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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: Mr. Timerack's Gallery of Lost Souls\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2955\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who sees a photo they shouldn’t have seen." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“These are truly remarkable.” George Dundee commented as he continued down the hall. \n“My late grandfather Sidney Timberack believed that every photograph told a story.” Lewis Stanrick led his patron down what his grandfather had called his gallery of lost souls. \n“These tintypes are in pristine condition.” Mr. Dundee ran his finger along the base of one of the photographs, not knowing his grandfather would rage at anyone who dared run a finger over one of the portraits hanging in the hallway. Since he inherited the portraits from his grandfather, Lewis was not as nitpicky with the lot. The subjects in the portraits were long dead and forgotten as was his grandfather. \n“Magnificent.” Mr. Dundee stopped at the Butterfly Girl. Her name in life was Matilda Ronce, born of a poor Irish family who could not afford to keep a child born with such a birth defect. Missing several bones and internal organs that were insufficient, Matilda lived to around thirty before what internal organs she did have had given out. But in her brief life on earth she never exceeded fifty pounds or stood three and a half feet high; she had been a star in Sidney Timberack’s Side Show. \nThe banner he used while traveling with his troupe by rail, hung at the entrance of the hallway of the gallery. Known as a cruel man or as a humanitarian, depending on which newspaper you subscribed to, Sidney Timberrack had kept meticulous records to show that he did indeed care for the members of his side show.\n“Who is this hairy person?” Mr. Dundee pointed to Oscar Richert.\n“The Wolf Man.” Lewis nodded.\n“He looks furious, doesn’t he?” George chuckled.\nLewis did not wish to contradict his patron, but the fact of the matter, according to the record, Oscar Richert was a gentle soul who loved to stretch out under an oak tree on a riverbank while they were traveling. While most people ran from him in horror when he was a young man, Oscar’s father realized that the only chance he had of having a “normal” life was to go off with Mr. Timberack who had shown up at the front door wearing a long coat, white shirt with a starched collar and a bolo tie. His face was long and narrow, but he seemed to have a gentle voice and a mild manner. \n“So, your grandfather had a slideshow with human curiosities?” Mr. Dundee had moved on to the Rubber Band Man, Jerome Kossen, a true contortionist.\n“He believed that no matter their affliction, they were all just as human as you or I.” Lewis hated to pontificate on the matter, but he hated how misunderstood these lost souls were by patrons who saw them as freaks from some cheap sideshow. All of them were gone before Lewis was born, but he spent time with his grandfather who would tell him stories of his travels on the rail with his troupe.\n“Surely, he did not really believe that.” Dundee quipped as he smiled.\n“He did, I’m afraid.” Lewis said as they had come to the end of the gallery. \n“Would you consider selling your collection?” Mr. Dundee patted his jacket, “I would be prepared to pay top dollar.” \n“These are not for sale.” He shook his head. \n“Be reasonable.” Dundee sneered as Lewis opened the door that led into an alleyway.\n“I do not intend to sell any of these.” Lewis avowed. “In their lifetimes, they were part of the sideshow. My grandfather closed the curtain just before the war. I have no intention of putting them on display again. Good day, Mr. Dundee.” \n“My word, I believe you are being unreasonable, Mr. Stanrick.” He protested, but received a door slammed in his face.\n“Believe what you will.” He turned on his heel and walked back down the hallway past the portraits. Stopping by Matilda’s framed portrait dressed in her butterfly costume holding a wand as her eyes looked toward the ceiling as the flash was ignited. Caught in that moment, Matilda would forever stare at the heavens. “Imagine the nerve of that man thinking that he could possibly write a check equal to your worth.” \nFor as long as Lewis Stanrick lived in his upper east side apartment, he had never taken the time to get to know some of his neighbors as he considered them beneath his contempt. He would extend cordial greetings to the postman and the boy who delivered his groceries, but his world was narrow with all things considered. \nHe had taken the apartment when his grandfather died and with the rent control, he lived cheaply in the two room flat. Even when his grandfather was alive as a tenant, the apartment wasn’t much, a mere hovel by modern standards, but Lewis did not believe he belonged to the modern age.\nLife seemed to be out of control as far as he was concerned. He had come home from the war in Vietnam in 1972 and listened to his grandfather’s amazement, “You know, Lewis, I went over there in 1917 and I thought we had settled things then once and for all. Boy was I wrong.” \n“I wish you had.” He sat on the stoop while his grandfather smoked his pipe, “So many bad things. So many horrible things.” \n“What are you gonna do?” His grandfather asked puffing in his Mercham. “I got some money and went on the road with my circus.” \n“Not me.” He shook his head, “I wanna just spend some time on my own and get rid of these nightmares.” \n“The nightmares won’t go away.” \n“You still have them?” \n“Almost every night. Drove Ethel, your grandma crazy.” He chuckled. “Used to tell me I’d yell out the names of some of the boys who didn’t come home.”\n“What happened to grandma?” Lewis asked.\n“She died of consumption while I was in Omaha.” He answered leaning back in his chair, “She never told me how sick she was.”\n“I’m sorry.” Lewis put his hand on his grandfather’s shoulder.\n“It’s okay.” He bowed his head. “I kiss her portrait every night.”\n“That’s nice.” Lewis smiled.\n“Donnie Brookshire took that picture.” Grandfather nodded, “Took all of those portraits hanging in the hallway. He was a good man, old Donnie was, but I had a feeling he was headed for trouble. He liked to fool around with women. One of them was married to a jealous man. The jealous man killed Donnie. Shame. Donnie believed that when he took his photographs, he would end up with the person’s soul too. When I gave it some thought, I believed he was right. Sometimes when I walk down that hallway, I can hear them whispering to each other.” \n“What do they talk about?” Lewis pushed his cap to the back of his head and leaned in so he could hear his grandfather better. \n“Oh, this and that mostly.” He laughed, “People are cruel, you know.” \n“Yup.” Lewis shook his head.\n“Most of them people had it pretty rough, growing up different, like they did.” He sighed, “They locked Oscar in a closet most of the day, because he mother and father were afraid he’d scare the neighborhood kids. Old Oscar was a gentle soul. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, but one look at his hairy face and people thought he was the Wolfman. Matilda’s folks would make fun of her and tell her that they wished God had sent them a normal child. She would tear up even just mentioning her folks. Some people have no idea how much they hurt their own children with their ugly words.”\nSitting on the stoop with an empty chair to his right, Lewis watched some of his neighbors take an evening stroll past his place. None of them dared make eye contact with him, because they all fear him as the keeper of the Gallery of Lost Souls. \nThe stories still circulated among some of the old timers about the crazy man named Sidney Timberack who had lived there surrounded by old tintype photographs of the circus freaks he once had. Some of the old women would talk about the evil power emulating from their portraits.\nHis grandfather told Lewis that their portraits kept their memories alive, but Lewis suspected it went further than his grandfather let on. He had done some reading about the power of the old tintypes of the past. Photographs taken of men with hate in their eyes. Some would claim staring at them too long would bend your mind toward homicide. He found most of these claims to be bunk, but there was some compelling evidence and stories that suggested there was weight to these folk tales. \nOften in the quiet hours, he could hear some disembodied voices. He would put a marker in the book he was reading at the time and walk out into the gallery. He would walk by each of them, fourteen in all, and assure himself that each was silent and still.\nIn a closet was a trunk left undisturbed since his grandfather had passed. Inside the trunk were the negatives of the portraits taken by Donnie Brookshire. His grandfather told him that it was the negatives that capture the soul of the subject and that if someone disturbed these negatives, the souls would become lost. \nWhile he found this nothing more than superstition, Lewis kept them locked away in honor of his grandfather’s memory. He had no use for any of it and it was just easier to keep them where they were. Still he wondered what would happen if someone opened the steamer trunk containing the negatives. \nOne of his passing neighbors waved at him, “Evening, Mr. Stanrick.” \n“Howdy Mr. Harper.” He returned the cordial greeting, but did notice his neighbor’s suspicious glance as he passed. Lewis knew the elderly gentleman would give his right arm to know if all of the rumors that circulated about that place were true. \nAfter the sun went down, Lewis decided he would get ready for bed. His routine was set in stone since there was nobody around to disrupt it. But when he went inside he heard voices. There was a conversation taking place nearby. Listening intently, Lewis tried to find the source of the conversation, but no matter where he looked he could not find it. The voices sounded muffled as if they were coming from inside a room somewhere. \nHe opened the closet and stared at the trunk.\n“I remember St. Paul.” His grandfather would tell him, “It was right at the source of the Mississippi River. It was one heck of a town filled with all sorts of shady characters. While it was illegal to have or sell liquor, there was always plenty to go around. We’d set up a bonfire and break out the good stuff. My, my we’d have us a hootananny for sure. ‘Hey Donnie, come take our picture.’ High times they were, Lewis.” His grandfather would drain his hip flask as he reveled in his fond memories. Many times, Lewis would have to make sure he made it to his bed. \nThe trunk was locked, but Lewis knew where the key was. Still he was hesitant to open it. It had remained locked for as long as he could remember. Lewis stared at the black steamer trunk wondering if he should open it to settle his internal struggle with his inner demons. He had long sensed that whatever was inside wished to be set free. But he also knew his grandfather was very serious about keeping this trunk locked.\n“You ever hear of Pandora’s Box?” He once asked Lewis. \n“Yeah.” He nodded.\n“You remember how once the box was open, there was no going back once the evil was set free?” He puffed on his pipe as he looked over the top of his glasses frames set at the end of his beak-like nose. “It’s like that, Lewis.” \n“Oh Grandpa, how can that be?” He chuckled.\n“You have no idea what’s in there.” His face stiffened.\n“The negatives-” \n“And so things that need to stay there locked up.” He waved a finger at his grandson. \n“Like what?”\n“There are some things better left undisturbed.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “You grandmother made the mistake of opening it just a bit before I could prevent it from leaving the trunk. She died a few weeks later.”\n“You said she died of consumption.” \nHe nodded, “I say a lot of things sometimes.” \n“Open me Lewis. I’ve been locked up too long.” The voice pleaded, “He was cruel to us. He pretended he liked us, but it was all a lie.” \n“Who are you?” He asked hoping he would not have an answer.\n“We are the souls of the gallery.” Came the answer from within. \n“Let us out.” Another voice sounded.\n“I can’t. I promised.” Lewis put his hands over his eyes so he would not look at the trunk.\n“He promised us things too, but it was all a lie.” There was a sob after the final word.\n“We are trapped. Those photographs are our cells.” \n“No, they are just portraits.” Lewis knelt next to the trunk and put his hand over the lock. \nMore voices began to speak.\n“He used them to imprison us.”\n“Mr. Timberack’s Gallery of Lost Souls.” \n“He told us that we would never be welcome on this planet. Our odd deformities would prevent us from being part of this. We would never be safe unless we did what he told us.”\n“At first it seemed he was right.”\n“But then we began to feel trapped.”\n“Before we knew what was going on, our images were captured and put into frames”\n“He told me they were just photographs.” Lewis managed to say.\n“Have you looked closely at them?”\n“Many times.” Lewis shook his head.\n“He told us of the war. Of mustard gas and artillery that never stopped.”\n“He knew what atrocities were walking free and he captured them. He would appeal to their vanity and then he would have their portraits done. Once he captured their images, he made them prisoners like us.” \nLewis closed the closet door. His will power drained as he slid with his back on the door until he was sitting. As soon as he felt strong enough, he got to his feet. He walked into the gallery and looked at Matilda. He studied her portrait. Her small frail body was in her costume with the wings, but he noticed that she was bent into an unusual position that did not look natural at all. Her eyebrows were twisted into an expression of eternal pain. \nWhat about Oscar? Beneath his thick hair, Lewis noticed that his eyes held a glimmer of horror and suffering.\n“A missing person’s report has been filed.” One of the uniformed policemen told Inspector Dundee.\n“Name of missing person.” Dundee asked.\n“Stanrick.” The officer answered.\n“I was there the other day. I felt strange viewing all of the photographs. I even offered to buy these portraits from him, but he became very belligerent. I knew I had touched a nerve.” \nLater he went to Lewis’ apartment to have a look around. The portraits were hanging on the wall as they had on his last visit, but there was a strange, eerie feeling hanging in the air as he moved from one portrait to another. \n“This trunk was opened.” One of the policemen observed as a number of uniformed police swarmed over the apartment like bees. \n“What was inside?” Dundee squatted down beside the open trunk.\n“Just old negatives.” The policeman pulled out one of the plates.\n“Just old fashioned negatives.” He put his hand to his chin. He picked one up and peered through the darkened image on the plate. Whoever it was on the negative had wings like the Butterfly Girl. “If I were to walk out there into the sun, this negative would be ruined.”\n“Yes sir.” The policeman agreed.\nInstinct took control and Dundee held the plate up to the light in the room. While this obviously could hurt the negative, he saw the wings begin to flutter. Startled, Dundee nearly dropped the plate.\n“Easy sir, these plates are fragile.” The policeman helped steady Inspector Dundee. \nHe placed the plate back in the trunk with the others. Coming to his feet, Inspector Dundee took one last look at the portraits on the wall. Everything seemed in place when Lewis had taken him on a tour, but something was amiss that he could not quite put his finger on. \nLewis had no clue that George Dundee worked for the local city police investigating the strange goings-on in this gallery. Hoping to trick Lewis into spilling the beans, he was frustrated when he could not accomplish what he had set out to do. \nHe glanced up at Oscar one last time, uttering, “Poor bastard, could never escape from his frightening exterior just like the rest of them. Trapped with only one option available to them.” \nHe walked right past the picture of the troupe taken by Donnie in Boise, Idaho in 1933. It was the last framed picture of the gallery and it would be the last time Donnie would use his camera. Escaping his notice as he walked past the photograph, there was such a minor, easy to miss detail. In the photograph there was a new person present. A person who had just joined the troupe. There posting with the rest of the troupe, Lewis Stanrick smiling like the rest of them and was seated next to his late grandfather Sidney Timerack. Truly, the gallery of lost souls was now complete." