17th It has been a while, and to tell the truth, I find it boring. It’s just a bunch of numbers that don’t seem very impressive. I’ll give it a little bit longer.”\n“May 6th. I received a message today on SETI! It’s not the type of signal the scientists said they were looking for, but a message addressed to ME! It reads, >Greetings Mr. Douglas. We have received your signal. Will make adjustments. Stand by.<\nI set down the journal and take a sip of coffee. \"What the heck is Dad talking about? I pickup the journal and continue to read.\n“Oh, my god! I don’t know if this is a joke or what! It’s kind of scary, though. I just might delete the program, but I’ll think about it first. Oh, wait! Here comes another message! \n>Mr. Douglas. We have finished our adjustments and are ready to beam you over< \nBeam me over?! No wait! I’m going to try to message them back. I am typing as fast as I can! Who are you? How did you discover my signal? What do you want with me? The monitor has gone fuzzy and full of snow. An image is taking place. Oh my god! It is hideous! Its head is shaped like an upside-down teardrop. Its skin is white with blueish-purple splotches. It is hairless and has eyes shaped like those of a cat. I assume those two holes are nostrils, and there are thin lips with two pointed teeth in the center. I can hear his thoughts clearly in my head. >We are humanoids like you, Mr. Douglas. We have been transmitting radio waves for some time to see if other humanoids live in the galaxies. We discovered your signal and followed it back to its origin, which is you. We want to learn about your species, how you reproduce, what type of government you live under, and if you have spiritual beliefs. These things and many more. That’s why we must transport you to where we are so we can converse and learn. Please make yourself ready<\nI push the off button. Nothing is happening.\n>You can not turn off your device, Mr. Douglas. We are in control.< \nThe room is filled with a bright light!\nThat’s the last entry in the notebook. I am trembling from head to toe. I begin crying genuine tears of sadness for my poor father. How terribly frightened he must have been. Mom was right. He didn’t desert us. He was taken from us. Taken to God knows where.\nThe monitor screen changes as I wipe away the tears with the cuffs of my sleeves. Words appear in the center, “Greetings, Mr. Douglas.” I push away from the computer so hard that I knock myself over. My eyes dart wildly about the room until I see my baseball bat behind the door. I grab it, and smash the monitor to piecess and pull the plug on the computer.\nSitting among the shattered pieces on the floor, I wonder if I should send my father’s journal to the SETI headquarters at the University of California in Berkeley. I fear that when the program ended in 2020, the journal will be considered a hoax. But still, I'm willing to take the chance because They are out there!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Such Sights\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1045\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character finding a retro piece of tech they don’t recognize." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The featureless plains of his eternal prison stretched out in all directions.\n\nNirnasha screamed. He had always been screaming; time meant nothing inside the configuration. The professor had locked him in here a second ago. The professor had locked him in here an eternity ago. Endless nothingness, forever. Eternity was more prolonged than you’d think.\n\nThere was no sky, only the colourless earth as smooth as a stone. It had no texture; it had no temperature. The ground faded into the not-sky in the distance, giving the impression that all was one. The configuration stole all tones and hues – it was beyond even black, white, and grey. All was perpetual hissing static.\n\nThe demon dropped to his knees and felt nothing. He clawed at his head and felt nothing. He’d always been on his knees, clawing at his head. He always would be. His shrieks bounced back and forth across the landscape before he’d even spoken. ‘LET ME OUT!’\n\nPurple lightning rippled on the horizon. The perfume of sulfur and ozone plumed into the self-contained atmosphere. The earth shifted beneath Nirnasha’s feet. Thunder ripped through the fabric of the universe. The world began to tilt, first one way and then the other.\n\nHis chest’s exposed organ – wrapped in chains and barbed wire – pulsed. Thump-thump. Nirnasha knew what this meant. Someone was attempting to open the configuration. How long had it been? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the person succeeded. Only the brightest humans could crack the code and free him from this box.\n\nThe lightning intensified. The odour ripened, and enormous cracks in the ground split and zigzagged this way and that. The lightning set off a chain of electrical detonations. Soon, the entire not-sky was popping and booming, racing towards Nirnasha.\n\nHe was getting out. And the poor fool who’d opened his cell had no idea what lay in store for him. Only the brightest had cracked the code; it took even more brilliant minds to trap him inside again. He threw his head back and cackled laughter as the vortex sucked him in. He had always been laughing. ‘YES! YES!’