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 MATTER OF SURVIVAL\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1593\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who wakes up in space." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A MATTER OF SURVIVAL\nThe Shuttle\nHe opened his eyes and knew, immediately, that something was amiss; no headache, no blurred vision, no sluggishness of his central nervous system, no disorientation of any kind. With growing trepidation, he turned to his right and, swallowing his anxiety, gazed at his digital, countdown screen: frozen at 9 years, 5 months, 3 weeks, 6 days and 19 hours. He had been in cryosleep for just 5 hours!\nWhat the f**k!\nGlen Thomas, Commander of Deep Space Shuttle, Commodore V11, noted for his coolness under pressure, began to perspire and panic at the same time. Sitting up, dressed only in khaki briefs and t-shirt, he looked across at the other two cryogenic sleeping pods alongside him and saw the red, illuminated screens of his colleagues ticking down the seconds and minutes in perfect harmony, unlike his own.\nFlight Engineers, Helen Jones and Matt Weitz slept peacefully inside their transparent cocoons, their body temperatures maintained at a perfect 32 degrees C, in a state of natural hibernation, heart beats slowed, hormones and composition of blood, breathing, cell replication and brain activity all altered for the next nine and a half years, when they would awaken as Commodore V11 reentered Earth’s atmosphere- as he, too, was meant to do. For some reason, his pod had malfunctioned!\nAs the man in charge of this mission, Glen had an intimate knowledge of his ship and understood that, once set, the timing device of a stasis pod could not be altered.\nNevertheless, heart thumping, he eased himself from the pod zone to the bridge of the craft, floating weightlessly, using his hands to push off bulkheads, hatches and overheads to reach the command centre of the shuttle where all typed modules relating to the workings of the ship were stored.\nBreathing deeply, trying desperately to calm himself, he pulled down the tome that related directly to the cryogenic chambers and began to read. Within a few minutes, his worst fears were confirmed; the operational clock, once triggered, could not, under any circumstances, be recalibrated. For him, the ability to not age for the next nine and a half years was no longer an option.\nOkay, okay. Stay calm. That’s not the end of the world, he told himself. Helen and Matt would get a shock when they snapped out of hibernation to find their commander almost a decade older than they remembered, sure. And life for him would be pretty damn unbearable in the interim but he could do it; would do it. Hell, he’d be a hero when they got back; maybe even secure a book deal.\nFood! Jeez, he’d forgotten about how much sustenance he was going to need to make it through. These shuttles were not overstocked with nutritional products as the majority of travel time was spent in natural hibernation and space food, whether dehydrated, irradiated, freeze dried or thermo- stabilised, still added hugely to fuel costs for every pound stored on board. Time to calculate.\nAn hour later, having entered the nutritional info of every single item of food he had located in the shuttle into the command and data subsystem, including Helen’s specially packaged must haves, Cheetos, and Matt’s, similarly wrapped, Hershey Kisses, and allowing for a ration of 0.58 kilograms per day, he realised, heart plunging, that he had only enough fluids and solids to sustain life for just twelve months!\nA year later, an emaciated, stinking, full bearded commander entered the pod zone for the first time in weeks. Initially, and for several months, he had checked on his colleagues several times per day but, as time had passed, he had limited himself to a once a week visit, the effort involved just too much for his weakened body. This time though, he had another reason for entering this part of the ship: the knowledge that, within the temperature controlled systems lay several litres of much needed water and he was going to figure out how to drain it. With all food having been consumed, although estimates were varied, it was believed that man could extend one’s life by up to two months living on water alone and there was no reason to maintain the perfect 32 degrees C that his hibernating colleagues were dwelling in.\nThe year had been the toughest of this man’s life. Having nothing to look at except the darkness of deep space that remained unchanged constantly outside the window of the bridge, nobody to talk to except himself, he had, slowly, drifted into semi-insanity. Unable to wash, shave or brush his teeth, with every drop of moisture being so precious, he had, knowingly, allowed himself to become a savage. Wild thoughts entered his mind and he would spend endless, comatose hours debating the rights and wrongs of each. Many, many times, he had considered cutting the power to his colleagues’ cryopods. If he had to suffer so, then why not them, too?\nHe had even thought about opening the pod of Matt Weitz and, while he was still disoriented, pulling him from his sleeping chamber and taking his place; sure that lifting the lid of the pod would not affect the countdown clock. But, always, the still rational part of his brain would win through and talk him out of this murderous act.\nMany, many times, he had told himself that he should accept his fate, climb down into the sealed exit hatch bay and eject himself out into the void and, twice, had entered this part of the ship, fully intending to do the honourable thing. But, each time, something, whether an inbuilt survival instinct or a fatal optimism, prevented him from carrying through with his plan. He knew that he only had enough food and water to sustain him for twelve months; that death was inevitable. Yet, he could not quit; had to claw on to life, hoping, believing that a miracle might occur. His experience in space had confirmed him in his atheistic outlook and he did not, for one minute, give any credence to the existence of a God but, still, he found himself repeating the mantras that had been drilled into him as a child, brought up in a Christian household.\nNow, as he drained the water from the tubing that surrounded all three pods, the brownish, foul smelling water seeping into the container he had brought here for this purpose, he looked, once again, at his two colleagues, sleeping peacefully, completely oblivious to the torment that he was going through and, against his better impulses, angry and envious thoughts flooded his brain. Why did his pod have to be the one that failed?\n***\nBreaking News\n“We go now to Independence Square, NASA HQ, where NASA Administrator, Bob Nelson, is waiting to talk to us with the latest on the ill fated shuttle. Bob, thanks for coming on. What can you tell us?”\n“I can now confirm, Mary, that our inquiry has shown, beyond any doubt, that the oxygen supply for the craft had defaulted and was responsible for the demise of our three brave astronauts”.\n“Did they suffer, Bob?”\n“No. All three were in hibernation, completely unaware of the system breakdown. They would all have died peacefully and painlessly in their sleep”.\n“What about their families?”\n“Well, none of our deep space astronauts are actually married, have children or are in relationships, Mary. It’s not something that is common knowledge but, I’m sure you’ll understand, they are away from home for a very long time. In this case, for example, Commodore V11 was on a twenty year voyage to Pluto and, while the cryogenic sleeping pods ensure that the occupants of the shuttle age only a year or two, the same would not apply to any relatives left on Earth. For that reason, we only train men and women who are prepared to forego a family life, at least until their later years”.\n“Well, thanks for sharing that, Bob. Makes me wonder why anybody would want to put themselves through that though”.\n“Mary, these are a very special breed of human; pioneers, if you like. They undertake only one deep space mission in their careers and they are expanding boundaries for the human race and, of course, they get extremely well compensated for it”.\n“If they survive, Bob. If they survive”.\n***\nHuman Health and Performance (HH+P) Medical and Clinical Unit Secure Ward, Johnson Space Center\n“Okay, doc, let me have it”.\n“Well, there’s no way to sugar coat this, Bob. Deep space, deep psychosis. It’s that simple”.\n“Is he coherent?”\n“Depends on what you mean by coherent. I can understand what he’s saying but that doesn’t mean he’s talking a whole lot of sense. He’s cognisant of his actions and, in many ways, as repulsive as they were, he was simply reverting to the human’s inbuilt instinct for survival. Throughout history, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of similar happenings where cannibalism has been a last resort. That plane crash in the Andes, for example. If they hadn’t made that choice to eat their former comrades, those guys would never have survived...”\n“Difference is, doc, their comrades were already dead. Commander Glen Thomas chose to eat his living colleagues. Big distinction!”\n“So what now, Bob? That’s the fourth time this has happened in recent years.”\n“Well, we can never let this get out. It would decimate our entire deep space program budgets. So you know what to do, doc. Same as before. Just make it painless for the poor sap”.\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: Nineteen Sixty-Five Mustang\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2976\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story from the point of view of a non-human character." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The story I am about to tell you is as incredible as anything you have ever heard and the fact that I’m the one telling you this story is even more unbelievable. From my glimmering front bumper to my cherry red tail lights, I am a first generation Ford Mustang, one of the first real muscle cars on the road and for reasons I do not know, became known as a pony car. I came from the factory in San Jose in 1965 and was purchased by Isaac Reynolds. Nothing about that is incredible, I know, but what follows is. I must admit, some of this story is conjecture, because I do not always understand the human world, but I will do my best.\nBill Owens sat at his desk going over his latest sales figures. For reasons he could not seem to come up with a reason why sales were down on new model Fords like the Fairlane and Falcon which he was told would be the next best thing in the automotive world, but he saw that this did not quite pan out. Neither model seemed very popular. \n“Mustang?” He shook his head. Like magic as soon as he spoke, a truck carrying ten new model Mustangs pulled into the lot. Bill stood there staring at the new cars on the trailer. “What the heck is that?” \n“Mustangs.” His boss told him.\n“But they are so small. Who in their right mind would want one of those contraptions.” He shook his head.\n“Apparently they are selling like hot cakes back east.” His boss informed him.\n“Yeah, I just don’t see the appeal for our west coast crowd.” He shrugged.\nAfter a month of torrid sales on the new pony car, Isaac Reynolds walked in. Bill cordially greeted him with a wave, “Hello, I’m Bill Owens.”\n“I’m Isaac Reynolds.” The shy teenager shook the salesman’s hand.\n“Isaac, is there anything I can show you?” Bill asked as Isaac drifted over to the shiny new Mustang on the sales floor. \n“This is our newest model, the Mustang.” Bill stood next to Isaac.\n“I love it.” His voice was soft as a whisper, but his eyes were fixed on the convertible as if he had just fallen deeply in love.\n“Do you like this, Isaac? Would you like to take one for a spin?” Bill asked the bedazzled customer.\n“Could I?” His smile grew. Bill dangled the keys in front of his face.\nEven from the first time Isaac turned the key in my ignition and stepped on the gas, I could tell he was a good driver. In those days Stockton was considered a blue collar town south of Sacramento. Most of the roads were rough and full of potholes, but Isaac took his time as Bill continued to read off some of my special features.\n“This beauty is part of the GT Equipment Package…” Bill explained as Isaac continued to drive down some of the rough Stockton roads. \n“T-code\" engine that produced 120 hp with a C-code\" 289 cubic inch 4.7 Liter engine and a two-barrel carburetor as the base V8. Comes with an A-code 25 horse powered four-barrel carburetor…” Bill rattled on about me from the brochure his boss had him memorize. \nIsaac pulled into the lot parking in front of the showroom of the Ford Dealership. \n“Whadda think, kid?” Bill held out his hand as Isaac dropped the keys in his palm. \n“Isaac, I just don’t see what the big deal is about this car.” Isaac brought his father Frank Reynolds into the dealership.\n“Wait till you see it, dad.” Isaac was excited as he could be. \n“So, I have seen Fords before and believe me, Fords are nothing to be excited about.” He shook his head. Bill saw them enter the showroom and was on his feet.\n“Good evening, you must be this young man’s father.” Bill shook Frank’s hand.\n“Yes.” He carried himself like a Doubting Thomas as he looked into Owens’ eyes.\n“Did he tell you about this car?” Bill waved his open hand over the Mustang on the showroom floor. “Here it is.” \nFrand scanned the car, tilted his head and inquired, “So, where’s the rest of the car?”\nAfter some finagling and begging, Isaac managed to purchase me. His father wondered aloud how come the price was so high, but when Isaac told him he had most of the money saved up from his job at the deli, Frank Reynolds agreed to let his son buy me. \nHe drove me to school, whatever that was and came out one afternoon holding Rachel’s hand. I would learn that Rachel Matthews was Isaac’s girlfriend. After spending most of the day in the school parking lot where a lot of much bigger cars with fins and chrome, he would come out holding Rachel’s hand and they would go to a burger place where they played the loudest music over speakers as girls on roller skates zipped around between the cars with burgers, fries and shakes. Isaac always got Rachel a burger and a vanilla shake while he feasted on a really large burger and fries.\n“The draft board called me this afternoon.” Isaac said as he put his arm around Rachel.\n“What did they want?” She asked, sipping on the straw to her milkshake.\n“They asked if I would serve in the army if my number got called.” He turned his head to look at her. \n“And what did you say?” Her face narrowed as she considered he might leave to join the army.\n“I said I would be proud to serve.” He sniffed, “Just like my dad did during the war in Europe.” \nShe reached out and pulled him closer to her, with tears in her eyes, “Oh Isaac, I would die if you left me.” \n“I ain’t leaving you. You’d come with me.” He smiled and kissed her on the forehead.\n“Leave Stockton? I don’t want to leave Stockton. All my friends are here.” She sniffed and wiped the tear from her cheek.\n“Are you kidding? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in this dump?” He chuckled.\n“This place isn’t so bad.” She shook her head.\n“There are other places in the world. Better places.” He kissed her on the lips. He knew with his charm, he could talk her into anything. \nSo days passed where I would wait until the end of school when he and Rachel would drive off together. Sometimes they would be content parking on this hill and spend some time kissing each other. Rachel would remind him that she needed to get home before dark. And though Isaac did not seem too eager to comply with her request, he always did what she asked.\nOne day I learned that Isaac was going to graduate from this school. I’m not sure what that meant exactly, but he seemed to be very happy with this graduation thing.\nI found out that graduation included him getting dressed up in a cap and gown, but all I knew was that he looked rather odd in his costume. Rachel wore a costume just like his. There were lots of people at this graduation thing and lots of shouting and cheering went along with it. Afterwards Rachel and him rode off to a beach near San Jose where they sat on the shore and watched the sunset.\n“Are you sure about this?” Rachel asked as Isaac knelt in the sand in front of her.\n“As sure as anything.” He kissed her.\n“Then yes, I will marry you.” She put her arms around her.\nI did not know what was happening, but they continued to kiss as they walked back toward me. He drove her to a place called a motel along the highway. I spent the night in the parking lot with a couple of other cars.\n“What are you supposed to be?” A big Chevrolet parked nearby asked me.\n“A Mustang.” I answered.\n“OOO, one of those new models.” The Chevy remarked. “Hear that? This is the future we’ve been hearing about.”\n“I remember when I was new. All shiny in all my chrome places.” A beat up old Studebaker moaned from the darkest shadows. \n“Yeah, we’ll never see those days again, eh Mona?” The Chevy remarked.\nI felt bad parked in that lot, because I knew one day, I would be just like them.\nThe other cars each commented on who and what I was. \nThe next morning Rachel and Isaac came out of their room.\n“What are we gonna tell my folks?” Rachel asked.\n“That we got hitched.” Isaac grabbed her hand.\n“This is just an engagement ring/” She shook her head.\n“Let’s get married in town.” Isaac shrugged.\n“Can we do that?” She looked around in case someone was listening. \n“Can and will.” He kissed her.\nWe drove for a few miles through San Jose until he pointed to a place that advertised a marriage chapel. In less than an hour Isaac and Rachel were married. Once again, I am not very clear on this, but they both seemed happy.\nTwo years later, Isaac got a letter from the army. He raced into their apartment where Rachel was preparing dinner.\n“I got it. I got my draft notice.” Isaac waved it in front of her face. She was not happy. “I leave next month.” \n“Great.” She tried to smile.\n“Don’t worry, once I’m done with basic training, you and I will be assigned to army housing.” He explained.\nFrank came over for dinner one night just before Isaac was shipped off to basic training.\n“I’ve been hearing that this Vietnam thing was a big mistake.” Frank commented after dinner.\n“Dad, you were in the war.” Isaac said.\n“Things were different.” He glanced at Rachel who was on the verge of tears.\n“I hear the enemy lives in grass huts.” Isaac shrugged.\n“I’ve heard that a lot of our boys are green to this guerilla fighting.” Frank tilted his head as he drank his coffee.\n“I’ll be alright.” Isaac shook his head a bit ticked off that his father was not on his side. \nOne day, Isaac Reynolds was gone to boot camp as he called it. Rachel sat on their porch and cried for two days after he left. When she stopped crying, she drove me to Reynolds’ house. \n“I’m pregnant.” Rachel confessed to Mary, Isaac’s mother.\n“Oh my God, that is wonderful.” Mary hugged Rachel.\n“Is it?” She scowled.\n“Why wouldn’t it be?” Mary was confused. \n“Because he just got orders to a combat unit in Vietnam.” She began to cry.\n“Oh dear, it will be okay. He’ll be home before you know it.” She took Rachel’s hands. \nOnce again this story gets confusing to me, because Rachel went to the army hospital while she was pregnant and was told the baby was coming just fine. Everything was just fine until she got a letter in the mail that started out with the opening line:\nMrs. Reynolds, we regret to inform you that your husband, Isaac Reynolds was K.I.A…”\nShe sat on the porch and sobbed. To make matters worse, the army hospital refused to assist her with delivery since Isaac Reynolds was K.I.A. I later found out that was the army’s way of saying he was killed in action. Frank drove me to the funeral with Mary sitting in the passenger’s seat.\n“He loved this car.” Frank replied.\n“Please Frank, don’t-” Mary requested as she held up her hand.\n“Drives better than any Ford I’ve ever been in.” He mumbled as Mary pretended to ignore him. \n“My brother Daryl said he can store it in his barn.” Mary gave him the eye.\n“And then what?” Frank asked.\n“It’s up to Rachel.” Mary answered.\n“She’s having a baby.” He shook his head, “Ain’t thinking straight.” \n“Belonged to her husband.” Mary glared at him.\n“Never shoudda gotten married so young.” Frank squawked.\n“Ain’t right he’s dead either, but you can’t change that now can you?” She crossed her arms over her chest. \nThe barn was nothing but a storage area since Daryl had sold off all of his livestock. When they parked me, I had no idea that I would be here for as long as I was. Daryl and Annie, his wife celebrated when Rachel gave birth to a baby boy she would name Shawn. \nAs for me, I would go into a hibernation that would last for twenty years in Daryl’s barn. Days became months and months, years. I felt the rust creep up my metal parts even though I stayed dry for the most part until some of the ceiling started caving in. \nHe did come out to the barn to smoke his cigars that Annie despised the pungent odor hovering in her home. \n“You were one of the last American made cars that was worth a crap.” Daryl would talk to me as if I was a friend. As far as I could tell, he didn’t have anyone to talk to except me and the whippoorwills as he smoked his cigar. “Would be good if someone would put you back together.” \nIt came as a shock to me when a wrecking truck pulled up in the driveway to take me to the junkyard for scrap metal. I knew about such horrible places, but I never felt that Daryl would betray me this way. The man put the chain on my bumper and began the automatic crank. My tires began to move for the first time in almost twenty years, but I did not want to go where this man was taking me. \n“Damn shame.” He ran his fingers across my hood, “This is still a pretty car, but who am I to question the decisions of them who’s paying me.” \nI guess I must have still been worth something when a man paid the man at the wrecking yard money to take me home with him.\n“Well Hank, the Mustang is all yours.” The man put the money in his antique cash register. \n“Not just a Mustang, it’s a 1965 Mustang, a vintage model engineered by Lee Ioaccca. The man was a genius.” Hank replied as he and his son loaded me on a trailer and drove me home to Bakersfield. \nOnce we got there, Hank put me in his garage where he had a lot of shiny tools and a big workbench. He turned to his son, “Tomorrow we will start restoring this old classic.”\n“Sure dad.” His son nodded and went inside the house.\nTrue to his word, Hank began taking my old worn out parts and replacing them with newer ones. The more he and his son worked on me, the better I began to feel. I was feeling like my old self again.\n“Try her out.” Hank said to his son a few weeks later as he tossed him the keys.\n“Sure dad.” He smiled.\n“Just down to the convenience store and back. Get us a couple of big sodas.” He handed his son some money. He then ran his hand over my hood, “Gonna have you in the Bakersfield Parade this summer.” \nThat would never happen, because Shawn Reynolds began making some inquiries about his father. While his mother answered most of them, he asked what his father liked when he was alive. She thought for a minute and then told him about me.\n“I would sure love to have that car.” He said looking out his bedroom window.\n“My brother Daryl had it in his barn for the longest time, but then he just had it hauled away to the wrecking yard.” She sighed.\n“Why would he do that?” Shawn was upset that his uncle would do such a thing.\n“It was old and rusty.” She kissed him on the cheek.\nShawn could not accept his uncle having the car taken away and he began to do some investigating. He found everything he could about the other Mustangs like me and then he began to contact dealers and car restoring services. He managed to get a hold of a parts dealer who told him about Hank Hardman. \n“Mom, I want to go to Bakersfield.” He told her as he worked on his Fiat clunker.\n“What for?” She asked.\n“Someone down there told me about a guy who might have my father’s Mustang.” \n“May I go with you?” She asked, “I know what that car looked like.”\n“Are you sure?” Shawn asked her.\n“When are we going?” \nI had no idea that this was happening, but Shawn and Rachel drove down after verifying he had the Mustang. I don’t know what took place, but one afternoon Shawn and Rachel drove into Hank’s driveway where they were greeted by Hank and Pam Hardman.\nI could not believe when the garage door opened up that Shawn looked so much like his father. I knew Rachel right off even though she had aged a bit, her smile was still the same.\n“It was his Mustang.” She put her hands to her face.\n“It is?” Shawn looked at her for verification, but he knew immediately that I was in fact his father’s car.\n“Oh my God, it was his car.” She began to tear up.\n“How much?” Shawn turned to Hank. \nHank stood there and sighed. “Killed in Vietnam?” \n“Yes sir.” Shawn nodded.\n“Son, your country owes a lot to him and the least we can do is give him his car back.” Hank wiped a tear from his cheek, “So if you promise me you will drive it down to Bakersfield for the parade and drive it in the parade, You may take it home.” \nWith tears in his eyes, he handed Shawn the keys.\nShawn kept his word and I was home at long last." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Treasure Lost in Harlem\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2455\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in New York, where someone’s been waiting for your character." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Treasure Lost in Harlem\nBy: Sasha Robinson\nGrape Lifesavers. We have a lot in common. Nobody really likes grape lifesavers, yet they were an acquired taste to those who adored them. If someone asked for a lifesaver and you only had two left, green or grape, the person would most likely choose green. I was often overlooked, always the black sheep or the last resort. Grape was my nickname in high school. They called me that because my skin was so dark in the sunlight, I looked purple.\nI remember the first time I got my nickname grape. July fourth in Harlem was like the Olympics to us kids. Even though a lot of us were only going to be within two blocks of our houses, we had to look like we were headed to upper Manhattan. My mother was pressing my hair out for the Fourth of July and despite the relentless heat from the golden comb that was now blackened heavily from years of usage, my edges would not lay down. She reached into the grease jar and scooped up a copious amount of Blue Magic hair grease and dabbed it onto my coarse black hair. She then picked the comb back up and began to press, which invoked a tiny but mighty explosion of pops that sounded louder than 15 Roman candles upside my head.\n“Ahhh!” I screamed while wriggling in pain. \n“Girl, that don’t hurt!” she replied pulling the golden comb through the rest of my strands, “Beauty cost, and it cost big.”\nIf that was the case call me cheap. I would gladly endure every bully in the book and keep my bobos and barrettes. I was so glad that she was finished I jumped up before she could sound off that she was done. I ran immediately to my room and put on my dark jean shorts with yellow and orange flowers embroidered on the back pockets, matching orange tank top and my new all white Nike Air maxes. After swiping on enough deodorant to cover the scent of a dead body 7 days post mortem, I ran to the door.\n“Alright mama! I’m going downstairs!” I called over my shoulder with my whole body nearly out of the door. \n“Um wait a minute!” my mother called out as she walked towards me at the door. She reached in the pocket of her pink terry cloth robe and pulled out a small golden necklace with the name Treasure spelled out in cursive writing, my November birthstone Topaz was on the bottom of the last letter.\n“I know how important it is for you to look your best.”\n“Oh mama! I love it!” I exclaimed jumping up and down.\n“Let me put it on you.” I turned around as she undid the clasp and carefully placed the beautiful necklace on my neck. I turned around and admired myself in the mirror before giving my mother the biggest hug I had given her since Christmas.\n“Now you be careful out there. Remember to stay…”\n“On Lennox and don’t go past 123rd. I know.”\nI trotted outside onto the busy sidewalk and was quickly approached by my friend Naturi. She was my closest and only friend even though our first-time meeting was a cafeteria brawl that in these days could’ve have easily gone viral and made me a small fortune. She had a less than status quo look as well. She was heavy set for her age. Top and bottom heavy. Her skin was fair with brown freckles accenting her chubby cheeks, but her smile was to die for even with the small gap in between her front teeth. What she didn’t make up for in looks she made up for in combat skills. Anyone who dared to call her a ho because all the neighborhood boys ogled her mature goodies would catch 2 to the body and 1 to the chest. The strength from those blows was enough to make sure they watched their walk in the future. Long story short, she was green, and I was grape. While folks didn’t fancy either one of us, we complimented each other by being in a class all our own. Today we nearly matched except she opted for tight capri pants and strappy sandals. She tilted her sunglasses when she saw me walking down the steps.\n“Look at my best fraaan!” she said loudly. “I see you.”\n“Eoowww...” I responded in my New York accent.\n“I see you went all out with the press tonight!”\n“You know how my mama do.” I responded flipping my hair in the wind.\n“Well let’s get going. The party already started.”\n“What party?”\n“On 125th.”\nI looked at her questionable. “You never said anything about a party on 125th you said we were gonna post up out here.”\n“I know I didn’t, but Rodge wants me to come, and who knows you may find somebody too.”\nI cringed at how bad the whooping was gonna be if my mama found out I had deliberately gone against her wishes and went past my limit, especially to a party with grown men, in Harlem, on July fourth. But like most kids I threw caution to the wind and agreed.\nThe heat from the cars passing by and the air began to curl my freshly pressed hair as we walked and the deodorant I slathered on was beginning to cook at 175. We came to a tall brick building and walked up 15 flights of stairs before coming to a long hallway where party goers were mingling in the hallway, with red cups in their hands. Marijuana danced in the air with every step we took. Rodge jumped out of a nearby crowd and grabbed Naturi playfully before kissing her passionately on the lips. I looked in awe. I wished I had someone to give me that kind of attention. But I wouldn’t dare date someone 19. My mama would kill me and him both. Once they finished, he looked over at me.\n“So, you finally got to come off the porch young’in?” he asked still gripping Naturi’s big hips.\n“Yeah, I’m out here.” I replied fanning thick smoke from a passerby out of my face.\n“Well ya’ll come on in and grab something to drink. You look hot.”\nNaturi grab Rodge’s hand and turned to grab mine as we made our way through the swarm of people in the hall. Once inside Rodge showed us to a seat in the crowded living room and headed to the kitchen.\n“Girl, I don’t like this.” I said in her ear.\n“Girl, lighten up. You need to learn how to have some fun.”\nAt that moment the school class clown Pico danced up to where we sat.\n“Look at you Naturi with your fine ass, when you gone let me hit that?” he asked jokingly.\n“Your bat aint big enough to hit this Pico.”\nI rolled my eyes. I hated Pico with a passion. He forever had a joke about me, and the last thing I wanted was for him to come around killing my vibe. He turned his attention to me.\n“What up?” he asked.\nI turned my head the other way and pretended not to notice him.\n“I see you got your hair done, but all that grease in this blue light got you looking so black you damn near look purple. I’ma call you grape.” He declared followed by the most annoying chuckle.\n“Pico get your skinny ass outta here. You just mad cause she don’t want you. And I don’t either.”\n“Man whatever.” He said walking away.