\n\nThe world flipped upside down and onto its head. The ground became the not-sky. That, too, splintered and shattered. Nirnasha fell into the abyss. The dimness of the world decreased, giving way to blinding white light. Invisible hands snatched him from his prison, grabbing and ripping, tearing and splitting. And then: silence. Stillness. Sunlight. Motes of dust drifting. Wooden floor. Dirty window. And a human presence.\n\nNirnasha breathed in the air. He relished the taste – before he stained it with the coppery screams of blood. He drew himself up to full height and opened his bloodshot eyes. Crimson tears spilt down his ruined cheeks. He addressed the person in the room. ‘WE HAVE SUCH SIGHTS TO SH—’\n\nA goldfish-eyed young boy stared up at him. He blinked first, one eye and then the other. His mouth hung open, and drool beaded on his lower lip. A second ticked by between the demon and the child. And then the boy’s face broke out into a grin, and he clapped his hands like a seal. He laughed, and spittle flew from his mouth. ‘A genie!’\n\nNirnasha frowned. He looked down at his body, adorned with spikes rusted with a millennia’s coagulated blood. Scars criss-crossed his pale flesh, purple and blue and pink. Chains dangled and rattled. Clasps enclosed his wrists and ankles. Although it had been a long time since he’d seen his reflection, he knew his mangled face broke the human brain. Nothing suggested he was anything other than what he was: a demon. Nirnasha must be dealing with a very dense human specimen. ‘WHAT IS YOUR NAME, BOY?’\n\nThe child perked up at the asking of such a simple question. His eyes lit up. ‘Kennard! Kennard Cheshiree, sir. What’s your name? Boy, a real genie! Wait ‘til the fellas at school hear about this. They’ll stop beating on me! Do I get three wishes? Are you a real genie? What’s it like in a bottle? Can you breathe? Is it—’\n\n‘I AM NIRNASHA. YOU ARE THE ONE WHO RELEASED ME?’\n\nKennard gestured to the configuration’s parts scattered across the dusty floor. The bits of the box lay – in thirteen sections – around him. ‘Boy, it’s sure nice to meetcha, Narnia! I found your funky genie lamp in my grandpa’s attic.’ He frowned and put a finger in his mouth. ‘Though, I guess it’s not his anymore since he went and died. Can you make me super strong? Boy, I’d sure like to give those big fellas in the year above me a taste of their own medicine. How’d you become a genie? What’s your name?’\n\nNirnasha raised an eyebrow. The configuration had kept him contained for centuries since the professor recaptured him. Many had attempted to open the box. All – to Nirnasha’s frustration – had failed. But here came this child who had stumbled across something beyond his comprehension. Fortunate for the boy that his brain operated at such a level, brighter minds had gone mad looking at the demon. And the boy succeeded where others had not. ‘YOU SOLVED THE CONFIGURATION.’\n\nKennard grinned – his front two teeth wide enough to slot a penny through. His bowl-cut haircut did little to hide his pumpkin-shaped head. ‘So, do I get them three wishes, then, huh, mister, huh?’\n\nNirnasha sighed. His usual approach was to torture the poor sap into madness – an eternity of agony. With the hapless fool disposed of, he would be free to roam this realm and conduct his purification. He’d done so a few times across time and space, between periodic containments in the box. But this time was different; the opener was a child. Nirnasha was a demon, but he wasn’t a monster. There was another way to prevent recapture within the configuration. And that route involved playing genie for a child whose number of teeth was higher than his IQ. There was also something endearing about the child. Something about him made Nirnasha want to assist him. With his help, the fellow schoolchildren would rue the day they ever hurt Kennard.\n\n‘Yeah, sure, what do you want, kid?’" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dough-ty Walker\n\nGenre: horror\n\nWord Count: 1204\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who isn’t nostalgic about their past at all, and show readers why." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was a dreary midnight and a ravenous snowstorm wailed mournfully outside. Dougherty Walker sat in his old armchair by a lit fire as he read a curious, ancient book from his weathered library, deep and focused. Though it was an interesting book in its own right, Dougherty had started to nod off and fall into a late nap for the night. As his head slowly drooped down, he heard what sounded like a faint, sing-song voice coming from the other side of the chamber door in its lockdown. He anxiously turned his head to look at his dog Dingo who was lying on the floor; Dingo seemed to hear it too, as he had also perked his head up and was curiously looking at the door.\n “It’s only the wind,” Dougherty Walker muttered, “I left a window open in the hallway, and now the wind is blowing in at my chamber door; nothing more to it.”\n He let out a tired sigh, stood up from his chair, and stared into the fireplace before him, watching the illuminating dance stretch upon his floor as he ran fingers through his hair. He knew why the howl of that wind had disturbed him so, the way it had sounded so much like someone singing low. He would recall an austere December, almost a decade ago now, he would remember. The reason why he only wishes for the next morning as he escaped the past in his considerable assortment of books – though he tends to avoid any book that was written in a way meant to inspire nostalgia in their nooks. He did not know of nostalgia; the only feelings he invokes when thinking of the past are that of sorrow and mental myalgia.