\nMy night had officially been ruined. Nobody had ever called me a name like that. My mama always told me my skin was the most beautiful thing about me. But in that moment, I felt ugly.\nNaturi tilted her head down and pulled my chin up.\n“Hey, don’t let him ruin our night.”\nI fought back an overflow of tears. Thankfully the humidity level in the room made the few that escaped look like mere sweat droplets.\n“I’m not. I just need some alone time. Do you know where the bathroom is?”\n“Yeah, its’s past the kitchen and around the corner.”\nI tried my best to make myself compact to comfortably maneuver through dancing strangers to the restroom. Luckily it was available, and I walked in closing the door behind me. I sat on the yellow tub and held my head low and let out all the pain of that moment. I was so caught up in my pain that I didn’t notice the door open slowly as Rodge stood there watching me. I inhaled and exhaled deeply trying to regain my composure to go back out when the sight of my surprise spectator startled me to the core.\n“What’s wrong baby girl?” he asked me.\nI needed to talk about what I was feeling but in a bathroom at a loud party with my best friend’s boyfriend was hardly the place.\n“Oh nothing.” I said grabbing some tissue.\nI patted my eyes and tried to get to the door, but Rodge scooted in front of it blocking my way.\n“Naturi told me what happened.”\n“She did?”\n“Uh-huh. And I think you should know that you are beautiful. Your skin is what makes you that way. It’s like my granddaddy used to say the blacker the berry the sweeter the juice.” He laughed revealing his gold grill.\nI nervously laughed as I reached through his arm for the doorknob, but he reached behind him and locked the door slowly. My heart began to beat out of my chest. The look on his face changed from cool to dark. I could see his chest rising and falling as he stepped closer to me.\n“You know I like Naturi, but you are the one I really wanted to talk to.” He grabbed me closer to him.\nI struggled to get away from him, but he had a death grip on me that I couldn’t break if my life depended on it.\n“This can be our secret Treasure.” He spoke.\nThat night changed my life forever.\n20 years later\n“Rodge?” I asked tapping him on his shoulder.\nHe turned around with the same golden grill and smiled at me. His eyes examined every inch of my body and I felt like meat to a Lion.\n“Mmm-mm, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you Fontaine.”\n“The pleasure’s all mine.”\nI seductively sat down on the bar stool next to him and flipped my 34-inch jet black straight hair so my new 30DD breast could be on full display.\nHis mouth watered as I crossed my chocolate legs and exposed my thick thighs.\n“Are you hungry?” I asked seductively.\nHis eyes stay fixated on my curves. “For what?” he asked.\nI snapped my fingers. “What’s good to eat here?”\nHe jumped from his perverted gaze and placed his attention on my face for the first time since hello.\n“Well, this place has the best chicken in Harlem.”\n“Chicken? You bought someone as bad as me on a date to eat chicken?”\nHe laughed. “Well, what do you want?”\nA smile spread across my ruby lips as I leaned in and caressed his inner thigh. “You.”\nHe went from a suave gentleman to a giddy schoolboy. I loved to make men look like idiots.\n“What do you say we get out of here. I know a place up the street from here that we can get into what you really called me for.”\nHis eyes bugged as if he had just won 10 million on a scratch off. He fumbled in his pockets for his keys.\n“My uh—My car is right out front. Did you drive?”\nI got up and straightened out my sheer black dress. “I got an Uber.”\n“Oh ok.”\nOnce we got in the car, he turned up the radio and burned rubber down the street towards the undisclosed location.\nHe slowly placed his hand on my thigh. I nearly vomited in my mouth. His hands felt the same as they had 20 years ago, callused and rough. Every once in awhile I would be making love to someone and notice their hands felt to rough and I would throw them out of my house immediately.\n“So, where’s this spot at?” he asked looking from the road to me.\n“Pull over right here.” I motioned toward a tall brick building on the left.\nHe obeyed and parked and turned off the engine.\n“I remember having some good times in this place.” He chuckled, “You know somebody in here?”\nI tried to keep calm in order to not blow my cover.\n“I knew someone. Her name was Treasure.”\nHe reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and lit it.\n“Aww yeah? Who was that?” he said exhaling smoke from his thick, purple lips.\nMy blood began to boil. I couldn’t take it anymore. I reached into my purse and pulled out a 380 pistol and held it to his head.\nThe lit cigarette fell from his mouth. The heat from the cherry and the shock of his life ending made him scream like a 10-year-old on a rollercoaster.\n“Shut your ass up!” I yelled as I violently grabbed his genitals with my free hand. He groaned as he gritted his teeth in discomfort.\n“I knew a girl named treasure that got raped at a party July 4th, 2002.”\n“Man look I don’t know who put you up to this, but all the work is at my house! I only got 50 dollars on me!”\nI scoffed. “That’s why you met me at a chicken spot!? Cheap ass.”\n“What you want?”\n“I’m Treasure! And you ruined me. Naturi committed suicide after I told her what you did to me. And she died hating me! She was the only person in the world I considered a friend, and you took her and my virginity!”\nI forced the gun further into his right temple.\n“Man, you young hos aint have no business in the streets anyway! That aint got nothing to do with me.”\n“Young hos?!”\nI pulled the trigger and silenced the argument. Blood painted the windows of the car and the only person in the world at that moment was me. The night was eerily quiet for July in Harlem. But my vindication was loud in my heart. I put the gun back into my black Birkin and exited the vehicle.\nMurder made my mouth dry. I reached into the side pocket of my purse and pulled out a grape Lifesaver.\nRevenge was sweet on my tongue as I sashayed off into the moonlight." } ]

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

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Ancestors\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1657\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with “It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.” (Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Match Girl”)" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. They came in the night. And it was for that reason Sarah lit every lantern and candle in the small cottage. She sat directly in front of the wood-burning fireplace. A blanket and the warmth from the fire cut the chill. \nAnd then there it was…the stirring of wind, the hum. To those who didn’t know, it was just a winter wind rustling through the forest. But she knew different. \n“He is my refuge and my fortress, My God in whom I trust…,” Sarah whispered the prayer to herself.\nThe hum grew louder, turning now to moans. \n“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”\nThe door rattled. The moans continued. Sarah pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.\n“You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness.” This time she spoke the prayer louder. \nNow banging on the windows. Through threadbare curtains she could see no human form. But they were there. The banging persisted. The rattling of the door grew louder.\n“What do you want!” Sarah shouted this time. Frustration over her repeated visitors gave her more courage than she felt. And just as shouted her question the door flew open. A gust of cold air and snow swept through the front room accompanied by a swirl of golden light. The light shot through the room and landed in front of Sarah. She held her breath. \n“I don’t know what you want from me,” This time she pleaded softly. \n“Release us. Release us.” A soft voice whispered. “Set us free.” \n“Free from what? Who are you?”\nThe light energy shifted. It moved past the fireplace, extinguishing several of the lit candles as it went. Then dove under the wooden dining table hovering there. It did not move. A cloud of tiny twinkling light, like glitter dust, stayed there fixed under the table. \nSarah pushed the front door shut, and cautiously moved towards the table. She suddenly recalled the rug under the table concealed a small trap door. She had never been down there as her folks had sternly forbade her from it - always cutting her off if she even inquired about it. And so over time, she forgot about the existence of it altogether. Until today. The cloud of light still hovered there.\n“Is what you want in there?” she asked the light. It grew and expanded and then moved in a spinning circle like a tornado in the spot above the rug. Sarah got on her hands and knees and crawled under the table. The light shifted to one side as if to give her space. She pushed the rug aside revealing a small hatch door - just big enough for a grown man to fit through. A small circle was shaped at one end of the door - she put her finger through and gave it a tug. Nothing. She shifted to a position where she could get two fingers in the hole, one on each hand. She pulled up with more energy and the door lifted open. The light swooped down into the dark opening with such force that Sarah was knocked back. \n“Release us. Release us.” She heard the voices say again as the light exposed a set of stairs going straight down into a hole. \nSarah felt a chill up her spine. But her curiosity always outweighed her fear. A characteristic her mother often warned her about. “Your need to know, what you don’t need to know, will surely be the death of you,” she would say. Despite the warnings, Sarah could never help herself then or now. She leaned down into the hole to see if she could get a better perspective. “Hello? Are you down there?” She called out to the nameless, faceless cloud of light. Only quiet. \nSarah pulled a lantern from the fireplace mantel. Moved assuredly back to the hole. The steps were steep and narrow like a ladder. She would have to walk down backward. With the lantern in one hand, she slowly descended until she found her footing on the flat earth. She held the lantern in front of her exposing a dirt corridor at the end of which she could see the glow of the shadow light. Moving cautiously as there was not enough room to stand upright she crouched and walked towards the glowing light. \n“Down here. Down here.” Sarah heard the voices again. She followed until the corridor opened into a small room. The glowing light was there hovering in one corner of the room where Sarah could barely make out a stack of what looked like a dozen or so wood and metal boxes the size of shoe boxes. Closer to the boxes and the light she opened the lid of the box sitting on top. With her lantern, she could make out jewelry, gold coins, and other trinkets. She set that aside to pick the next box, the same thing a box full of jewelry, a comb of some sort, silver pieces. Each box was the same - a collection of treasures. Toward the bottom and back of the pile was a larger box this one the length of her height and several feet deep. Sarah set the lantern aside and pulled with all of her strength to move the larger box away from the wall. When she opened the lid she found not more treasure, but bones. Human bones. Different sizes. Different shapes. The shadow light, which had been still, began to dip and dive in and around Sarah and the box of bones.\n“Release us. Release us. Set us free!” The voices sang out this time in a chorus. The owners of the bones. They wanted out of this hole. Sarah contemplated knowing the box was too large and heavy to manage, through the narrow corridor and back up the steep dirt stairs. Picking up her lantern she moved as quickly as she could back toward the opening to the underground and climbed up the stairs. Breathing rapidly now she moved to the bedroom. Tugging at the bedding on the bed until she could pull free a sheet.\nWith the sheet bundled close to her chest and the lantern in hand, she returned down to the corridor. The shadow light was still fixed over the box of bones. She carefully picked up each bone placing it on the sheet. One by one until she had transferred all of the bones inside the center of the sheet and there was one thing left in the box. A folded browning wilted paper. She delicately unfolded it. A list of names. The glowing light came closer directly over Sarah giving her light by which to read.\n“Theodore -34, Justine - 28, Maro -6, Henriette -74, Foster - 14, Sarah -15, Jax -20 days. Property of Sinclair Tisdale. Sarah-15?” Sarah felt a burning in her chest. Anger swelled there. For years, before her parents' untimely passing, she had questions. She looked different than them. Her hair was dark and curly. Not straight and blond like her mother or straight and brown like her father. Her skin was more olive than pink. She never met relatives. They never interacted with anyone. There was never anyone else around. \nShe had questions. But not for now. \nTucking the paper in her pocket she pulled together the ends of the sheet containing the bones. She dragged the bundle, pausing every few feet to take a breath. Once at the stairs, she placed her lantern at the top of the hole knowing she’d need both hands and all her strength to levy the bundle of bones. The light shadow came to rest near the bottom of the stair. She climbed and pulled with her back leveraged against the back of the staircase. The shadow of light started to swirl again underneath her creating a force against the bottom of bundled sheet and making it easier for Sarah to lift. In short order, she and the bundle of bones were resting next to the table. \n“Now what?” Sarah rested her hands on her waist. It was now fully dark outside. The light shadow rested itself on the bundle of bones. Sarah pulled the sled from the corner of the kitchen. She used it to carry a whole deer before. It should suffice. She hefted the bones on top and using twine secured the sheet at the top and the bundle to the sled. She put on as many layers as she could to protect herself from the cold outside - a heavy wool cloak, bonnet, and a pair of her father’s old work gloves. When she opened the door the snow was still falling but lightly. The shadow of golden light swooshed past her and out the door lingering in the air. “Follow. Follow,” it said. \nThe packed snow made it easy to glide the sled with its heavy cargo. She pulled as she followed the light and slowly wound her way through the dense trees. Though it would be normal for a young woman to be afraid out on her own in the dark, snowy night. She felt no nervousness as she diligently followed after the golden light. A short time later, she was standing at the ledge of the river embankment. The rushing water was moving quickly carrying the melted snow from the mountains, north to south. \n“Release us. Release us.” Sarah untied the bones from her sled. Lifted the bundle into the water. And watched as the bedsheet unfurled itself releasing the bones into the rushing water and then floating away. “Thank you. Thank you…our Sarah,” the voices said again in a chorus. The light circled Sarah, and then suddenly disappeared." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Souls of Great Chiefs\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1264\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In 1839, fifteen-year-old Cole Jasper Coaler sketched in his Greek and Algebra rule books maps of the United States, beginning east of the Mississippi, he drew the states and their borders green shadings for the wild forests, then finally on its own page, the Republic of Texas: the state itself as big as the entire eastern part of the country he drew, bordered by the shape of repeating rifles and colt revolvers and arrows and lances separating it distinctly from the rest of the world, horses and phantom humans of mythological shape dabbed by his own blood, shaded in a dark turquoise with many souls drowning beneath terrifying shadows lurking underneath, in the shape of teeth and whale intestines, as though its endless desert of the Texas plains were an ocean unto itself. \nThen he quit school and traveled out west of the Mississippi, was known by many Natives as The One Who Wanders With Pen. He lived among the Comanche, Kiowa and Cheyenne off-and-on for more than thirty years, camping in the wilderness while traveling, staying in forts too occupied US Cavalrymen and homesteads with families and riding out with Texas Rangers, hotels and saloons and brothels while he could afford it, sketching in notebooks depictions of what he saw. \nWhen he returned to Tennessee, he painted up his sketches and notes. The paintings would be presented in New York City at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.\nThe gallery terrified its viewers. They closed the exhibition early that evening and removed the paintings the next morning. The building is said to be haunted ever since. \nCoaler said he wanted to paint their spirit, how the heartbeat sounds, basing his paintings on memory, his journals and sketches, and imagination.\nAt night, people walking by the metropolitan reported seeing ghosts and hearing battle cries and tribal music, Chiefs Quanah Parker, Iron Jacket and Isatai as painted by Cosler amidst a Sun Dance, a phenomenal blur, with the warriors dancing around a honeylocust tree—with images of deer antlers and the skulls of bison, yellow and teal rainbows and fire cloaked stallions carved into the sapwood—the sun outlined by the moon, appearing as a black hole so close as to be touched, shaped so much like the crown of the head with the bright circle of light dripping red as it were the blood of the universe. \nIn one of the exhibit’s first paintings, Comanche warriors led by Chief Iron Jacket—wearing Spanish armor over his chest, the thick braids of his hair rolling past his shoulders and painted to almost appear as snakes—attack Texas Rangers on a prairie grassland with cedar elm trees, each tree with fain features in the bark to resemble humans, winds shaking them. The forefront tree’s shadow is shaped with its branches and leaves like the crucifixion of Christ. Three Rangers lay dead there, the tree appearing almost as a congregation of ghosts giving service to the dead. .\nBlood appears to drip from the sun, as though it is melting, or it the splashes of blood ripping up from the human flesh into the sky. \n***\nIn another battle painting, in the backdrop, a community of homesteader cabins burn to the ground. The fires spiral toward the skies appearing as though the heavens have been lit on fire, the gloom in the clouds surging toward the primary focus of the painting, like the breath of a ruined god bringing forth a plague. \nIn the forefront, a Comanche village. Charging and rounding the grounds are the combined forces of Texas Rangers and a U.S. Cavalry unit, horseback, setting the teepees on fire, firing at women and children point blank, chasing those who flee, pulling them back by the hair. \nOne woman is being dragged by three soldiers toward the thick trunk of a tree which burns from the branches. She claws at the dirt with one hand, scratching the men with her other, biting with her teeth into the wrists snd fingers of one soldier and kicking with one free leg like a horse through the waist of another soldier. \nBoys and girls running and screaming; a few have been gathered and lined up and shot. \nOlder men, with their eyes of legendary, almost ancient warrior-hearts are scalped alive. The breasts of dead women are being cut from their chests and shaped into tobacco pouches. \nFar off, the size of insects on top of the Wichita Mountains can be seen the Comanche Warriors.\n***\nThe details of the paintings seem to vibrate off the canvas and beat into the pulse of those who see it, as though it infects their memory to torture just by laying eyes on it. \nIn one, titled “The Plague of Buffalo” you can see a party of white hunters departing the grounds on the banks of a river where they leave behind thousands of tongueless bison. On the carcassases are a great deal of meat still rotting. Hundreds of buzzards and crows devour the tarnished flesh from the bones. The eyes of the bison, moist and glistening and the same color as the river, as though their tears fill it up. \nAnother painting, a wave of Comanche warriors, horseback, hundreds in number, led by Chief Quanah Parker with a war lance made of bone and decorated by eagle feathers, like Agemenon leading a fleet of ships across the sea toward the beaches of Troy, gliding under the sun, seemingly cloaked by its light and rays. \nOn a hill beneath them at a fort that very much resembles the Alamo, are settled the buffalo hunters, the bison skins hanging out of wagons outside the fort. \nA storm of arrows pierce the sky, beading downward and beaming straight for the hunters like bladed rain. \nThe next painting reveals the Comanche war party returning with hundreds of scalps staked through the arrows they carry over their shoulders. \nAnother painting where a crew of hunters must take cover in the open fields, laying down on opposite sides behind the bodies of dead bison big as whales, firing and knocking warriors off their horses, bleeding out with arrows struck through their legs and shoulders, chest and heart and neck and stomach. The gunfire from one rifle, the way it sparks and surprised the soldier, feels like the first fire made by man, and another round of gunfire resembles with such bright colors a ferocity of the galaxy, bursting orange and turquoise and devil-red that it seems like the birth of our world emerging from the dark. \nIn one of the final paintings, American cavalry officer Colonel McKenzie follows Native scouts between canyons in the night in search of Comanche Chief Quanah Parker. They beat on, with fear in their eyes, headed deeper and deeper into the dark. \nQuanah Parker sits horseback on top the canyons watching the American party. His straightened black hair shines in streaks as silver as the stars and a smile which is the crescent moon at a certain angle. His band of warriors behind him, like sketches of spirits in the sky, their shadows casting out into the valley ahead of the American party in the shape of owls and wolves, bears and snakes and animals not known to man, snakes with wings and sharks with hind legs, fitting the mode perfectly of those olden-time angels of rebellion of the land’s underneath. \nYou can hear their heartbeat, the hooves of the nervous horses, the howling war cry like a screeching train as though through time their spirit carries on ceaselessly as a chant beating through space and night forever." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Beautiful Day.\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1157\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who is determined to not have their day spoiled — but the universe is trying their patience." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day.\" Skyler sings as she gets out of bed. Today is the start of her one-week spring vacation from her job. Skyler goes into the bathroom and looks at herself in the mirror. Her long light brown braids looked nice against her melba toast skin and hazel eyes. \"What the heck!\" She screamed. She saw a big pimple on her cheek. \"Not cute.\" Skyler popped it. Puss oozed out. \nSkyler knelled down and tried to find a bandage from the cabinet under the sink. There was so much junk in there. She pulled out combs, toilet paper, scarves, old rollers, and a sneaker. \"My sneaker, I have been looking for that.\" She couldn't find a bandage. Skyler bumped her head before she stood up again. \"Ouch. I have to be more careful.\" Skyler grabbed a piece of toilet paper and dabbed puss off her face. \"I look okay,\" She said. Skyler smelled her underarms. \"Where did that stink come from?\" She said. Skyler took off her pajamas and got into the shower. \"Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day.\" She started singing again. Skyler picked up her bath sponge and put some body wash on it. She turned on the valve to hot water, but the water was cold. \"Holy crap, it's cold!\" Skyler screamed, jumping back. She turned the valve to cold, hoping it would be hot, but it was cold also. \"Great, no hot water.\" Skyler quickly showered and got out. She grabbed a towel and dried off. She put on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, then entered her tiny kitchen. \"Captain Crunch, yum.\" Skyler grabbed the box of cereal and a large bowl. She poured a lot of cereal into the bowl. \"This is going to taste good!\" She opened the refrigerator and grabbed the milk. She opened the carton and poured it. A small amount of milk came out. Skyler shrugged her shoulders and poured some water into it. \"This is okay.\" She said, crunching the cereal. Skyler sat on her couch in front of the television in her living room and picked up the remote. She pushed the button on the remote, but the tv would not come on. \"The batteries must be old. I have to do this old school. Skyler got up and tried to turn the tv on manually. \"Still won't come on.\" The tv fell off the stand. \"Oh hell no!\" she exclaimed. She picked it up. \"I don't believe this. The screen is shattered.\" Skyler put the tv back on the stand. \"It was old anyways. I can buy a new one later.\" Skyler said in a cheerful voice. Skyler put on a pair of slide-on slippers, grabbed her small purse from a hook near the door, and walked out of her apartment. She entered her bag, pulled out her key, and then locked the door. Skyler walked downstairs to the sidewalk. She saw her old neighbor lady Ms. Duncan and her labrador Bob. He was off the leash and galloping quickly toward her. \"Not today.\" She said, trying to run back to the stair, but Bob was fast. Bob jumped on her, knocking her down. Bob was on her, humping her leg hard. \"No, Bob.Bad Dog.\" Ms. Duncan screamed. Skyler managed to stand up and push Bob off of her. Ms. Duncan put the leash on Bob. \"I am so sorry Skyler.\" She said, struggling to control Bob. \"You have to take Bob to obedience class,\" Skyler told her. \"He is too much for you to handle.\" \n\"I know, but I don't drive anymore.\" Skyler sighed. She didn't want to say what she was about to say, but Ms. Duncan needed help. \" I will pay for it and take Bob on Saturdays.\" Ms. Duncan smiled big, showing all of her smoke-stained teeth. \"Thank you so much, Skyler. You are such a sweet girl.\" Skyler looked down at Bob, and his tongue hung out of his mouth. \"I will go online later today and enroll him in a class. I will call you.\" Skyler walked away. Why did she do that? Skyler thought. Skyler walked several blocks until she arrived at the park. Skyler walked in the grass and felt a nice breeze. She wished that she had a blanket. It was so lovely. Her face felt hot suddenly as a soccer ball hit her face.\nSkyler screamed in pain. A boy that was eight years old ran up to her. \"Sorry.\" Said the boy. \"Michael Rogers,\" Skyler said, recognizing the boy. \"Ms. Johnson.\" The boy said, shocked. \"I didn't know you came to the park.\" Skyler picked up the ball. \"You thought teachers stayed at the school when the students left?\" The boy shrugged. \"I don't know.\" Two twin boys came running up. \"Hey, Ms. Johnson.\" They said in unison. \"Are you boys enjoying your spring break?\" She asked. \"Yes.\" They both said at once. One of the twins dug into his nose. Kids always did that.\n\"Can we have our ball back?\" Michael asked. Skyler moved back and kicked the ball to him. She instantly felt pain in her big toe, but Skyler didn't show it. The boys ran away back to the soccer area. She looked down and saw her toe bleeding. Skyler had had enough. The whole day was a disaster. She limped off the grass and started back to her apartment. What else can go wrong? She thought. It began to rain. \"Why the heck did I ask.\" A car drove by and splashed Skyler. Dirty water ran down her face and on her clothes. She stood still for several seconds. \n\"Skyler.\" She heard a male voice say. Skyler turned around to see her attractive tall new neighbor running up to her with an umbrella. \"Here, get under the umbrella with me.\" He told her in a thick Spanish accent. \"Thank you, Luis,\" Skyler told him. \"Denada.\" He replied. Luis walked her back to her apartment. When they got to her door, she thanked him again. \"I'm having a small party tonight with people in the building. I want to get to know everyone.\" Luis said, smiling. Skyler felt warm inside. \"I would love for you to come.\" Skyler smiled back. \"Sure, I would love to get to know you.\" She said out loud. \"I mean. I will be there.\" Skyler said, embarrassed. Luis smiled. His smile is so beautiful against his brown skin, and his hair is curly. They stood and looked at each other for a moment.\n\"What time should I come?\" Skyler asked. \"Seven tonight,\" Luis told her.\n\"Okay, see you then.\" Luis smiled again and walked away. Skyler thought he looked perfect in his jeans, which fit him perfectly. Skyler took her key out and opened her door. Today was not the beautiful day she had hoped for, but tonight would be." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Nighthawks\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1662\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters who meet and/or fall in love in a museum." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "With a weary sigh, Edward locked up the gift shop and finally got out of the museum. After eight hours of “the restrooms are around the corner from the large Seurat painting,” “no, you don’t need to know who Seurat is, it’s so big you can’t miss it,” and “I’m sorry, the Starry Night mugs are all sold out. Yes, I know, it’s disappointing,” he was mentally exhausted. This job was supposed to be just a stepping stone until something better came along he could put that art history degree to; he’d spent 27 years in this place. \nThe night shift security guard arriving was Edward’s cue that he could leave – good, because that Old Guitarist always seemed to be staring at him by that time of the evenings. Tipping his hat to the guard, Edward stepped out, down the chipped concrete steps of the museum into the dry, blustery New England autumn night. It was already fully dark out because of the darn daylight savings time change, and the wind funneled between the densely packed buildings in the business district of town, kicking up dead brown leaves on the sidewalk. The only spots of light were the yellow squares of windows where some dedicated workers still had not left – or were avoiding going home to nagging spouses or bratty children. Edward thought of his own empty apartment a short walk away. There should have been a single light on from the lamp on a timer, and it probably still smelled of the baked potato he made – and burned – earlier in the day. He never married, never had any children, never thought to until he realized he was lonely and by then it was too late. Funny that under the frozen eyes of the museum portraits and the streams of school field trips he was constantly surrounded by people and yet wanted nothing more than to go home and be lonely by himself; loneliness in a crowd always seemed worse. \nShoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his tweed coat, Edward shuffled down the sidewalk on the street to his apartment. A pair of children – likely brother and sister – walked their dog before they disappeared up the steps to a deep red brick townhouse with wilted flowers in one of the windowsills. A group of women holding down their cloche hats from the wind carried quick dinners from the local deli, likely going to some church event. Edward realized that he was hungry too, in fact, as the food court in the museum was edible at best and he’d had his fill of greasy French fries that week. Not in the mood to cook anymore that evening, he remembered a diner around the corner from his block. Phillies, he thought it was called. Usually filled with teenagers flirting and studying – not simultaneously – after school but it seemed like a decent place; it was usually quite empty when he was coming back from work and peered through its glass wall. Turning on his heel, Edward cut across the grass toward the diner.\nIt was in fact called Phillies, he had remembered correctly, and it was in fact quite empty. Almost entirely empty actually, with just the man behind the counter in his white uniform and one man sitting with his back to the large window. The soft yellow light coming from inside was a stark contrast to the grey cement and red brick down the rest of the block, something comforting to it. Pushing the door to the diner open, bells jangled above Edward’s head. The counter clerk turned his head and gave him a warm, acknowledging nod; the man sitting on the stool kept staring into his drink without reaction. Edward sat down at the end of the counter, near the steel drink machines.