\n When he was a younger man in this house he now depends, Dougherty Walker once lived in this house with Molly Lynche, his girlfriend. During that bleak December all that time ago, there was a harsh and frigid winter storm not unlike this one, though. The two had been snowed in, for an amount of time which Dougherty still could not recall how long it had been. As the insufferable seconds, minutes, hours, and days drawled on, Doughtery and Molly experienced the worst case of cabin fever as they learned to despise each other’s hon. One mournful evening of that wretched winter Dougherty felt he could not take her presence any longer and, in a fit of blind animosity, he took a candle stick from a small table, this long hateful finger, and struck Molly over the head with it. She slumped to the floor and blood quickly pooled around her head, like a crimson viscous halo, oozing into a watery bed. Fearful of what repercussions he would face, even in this fit of passion, he took Molly’s limp body to the bathroom and slumped her lifeless self into the bathtub in a most macabre fashion.\n From the closet by the front door, he brought a small scythe, and Dougherty’s work was quick and lithe. Ignoring how he already missed her when Molly was like a precious cub, he sawed her apart and let all the blood drain down the tub. He would let the drained parts burn in the fireplace and would plan to call the police later, saying Molly went out into the storm and never came back at her hurried pace.\n Dougherty was never caught for his crime, and though the guilt weighed heavier on him with each passing year, he never dreamed of turning himself in – there would never come that time.\n As Dougherty quietly lamented, muttering the name of his lost love, he heard that sing-song voice howl outside his door again, and Dingo started to growl. Dougherty strode over to the door and flung it open in haste but was only greeted by darkness, harsh and bold-faced. He peered into the longing darkness with a silence remaining unhinged, his imagination went to dark places of macabre whispers, thinking again of Molly Lynche.\n “Hello?” Dougherty called out hesitantly, and an echo murmured back, “Hello…” through the dark and empty hallway. He turned back to his study, closed the door behind him, and slumped back in his makeshift cubby. \n “Surely,” he muttered, “There is an open crack in my chamber window – that song is only the wind, not some unseen foe.” He turned his gaze back to Dingo who turned his head nervously to the side. Dougherty checked the window, but it was sealed shut, not a crack for any whistle of wind to cut.\n He took his purple curtains and pulled them together concealing the window and the endless window from view. But the singing returned, and the now understandable words came to Dougherty as if on a cue. \"Me Tie Dough-ty Walker!\"\n Dougherty spun around and shot his eyes from side to side, his heart thumping heavily in his chest while his once-heated veins had dried. “What do you come for?” Dougherty cried into the room, whose only occupants appeared to only be he and Dingo and an omnipotent doom.\n Silence greeted him, save for Dingo releasing a whimper of a mournful hymn. “I hear you,” Dougherty tried again, “Come out into view! You who sing there outside my door, tell me what it is you come for, I implore!”\n Again, the song would proclaim, and closer this time it came, \"Me Tie Dough-ty Walker!\"\n Dougherty fell to the floor with his quivering eyes fixed upon his ever-seemingly eerie door. As he stared, he saw a quick movement near the fire and turned to see something fall from the fireplace and land before him as he began to perspire. He beheld a charred and rotted severed foot, and Dougherty cried in terror as he watched the macabre display of its toes wiggling through ash and soot.\n Another charred foot fell down the chimney, followed by their respective legs which dripped upon the floor an inky substance of some dregs on the wooden floor. \"Me Tie Dough-ty Walker!\" The voice was so close now, and cold sweat beaded upon Doughtery’s pale brow. He shuffled weakly far from the fireplace until his back was against the wall, and then he tried to pull himself to his feet, moving up the surface with a sort of crawl.\n Now a torso had tumbled down, and two arms, and a charred and smoldering head which wore a sickening frown. Dougherty Walker watched in fear as the severed and charred limbs assembled and reattached themselves in the firelight, and Dougherty hadn’t even noticed that poor Dingo had died of fright. The broiled limbs had assembled themselves to a gangling woman, who slowly and sluggishly began to dance with joints that seemed stiff and wooden.\n \"Me Tie Dough-ty Walker!\" she sang as she waltzed towards Dougherty. Dougherty was trembling as he stood frozen in place, all the blood had gone now from his limbs and face. He tried one more time, pleading, “What… What do you come for?” against his shirt his fingers kneading.\n The grim and ghoulish woman opened her eyes and looked at Dougherty, and he saw they were the eyes of Molly Lynche, solely.\n “I COME FOR YOU!”" } ]