\n“What’ll it be?” the clerk asked him amicably, wiping down the glossy mahogany counter.\n“Uh, what do you recommend?” Edward wondered. “I’m not really a regular here.”\nThe clerk laughed pleasantly. “Yes, well, I can see that. I know most folks coming through these doors.” He did seem like the kind of person who would remember your name and order. “Might I suggest a philly cheesesteak with a cup of black coffee?” \n“Sure,” he nodded and pulled out a napkin from the dispenser, creasing it absentmindedly. \n“Have a lot on your mind?” the clerk asked him.\n“Contrarily, not enough,” Edward chuckled. “You ever feel like this is all you get out of life?” \n“Oh, sometimes, sure. I think everyone does, just part of being human.”\n“You think it happens to some people more than just sometimes?”\n“What’s on your mind?” he served Edward his order and leaned his elbows on the counter to listen. \n“Eh, nothing special. Maybe that’s just it: everyone tells you how special it should be. Marrying the love of your life, doing something you love for a living, kids coming home for Sunday dinners, at least having a dog. But really, you’re stuck at a dead-end job staring at Van Gogh mugs all day, or at least until they sell out – by the way, way too many people are obsessed with Starry Night. Then you go home to an empty apartment where there are no pets allowed, make the same dinner every night, re-read another book, go to sleep and do the whole thing over again tomorrow.” Edward paused with a sigh. “You ever think that dream comes true?”\n“Actually, I think many dreams come true. I don’t think there’s only one single dream. You know, I’m just here behind a diner counter, but I was lucky enough to be married to my high school sweetheart for 48 years before she passed away; I don’t care much for my son-in-law but he makes my daughter happy and they gave me a beautiful granddaughter out of it; and hey, at least I get all the strawberry milkshakes my heart desires here.” His smile was sincere, the smile of a man not bitter of what life had dealt him but happy to reminisce on the happy memories he had. \nEdward dove into the philly cheesesteak as the clerk refilled the other man’s drink. As Edward sipped on the coffee, the diner bells rang and a red-headed woman entered.\n“Josephine,” the clerk recognized her. “This isn’t your regular day – it’s only Thursday.”\n“Ay, the chop-suey place was closed tonight for some reason,” the woman – Josephine – shook off her coat, revealing a bright red dress that immediately livened the drab evening in Edward’s eyes. Her heels clicked on the varnished floor as she took a stool near his. “I’ll take my regular then.”\n“You come here often?” Edward asked her, then cringed – sounded more like a pick-up line than the genuine question he was going for.\nThankfully, she hadn’t noticed – actually, she likely noticed but thought he seemed too gentlemanly to mean it that way – and she grinned a dazzling smile at him. “Yes, but you seem to be a fresh face around here. Where are you coming from?”\n“Grabbing dinner on the way from the museum.”\n“Oh, any interesting exhibits?”\n“Just about all of them if you haven’t seen them for the past six months since they changed the showings,” he explained. “I work there; I wasn’t actually there for a visit.”\n“Seems like a nice place to work,” she said and Edward laughed. “I’m serious!” she insisted. “Sure beats spending all day on a typewriter transcribing your boss’s meeting notes,” she rolled her eyes and sipped the coffee the clerk immediately knew to make for her. \n“Oh really?” Edward challenged her, matching her sparkling tone. “I bet you’d get tired of Starry Night within two weeks.”\n“Hmm,” she leaned in closer. “Highly doubtful – that’s my favorite painting. I don’t think I’d ever get tired of it. Would you ever get tired of looking at the night sky?”\n“The night sky is real though,” he pointed out.\n“So is Starry Night. It’s real paint on real canvas hanging in a real museum.”\n“Fine, but at least the night sky changes; it’s different every night.”\n“So is Starry Night. It’s different when you’re different.”\nEdward leaned back in his stool. “Nothing is ever different with me.”\n“I bet I can find something different,” Josephine's eyes glitter. “Me. I’m Josephine. There, now you met a different person today, so something changed.”\nEdward studied her in the soft yellow diner light and extended his hand. “I’m Edward.”\n“Well, Edward,” she placed her hand gently in his. “Tell me, do you believe in dreams coming true?” \n“I’m starting to.”\n\n ***\n\n“I don’t understand this painting,” Jack says, tilting his head as if that will give him a new perspective. \n“What’s there not to understand?” Emily sighs. “Hopper’s paintings are meant to symbolize modern loneliness, capturing human solitary interactions with other people and the environment.”\n“Thank you, Encyclopedia Emily,” Jack rolls his eyes. “I understand the history but I don’t understand the painting. If he’s all about loneliness, why do those two people look like they’re on a date?”\n“Maybe it’s a married couple enjoying a quiet night out together, or maybe it’s a first date and they had so much in common that they ended up talking all night long, long after everyone else already went home,” Maggie wonders aloud. “Or maybe it’s simply about two lonely people who met each other in the most unlikely of places and took a chance on trying to be, not lonely anymore.”\n“Oh Maggie, you’re such a hopeless romantic,” Emily huffs.\n“Children,” their teacher's voice shrills through the exhibit. “Time to finish this gallery. Next up is Starry Night.”\nAs the class filed out of the room, Edward and Josephine clinked their coffee cups together.\nShe, by the way, did not get tired of Starry Night after two weeks, nor after the 43 years they were married." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: When Will We Ever Learn\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1058\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters who meet and/or fall in love in a museum." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When Will We Ever Learn?\n\n“Careful. That whitewash may still be wet.”\n“What are you talkin' 'bout? How would you know?”\n“Helpin' paint picket fences is one of ma many talents. Used ta spend hours doin' it just fer fun.”\n“Just fer fun? Sounds like work to me.”\n“Then ya'll haven't ever met my good ol' pal Tom Sawyer. He'd talk ya inta it alright. But then agin, ya'll pretty little. Maybe ya couldn't handle the big ol' brush, anyways.”\n“I'm plenty big enough to use a brush. Ya gots one on ya? I'll prove it to ya.”\n“Na, they's got fancy maintenance people in uniforms ta do that kind o' stuff in this high-falutin' place. I'm free an' easy these days. What's ya name anyways. Wheres ya come from?”\n“Scout. My name's 'Scout'. Maycomb. Maycomb, Alabamie, is wheres I come from.”\n“Boy, ya'll a long way from home up here in Chicaga. How'd ya get here?”\n“Don't rightly know. Just opened my eyes an' I'm a sittin' on that bench next ta that book. Thought I would look around tryin' ta figure wheres I at. Where's am I, anyways? Who are ya? Have ya seen my brother, Jem, or my friend, Dill?”\n“This here's the American Writer's Museum in Chicaga, Illinoiz. It's a place where lots of famous or well known past writer's from all over the USA hang out to edicate and entertain folks. Name's 'Huck'. Iz comes from the south, too, along the Big Mississippi River. I popped out o' a book just like ya a whiles back.\n“Come on. I'll show ya around a bit. It's a really grand place even if it's small. Iz even think I've seen your book here somewheres. Look up above. There's a rainbow of books up there. See one by Miss Harper? That's the same as the one on the bench. A visitor must o' left that behind. Haven't seen ya folks, tho.”\n“They're always off on some adventure. They'll be sorry they missed this place.”\n“Hey, Iz like adventure, too. Kinda known fer 'em. Stay close an I'll take ya on one now.\n“Sos this here room with the picket fence around it is the kid's corner. See the giant oak tree with the little woodland critters curled up in the nooks and crannies o' the branches all a readin' some sort of book. 'Wizard o' Oz', Richard Scarry, 'Cat 'n the Hat' an' others. Big mural paintings on the walls like 'Charlotte's Web'. Bean-bag chairs and cozy couches fer little ones ta curl up in an' have books read ta 'em. An' some fun interactive adventures, too. Kid's can explore an' get lost in this corner.\n“This long wall is filled with banner's showing picture's o' authors with some o' their famous words and when they lived. Here's the desk a Mr. Ray Bradbury used. On these tables are typewriters some o' them there authors actually worked with when they wrote their masterpieces. Ya can type some wisdom of your own and pin it on the wall or add ta the story o' the day. Guests create a line ta advance the story started out with a famous first line from a novel, short story, poem, screen play, song or news report. All forms o' written art are represented.\n“With these buttons ya can find out what authors liked the same things ya'll like. Other interactive ideas tell ya the story behind the stories and a lot more. Look at that waterfall o' ever-changing words that are quoted from favorites.\n“Here's a whole nation showing where writers come from. Ya'll's creator, Lee Harper, come from the same hometown as Truman Capote who wrote 'In Cold Blood'. Betcha never knew that! They even wrote something together once.”\n“I never even knew I was created other than by Atticus, and, o' course, Ma who I don't remember.”\n“Na, we's all what they call 'characters'. Some o' us are 'protagonists' and some are 'antagonists'. But we live our lives in their creations with conflicts and resolutions and 'character arcs' that prove we learned sumpin' or maybe we didn't learn nuthin'. I know Miss Watson tried to 'sivilize' me with all kinds o' learnin' an' I had ta get away from it all. Iz happiest just floatin' down the Mississippi with good ol' Jim. Boy, did we have some sketchy adventures!”\n“Well, I don't know if I'm an agonist or what. Thought I was Baptist. Atticus tried ta teach me right from wrong but things sure got mixed up in my town. See that wall o' Negroes there? Says they was all real educated and wrote a lot o' wise things. But Atticus, ya see he's a lawyer, and a good one, he proved this black man in our town was a good man and never did the cruel thing he was accused o'. But the jury said he was guilty anyway. When poor Mista Robinson tried to escape they shot him dead.\n“All along it was this mean ol' girl's daddy that did the mean things to her. Then that mean ol' man tried to hurt Jem an' me. Broke Jem's arm. But Boo came to our rescue. I was always afraid of Boo when I was littler but he turned out to be a good man after all. He just acted differently. Anyways. Hard to understand the justice when an innocent man is thrown in jail 'cause of the color of his skin.”\n“Yeah, ma friend ol' Jim was a slave who just wanted ta get home ta his wife an' kids. We had an awful time sortin' that all out. Not right fer someone ta own another person but anyone wit' dark skin were thought o' more like animals in ma time.”\n“My time was seventy years after slavery was done away with yet they was still treated poorly. Looks like what this man King says they was still suffering thirty years past my time and fightin' fer rights. When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?”\n“Ya know, Scout, ya'll real smart an' kinda cute even if ya dress like a boy in ya rolled-up bib overalls. But we needs ta get back inta our books 'fore folks come in. Think I can see ya agin tanight afta the place closes up?\nWWW\namericanwritersmuseum.org" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Haint Tree\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1441\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a human and a cat that come to some kind of mutual understanding." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Rooster and Keisha had an understanding.\nRooster was the family cat… or technically— he was Keisha’s great-grandma’s cat. It was the family myth that Rooster had more than nine lives and just wouldn’t die. The cat was apparently old as sin and had been around for generations. It had been around when Keisha’s great-grandma was a girl, when her grandma was a girl, when her mother was a girl, and so on and so on…..\nAnd apparently he was still here over thirty years later and Keisha was an adult.\n“You still ain’t dead yet Rooster?” Keisha said amicably to the cat as she walked up the wooden walkway that led to her grandmama’s porch.\nKeisha’s great-grandma had an old, wooden house located in the back-woods of Alabama. It was a small, one story house on several acres of land that was surrounded by the forest and a small crop beside it. This house was the place that all of Keisha’s family gravitated to every year. It was the place where Keisha’s aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings traveled every summer and ate good food, drank good drink, and had tons of fun. It was also the place where Rooster resided…. Keisha’s great-grandma’s half-feral cat.\nRooster half lived in the woods and occasionally allowed the rest of the family to bask in his presence.\nKeisha spent summers chasing that cat through the woods or getting scratched by him because she did something to piss Rooster off. Sometimes if she was really lucky— Rooster would rub up against her legs and let her scratch behind his ears. If she was really, really, lucky– Rooster would curl up in her lap and purr contently.\nMost of the time she wasn’t lucky because Rooster was a temperamental little shit.\nRight now— Rooster seemed to be in one of his “moods”-- so Keisha kept her distance as she walked up to the porch of the old house.\nHe gave Keisha an unimpressed look as she dropped her backpack on her great-grandma’s porch and stretched her back. For some reason— she had inherited her great-grandma’s house.\nSally-Mae Peterson was the family matriarch and the most respected woman in the family. Keisha had never known her to be an idle woman. She was always up and moving about. She was always cooking, cleaning, gardening, planting and picking in the fields, or feeding the chickens and pigs behind her home.\nKeisha loved this place. \nShe loved the forest, the country-side, and the hard-work and freedom that came with being a country girl.\nShe even loved Rooster.\nThe problems started when Keisha’s great-grandma died. \nThe family started fighting over who would own the house, or if they would sell the land, or what they would do with all of the possessions in the house. Keisha never thought her family would be ripped apart by something like money— but— here they were.\nIn a strange twist of fate—-Keisha had somehow inherited the house. It was stated specifically in her great-grandma’s will that the house and the land would be inherited by her. It wasn’t that much of a surprise to Keisha.\nEvery year— no matter where she was— every summer she would make her way back down to the backwoods of Alabama. She would return to her great-grandma’s house and help her in the fields and whatever else she needed. She would drink beer on the porch and watch as Rooster did whatever the hell it was that Rooster did.\nMainly shit in the yard and then stare at her challengingly.\nThere was also another reason she came to what she considered home every year. She came specifically to help her great-grandmother with the Haint Tree. \nThe Haint Tree was supposedly a magical tree that was supposed to protect the land from Haints. Haints were supposedly evil spirits, ghosts, ghouls…. all the things that went creep in the night. \nThe Haint Tree was just a normal tree, with normal branches, and normal leaves.\nThe only thing that made it different from every other tree in the yard was the fact that it was covered in painted blue bottles tied to the branches with cords. The bottles were filled with needles and the only remarkable thing about it was— the bottles were filled with trapped Haints.\nApparently a Haint was the type of spirit that couldn’t help but count things.\nSo Keisha’s grandma filled the bottles with needles and when the Haints came near to count the needles— it would magically get sucked into the bottles and pinned by the needles. You’d know a Haint was in a bottle if the bottle suddenly glowed at Dawn or Sunset.\nHowever—- nobody in the family believed in Haints but Keisha.\nIt was considered nothing more than a bed-time story to keep all the kids in line.\n“Be good or the Haints will get ya…..” or, “Stay outta the forest at night or a Haint will eat you up.”\nKeisha’s grandma said that Haints were scared of cats and that was why Rooster was around. Everyone knows that cats eat Haints.\nSo Keisha had inherited the house and the land— and that meant that she had inherited Rooster too.\nThe cat that wouldn’t die.\n“Guess it’s just you and me now, Rooster.” Keisha said as she squatted down and continued petting the cat..\nShe stood up and surveyed the land in the growing twilight. It was beautiful as always.\nThe fireflies were just coming out and she would check on the pigs and chickens and the crop tomorrow after she rested.\nShe also stared at the Haint Tree beside the gravel driveway that led up to the house.\nKeisha remembered when she saw a Haint when she was little.\nIt had been sundown and she’d been climbing trees in the forest and running wild that summer. She was heading back to her grandmama’s house when she started to feel like something was watching her.\n“Kkkkkkeeeeeiiiiissssshhhhaaaaaaa……..” An eerie voice sang through the trees, “ Come and plllaaayyyy. Come and plaaaaay.”\nThe trees started swaying and the leaves started whispering and it suddenly got cold in the middle of summer. She’d remembered being so scared that she’d frozen on the spot and turned in circles trying to see the voice in the trees. She already knew that she wasn’t allowed to talk to strangers…. But this didn’t sound like a stranger. It didn’t even sound like a person.\nSuddenly Rooster was there.\nHe looked the same today as he looked twenty years ago. \n Keisha watched fascinated as he changed suddenly from a shaggy cat into something else—- something large, and made of smoke. Its golden eyes looked like little balls of fire and its fangs glowed in the light.\nWhen Rooster growled— the trees stopped whispering and moving and became still again. It felt like the thing that had called to Keisha had run— disappeared straight back into the forest.\nRooster turned to her and growled softly.\nHe was still big , and smoke-like but Keisha wasn’t scared. She knew Rooster had protected her.\n“Thanks Rooster.” She’d said as she petted his ghostly head. \nRooster growled again and nudged her back in the direction of her grandmama’s house. Keisha took the hint and ran straight home. She could hear Rooster running behind her but she didn’t turn around until she cleared the forest and was on her great-grandma's porch again. When She turned she saw Rooster was a little cat again and grooming himself.\nFrom that day on— She and Rooster had an understanding.\nHe would protect her from the Haints.\nIt didn’t matter if Rooster shit on her pillow, destroyed her sneakers, or was a temperamental little shit.\nShe would always love and respect Rooster. The cat who ate Haints.\nShe knew Rooster protected her family from the things in the forest—- but now Keisha was here too. She was gonna help. She was gonna make sure to take care of that Haint Tree— to keep it full of bottles and make sure they didn’t break.\nShe was gonna take care of the house, and the land, and Rooster for as long as she drew breath.\nKeisha sat down beside Rooster on the porch and stared at the Haint Tree. It was glowing slightly. \nThen the wind started whispering and the trees started swaying and Keisha felt eyes on her. She turned towards the forest and stared. She knew something was there even if she couldn’t see it.\nShe petted Rooster as his hackles rose and they both stared off into the forest. Something was out there. \nBut it would be alright.\nThey had each other." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 lift on the wildside\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1838\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Write about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night.\nCharles Lytton-Cobbolt had never been afraid of finding himself in an elevator except the day he died. As a matter of fact, on his last day on earth, he had entered such a device fully happy with not a worry on his mind. He worked at Mancini-Duffy. It was a New York-based architecture and interior design firm. The firm provided a full range of interior planning, design, and architecture services. As he was the V.P. and chief of PR, he had been in charge of organizing the firm's fiftieth anniversary. Alfred Mancini had founded the house in 1951. The old man was still there in the office that had the most windows. Now, Mancini-Duffy had become so big that it needed two full stories in the World Trade South Tower.\nThey were supervising renovation work at the New York City Museum. The people in charge had needed to move its Venetian collection out of the way in order to renovate the galleries where the masterpieces had been shown previously. Painting in Renaissance Venice represents one of the most vital chapters in the entire history of European art. Its enormous influence was due above all to the achievement of its dominant personality, Titian. But Titian was merely the greatest in a constellation of pictorial geniuses and extraordinary craftsmen. This included the artists Giovanni Bellini, Lorenzo Lotto, Jacopo Bassano, Canaletto, Jacopo Tintoretto and Paolo Veronese.\nThat had been two months before in July; his wife had come up with the idea. Why not get the pictures out of the warehouse, take them where he worked and get the fifty-year festivities to take place under the benevolent eye of the Tintoretto. This had been a marvellous idea and except for a few hassles with the insurance companies, nobody anywhere had opposed the project. Over the last weekend, employees under Charles's scrupulous supervision installed all fifty-one of the New York City Museum paintings on the walls in the Mancini-Duffy great entry hall.\nSomething strange had happened late that Sunday afternoon though. Charles had found himself in front of a view of the Piazza San Marco in Venice, a painting by Canaletto. Much of Canaletto's early artwork was painted \"from nature\", differing from the then-customary practice of completing paintings in the studio. His paintings were always notable for their accuracy. This one made him think of the hyperrealism trend in the art of the seventies. The picture must have been three feet high and five feet wide. He was marvelling at the details of the piece, the incredible labour it must have cost its creator in order to reproduce the buildings around him with so much precision and perfection.\nAs Charles was being amazed by the artisan's artistry and dexterity, something quite implausible happened. Amongst the people that walked the Piazza, all of a sudden, against all reason, he recognized Billy Trudup. There was no doubt about it. It was him all right. His hair brown and receding, his nose bulbous, his eyes under bushy eyebrows that always needed plucking, his mouth that opened on horse's teeth so much so that you felt they were made to chew grass.\nBilly Trudup worked for Aon Corp on the hundredth floor of the World Trade Center. In the Canaletto picture, it looked like he was talking to another gentleman who seemed vaguely familiar to Charles. But all you could see of the second fellow was his back. Both men were dressed in the ways of the time. Trudup in a black outfit, his interlocutor in a light-coloured one.\nHe went home and told his wife about his strange experience. She didn't make much of it. But then, she hadn't seen what he had looked at. That night, their four-year-old daughter Thelma had a nightmare that had them both up on their feet and in her room. The child told them about having dreamed of her papa holding a bird in his hand. And then he had let the bird fly away just for the feathered creature to crash violently against a window nearby and drop dead on the ground. They reassured the frightened little girl the best they could, his wife doing most of the work as he stared feeling inadequate and useless. Somehow, Thelma calmed down and they went back to sleep.\nTomorrow was a big day. September 11, 2001. It would be fifty years this day that Mancini-Duffy had begun operating. Starting at five in the afternoon, they would all enjoy the party Charles had organized. The Venetian art collection he had put together would ensure that all those who counted for something in the city would be there. With this happy thought sleep engulfed him.\nThe first thing he did when he arrived for work that Monday at eight sharp was to look again at the Canaletto of the Piazza San Marco. He must have Billy come down and see what he looked like in the middle of a Venetian crowd. This would be a sight worth seeing, to stare at Billy's astonished face when he realized it was him in the painting.\nNext, Charles was distracted by a phone call, then another and he forgot all about Billy Trudup until twenty before nine. He tried to call him at Aon but couldn't get through. So he decided to use the lift and climb to the hundredth floor. That way, he would get back the art book he had lent his friend in order to interest him in those painters that were now being shown on the Mancini-Duffy's walls downstairs.\nThe elevator stopped on the twentieth floor and he got in. There were a few people in it that he recognized from Sun Microsystems on floor twenty-five and twenty-six and from Morgan Stanley that occupied most of the floors between forty-five and seventy-five. The door closed. As they went up, he heard someone calling his name: \"Hi, Charlie.”\nHe recognized Billy's cracked voice instantly. On floor 25, the elevator's door opened and the man that had hidden Billy got off with the only two women they had been riding with. This left the five middle-aged men from Morgan Stanley that were discussing one take over or another of a group in Portugal that was sure to go broke and they had this strategy to short the English consortium that was involved. They stepped out of the lift on the forty-sixth floor. The elevator's door closed on both of Charles and Billy. They were left alone.\nBilly showed him the book that he was holding in his hands: The Art of the Venetian Renaissance. Before Charles could take it out of his grasp, the cabin they were in stopped with a disquieting shudder and the sound of metal grating on metal. All light went out and for a few seconds they were plunged into total blackness. Then, a very feeble gleam of reddish luminosity enveloped them. Both men looked at each other.\n\"Damn!\" Charles erupted. \"Of all days, not this one.\"\nThen, the excitement he derived from the story he wanted to impart with took over and he told Billy about his improbable presence in the Canaletto's painting downstairs. He didn't receive the response he thought the revelation deserved and this unsettled him a bit. Looking vexed, Charles pressed on the 20th-floor button.\n\"What are you doing?\" a very composed Billy Trudup asked him, showing his hoofed teeth.\n\"You must come down with me and you will see by yourself.\"\n\"Well, you will not change this device's mind to get to my floor first but it may consent to go back to yours after.\"\n\"We are stuck.\" Charles lamented.\n\"It's never for very long.\" Billy, the eternal optimist, countered.\nThen, he surprised Charles by saying something intelligent. \"This painting of yours, it might be in the book you are presently holding. Why don't you look it up right now and see if you can find it.\" He then proceeds to extract from his pocket a pen that he pointed on the book Charles was holding. Well, the last thought, that Billy, he always manages to show up with the right instrument when there is a need.\nUnder the glare thus provided, Charles perused through the book for one minute or two and then he exclaimed: \"I got it!\" The painting by Canaletto of the Piazza San Marco was covering half of page seventy-eight and he could well see all of the masterpiece's smallest details and fine points. As he was about to let his friend look up the painting, something hit him hard in the stomach. His vision blurred and at once he became dizzy, his footing suddenly unsure. He crashed against the nearest wall and would have fallen to the floor if not for Billy's help.\n\"What's wrong with you?\" Billy asked him. \"It's like you have seen a ghost.\"\nCharles was as white as the shirt he was wearing. He said in a voice bland and lifeless with a bit of panic in it: \"I must get out of here.\"\n\"Sorry mate but that ain't possible right this minute.\" Billy answered with a smile on his otherwise worried face.\nHis friend's eyes were no longer focused. They had the crazy aspect of the void where matter had once occupied space. Charles Lytton-Cobbolt collapsed at that moment. He let go of the book that fell from his hand and stayed open at Canaletto's masterpiece. After making sure Charles wasn’t dying on him, Billy took hold of the volume and looked at the painting trying to find out what was in it that might explain his friend's rapid breakdown.\nAnd then he saw it. In the middle of the composition, there were two men talking. One was Charles. He could recognize his architect friend as easily as if it had been a snapshot. Well, that was a coincidence. Not worth making such a show, though. Then he gazed at the picture a bit more. It looked like Charles had held a bird that had managed to free himself a second before. One could see the creature flying toward a building nearby.\n\"Well!\" Billy said, as his companion besides him was howling nonsense. Next, he heard a noise that challenged his definition of the word. The edifice shuddered as though it were a tree that had been caught in a great wind. He had the time to form one last thought. This sure was an elevator with an attitude. The good news though was that now, it would go up again.\nAnd then, everything went black as he and Charles coalesced in a bonfire of flashing incandescence.\nA former tenant of Two World Trade Center, Mancini-Duffy New York offices were destroyed in the September 11, 2001, attack. At 8:46 a.m., five hijackers crashed American Airlines Flight 11 into the World Trade Center's North Tower (1 WTC), and at 9:03 a.m., another five hijackers crashed United Airlines Flight 175 into the South Tower.\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: To breathe or to bleed\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1207\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character being led somewhere by a stray cat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A sharp blow to the back of the head rendered him soundly into unconsciousness. I let the last of them drop to the pavement in an unceremonious heap, and cast about to find it.\n\nAmber colored eyes peered from the darkness. Black tail causing a strange visual flicker against the near impermeable alley's shadows. Then it was off again, bounding from can to create, from sill to to bin, and with each a glance back to be sure I followed.\n\nI stayed centered and tread with as much quiet a I could muster. My companion holding the lions share (pun intended) of my attention. The rest I used to glimpse into the concealing shadows. I didn't know if I should exactly expect other nefarious types to spring ill conceived traps at me, but then again... I was following a damned cat.\n\nNot just any cat, I should explain. This tiny trouble maker, or one like it, had haunted my every dream for the past fortnight. Through scatterings of human refuse, and forgotten pieces of the once-hoped-upon, it would lead me. A few paces ahead, always glancing back to see if I followed.\n\nI couldn't say exactly why it did this, or why I followed, out side the obvious. I wanted the godforsaken dreams to stop, and this seemed the surest way to that come to pass.\n\nI followed this way another quarter of an hour, until it finally lit at the opening of a narrow passage. The way led between two buildings, that loomed 3 stories above on one side, and twice that on the other. The cat sat and peered it's questioning yellow eyes at me, it's form engulfed by the utter darkness.\n\nIt sat and waited.\n\nI peered into the darkness trying to make out anything of interest. Foreboding shadows refused to give up secrets, and the cat's only replay was an incessant mew.\n\n\"Fine...\" I said, glancing about as I slipped my trusty sap back into my belt and in it's place produced a set of fine lock picks. \"but there better be something of value down here, or it's dream cat for dinner.\"\n\nThe lock that secured the grate was old, and rusted. Though it's mechanisms were no match for my expertise, the state of it's disrepair could have proven the undoing of my tools. Finesse was the word of the night, and after a few long moments of coaxing, she opened to me.\n\nSeeing my task done, my feline companion slipped through to vanish into the dark beyond. The rusted hinges made low moaning wails that echoed down the passageway. If someone... or gods forbid, something awaited me, they knew I had arrived.\n\nI took a deep breath and held it as immersed myself in shadows of the passage. Immediately the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and my heart raced in my chest. My eyes darted forward, intent upon seeing some dark mystery I was sure was there. A second later, and a fraction of a second too late I turned to stay the closing of the gate. It clanged in triumphant mockery at my bitter failure. With its ringing finality a weight descended upon my soul.\n\nWhen would I ever tire of making stupid mistakes?\n\n\"In for a penny...\" I said aloud, to be sure that some aspect of what I was experiencing was real. My voice echoed off solid walls on either side, and bounced it's way down the passage.\n\nI sighed, and stalked forward, hand resting on the dagger still sheathed at my waste. Bitter grey played against somber black, defining the difference between wall and floor. Shapeless darkness made it difficult to gauge distance in the long narrow. I kept my arms and legs close to core, slinking along ready to strike or run at the first sign of trouble.\n\nI knew too many colleagues who made sport of those foolish enough to wander about this way. My city was well known for random disappearances. Not all were the handiwork of brigands or cutpurses, though in this moment I would have almost preferred their mundanity.\n\n\"Here kitty...\" I called out in hushed terms, torn between alerting what might be here to my presence, and the companionship of the mysterious trap setter.\n\nA sudden movement ahead gave me pause, though nothing revealed itself immediately. I held stalk still a few long moments, counting my heart beats and shallow breaths.\n\nThen as if from all about me I heard a voice, thundering in it's impractical dulcetness.\n\n\"What are -you- doing here?\"\n\nI rose up from my crouch ever so slightly, and cast around the darkness for the voices owner.\n\n\"Don't bother looking for me human...\" The feminine voice chuckled then, amused at something I didn't quite gather. \"you wont find me...\"\n\n\"Fair enough...\" I said, trying to maintain my calm. My heart thundered in my chest and I was certain what ever this would could hear it.\n\nResolved to what ever the fates had in store, I regained my full height, and attempted a worriless shrug. I was sure my ruse failed.\n\n\"Emmm...\" came the voice again. \"There you are...\"\n\n\"Yes...\" I said, feeling a bit more brave, for reasons only the gods know. \"But where are you?\"\n\nThat amused laughter again.\n\n\"So...?\" it said when it's mirth had taken it's course.\n\n\"So...?\" I echoed, not sure what the question was.\n\n\"I asked you a question... you have yet to answer.\"\n\n\"Oh...\" I said and careened my neck to work out a kink I didn't feel. \"well... I'm simply looking for... a... cat.\"\n\n\n\"A Caaat...?\" There was unmistakable disdain in it's voice.\n\n\"Yes...\" I said and pantomimed holding a loaf of bread. \"It's a small creature... abuot yay big... furr...\"\n\n\"I know what a cat is...\" this time the voice held no mirth what so ever. \"Why are you looking for a cat here?\"\n\n\"This is where it went...\" I shrugged. \"Seemed a prudent place t..\"\n\n\"Why would you follow a cat into my layer...?\" As it said this, I noticed movement from above. Movement which drew my eye, and in that moment, I wished to all the gods that it hadn't.\n\nMoored there, and hovering perhaps 3 meters above my head was a form I could at first make out only as a woman. Common sense screamed run as eight spindly legs, quick and nimble, bore her toward me. The spear she held tightly in human hands poised and ready made that the least practical of ideas.\n\nShe leaned closer, two sets of solid black eyes locked onto me, inciting fear to hold my legs in place.\n\n\"Do you not enjoy breathing more than you enjoy bleeding, human?\"\n\nI felt my heart buckle in my chest, and the world began to swim. Darkness took me soon after that.\n\nMoments later I started a wake to a shrill, almost infantile cry, that I'm not ashamed to admit came from my throat. I panted shallowly and cast about the room, until my eyes locked on my window sill. And the pair of Amber eyes that peered in at me.\n\nI rose from my meager pallet, and crossed to the window... and closed it.\n\nI hate cats." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: THE BUS DRIVER AND THE LADY\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2574\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Why do you drag on the bus each night?”\n “Tired. I run a small business.”\n “Come sit with me? I have thirty minutes.”\n “I don’t want to intrude on your layover time. Just help me step out for air.”\n “It won’t be. You look tired. Come have coffee and a bite to eat.”\n “If I sat back here, I’d never wake up. Damn, these seats are comfy.”\n “I’m Roma.”\n “Kathryn, my friends call me Kat. Like arrivederci, Roma?”\n “Strange parents. I have a brother named London and a sister, Paris. If I’m not too forward may I call you Kat.”\n “Yes. The names are cute and a bit sexy. Your parents travel a lot?”\n “Never home, but it turned out for the best. My grandmother raised us. She was a modern woman before it became popular. Enough about me. Why so downtrodden? With your looks, life should be a blessing.”\n “Work. Deadlines must be met.”\n “You’re too beautiful for your forlorn look. Someone should take care of you. Kat, you’re very sexy. Don’t you have someone to tell you how gorgeous you are?”\n “No.”\n “Didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just your dark eyes call me.”\n “See you tomorrow? Whether you win of not, I’d like to spend some time with you.”\n “Yes.”\n***\n “Hello, little birds. You want breakfast. I’m glad you don’t wake me like my last lover and yell and scream because breakfast I slept late. Your tapping is a great wake-up call. Now to get coffee, dressed, and call a cab.”\n***\n “Mrs. Sinclair, I’m glad to make this presentation to you. These are my cohorts. Pat Thomas, photographer, and Tim Overbeck, copywriter.”\n “I’ve brought my partner, Sybil Lincoln and our finance manager, Alva Torres.”\n “Torres, have any questions for Kathryn Dunbar LLC?”\n “Are the companies on board with this. It’ll increase their budgets.”\n “Yes, In the back of the packet are commitments from ten companies.”\n “Ms. Dunbar, why my company?”\n “I ride the bus every day….”\n “Give us a minute. I like the ideas but want to hear my partners.”\n “We’ll be right outside. Take your time.”\n “Why should they go with us? We’re small.”\n “Might be the best reason. We can give them our personal attention. We gave them a great price since most of our money will come from the advertisers. I’ve got some dynamite pictures for the ads.”\n “Torres’ a little jittery but Sybil and I outvoted her. We’ve decided to take you on.”\n “I’ll make sure your trust is rewarded.”\n “Ms. Dunbar, I’d like to speak with you privately for a moment.”\n “You said you ride the bus daily, correct?”\n “Yes, ma’am.”\n “Please call me Addi. It’s short for Adelaide. How do my drivers treat the passengers?”\n “They smile, give information, and are courteous. I ride with Ron Alcorn in the morning and Roma, I don’t know her last name, at night.”\n “Any other times.”\n “Sometimes mid-afternoon and Saturdays and Sundays. All the drivers are an asset to the company.”\n “I’m having a company party tomorrow at four Come and bring your staff.”\n “We’d be delighted.”\n***\n “You look happy today.”\n “I am. My company made a presentation this morning and got the bid.”\n “That calls for a celebration.”\n “When?”\n “Now. At the route’s end, I’m done. I know a place not too far from the turnaround. Great drinks, music, and food. Sit back and relax.”\n “Time to go.”\n “Why don’t you look sexy in those tight black pants and white pirate shirt.”\n “Thank you, ma’am.”\n “Like your dashing two-seater in cobalt blue with white interior. Smells new.”\n “A birthday present.”\n***\n “Here? Isn’t Club Rouge a strip club?”\n “Yes. The menu is small, however, the food and view rocks.”\n “Your waitress will be with you shortly. In the meantime, can I get you a drink?”\n “I hope you don’t mind me having a brandy.”\n “No, I’d join you, but I don’t drink and drive.”\n “Nice place. Do you come here often?”\n “Maybe twice a week. Like looking at beautiful women. Now, tell me about your winning presentation.”\n “Before I do, I wonder if this is the week for people named after cities.”\n “How so?”\n “You know the bus company you work for is run by Mrs. Sinclair?”\n “She’s a nice lady but tough.”\n “Her name is Adelaide and wants to be called Addi.” \n “Hmm, Let’s order, then you can tell me about your day.” \n “What do you suggest? Everything sounds good.”\n “I’m having grilled roast beef with Swiss on pumpernickel with tomato and horseradish sauce on the side. For you how about a cheeseburger max with horseradish mayo. You can add peppers.”\n “Sounds great.”\n “The waitress is trying to tease one of us.”\n “Yeah, I got that. Back to Mrs. Sinclair. She came with her finance manager and Sybil her partner. Wonder what she meant by that.”\n “Could be one of two things, business or lovers.”\n “I think the latter. She said it with a wink. I made my presentation; they conferred, and she accepted. Torres, her financial person, wasn’t too thrilled but she got outvoted. Roma, where are you?”\n “Wondering how you’d look nude. Sorry, if I embarrassed you but you’re one hot lady.”\n “No one’s said that about me in a long time. I didn’t expect it from you.”\n “Why not? Didn’t you’d pick up on my attraction to you?”\n “I thought you were just being friendly, although, I did hope for more.”\nThe show began stopping their conversation.\n “Ladies and gentlemen, oops, no men here but you know what I mean. You horny butches get ready to see some of the sexiest women show you their bodies.”\n “I know you didn’t expect this, so I got some dollars. Spread it around.”\n “Never been to a strip show before. Do they take it all off?”\n “By law must cover, if you want to call what they wear covering, tits and crotch.”\n “You’re cute. Are you taken?”\n “I hope so.”\n “Well, if she ever disappoints, I’m here.”\n “I’ll remember but hope it never happens.”\n “Is there another bus?”\n “No, why? Did I do something?”\n “I want to go home.”\n***\n “Tell me where you live so I can drive you home. Hey, what’s wrong? Did I do something?”\n “Are you taken? I don’t get involved with people in relationships.”\n “Oh, that. No, I’m not but I want to be.”\n “Want to come up for coffee?”\n “Yes, that would be nice.”\n “I don’t drive but having the extra space is nice. Park that gorgeous piece of machinery.”\n “Yes, ma’am.”\n***\n “Make yourself comfortable. The bar is well-stocked. I’d like a Remy.”\n“I want to see your legs. Put on these and relax.”\n “Wow, you look so sexy.”\n “They feel nice. Why red silk boxers?”\n “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”\n “Try me,”\n “For you. I hoped I could get you here. They really show off your legs.”\n “Why thank you, ma’am.”\n “Think of Beth Hart’s “I’d Rather Go Blind if you ever leave me.”\n “Kat, I know you’ve been hurt and so have I but tonight let’s forget our past pain and see where this goes.”\n “I love your arms around me. I, for some reason, feel safe.”\n “I want you to always feel that way with me. I’d never hurt you. I want to take you on a journey to the stars and beyond. I want you to see colors you never knew existed and I want you to scream for me to take you.”\n “Wow, Roma, that’s a lot. Let’s finish our drinks in the bedroom.\n “Feeding time at the zoo. They wake me every morning.”\n “What a great wake-up call.”\n “After they’re fed, we can eat.”\n “I thought we did that last night.”\n “Food, silly but we can fit some more of that into the mix.”\n “See you at the party later.”\n “Yes, you will. Are you working tonight?”\n “No.”\n “Good, I have a surprise for you.”\n***\n “What’s up, Kat?”\n “Oh, hi. Nothing.”\n “You called me here for nothing? I don’t believe it. You’re grinning. Still basking in the glow of getting the contract?”\n “Sort of. I had dinner with Roma.”\n “Who’s that?”\n “One of Sinclair’s bus drivers.”\n “And?”\n “Well, we went to Club Rouge.”\n “A strip club, why?”\n “It has great food and some gorgeous women.”\n “There’s more to this. C’mon, give.”\n “Watched the show and put one hundred dollars into their G-strings. The money a gift from Roma.”\n “The woman just gave you a hundred dollars. What did you have to do for it?”\n “Nothing really.”\n “It’s the really, I’m worried about.”\n “Afterwards we came back here. We made love. Pat, I’ve never soared so high so fast. Roma knew how to make me scream.”\n “You going to see her again?”\n “At the party and I asked her to return here tonight.”\n “Are you sure? She’s a bus driver.”\n “I wouldn’t care if she was a ditch digger. I want her. She’s sexy, loving, and great to look at.”\n “Kat, I’m sorry. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”\n “I know but I’ve never felt what I did last night.”\n***\n “Hey baby, I missed you.”\n “It’s only been a few hours.”\n “Roma, these are my partners, Pat and Overbeck.”\n “Kat, this place rocks. Manicured lawns, black-vested waiters, and our benefactors holding court.”\n “Be right back. Seems Ms. Lincoln wants to speak to me.”\n “Kat, I see what you mean. She’s damn sexy. Those tight black slacks show off her assets. No pun intended.”\n “Ms. Dunbar, Glad you and your people could make it.”\n “Nice spread both the place and the party. Thanks for inviting us, Adelaide, Addi.”\n “You’re welcome, Kathryn.”\n “Please call me Kat.”\n***\n “Why so nervous, chile? Sleeping with the dark-eyed wonder?”\n “Aunt Sybil, that’s kind of personal, don’t you think?”\n “You did.”\n “I…”\n “Don’t answer. Be careful. Remember what happened with Tamara?”\n “Yes.”\n “Kathryn is a looker. Your grandmother would take to her.”\n “Auntie, don’t want to hear about my grandmother having sex.”\n “What about me having sex?”\n “I was teasing Roma here about Kathryn, said you’d be interested, also reminded her about Tamara.”\n “Damn straight, if I were years younger and didn’t have neither of you.”\n “Ladies, “I’ll be ok. We both have been hurt. Kat and I haven’t spoken about it yet. We will.”\n “Kat, very familiar.”\n “She thinks Kathryn too formal.”\n “Roma, Does she know yet?”\n “Oh shit. Should be fun when she finds out Addi is your grandmother. Hope….”\n “Me too. We were busy celebrating last night.”\n “Great balls of fire, You and she?”\n “Yes, grandma.”\n “You need to tell her before it gets too deep.”\n “Maybe not. We didn’t tell your dad for two years and we worked here.”\n “Addi, he knew.”\n “Kat, have you met London and Paris my two other grandchildren.”\n “No, Where’s Roma?”\n “Sybil needs to talk to you, now.”\n***\n “Have a seat. Would you like a drink?”\n “Yes, Ms. Lincoln, thank you. Remy.”\n “I know you’re shocked to discover Roma’s relationship with Addi.”\n “To say the least.”\n “My niece is a private person. She wants people to like her as her, not her money. She thinks she’s found such a person in you. Is she correct?”\n “Yes, ma’am. Roma sets my mind whirling.”\n “I’m not asking if you’ve slept together yet since I know you did. No, Roma didn’t say but not saying told me volumes. I only ask you to take care of her.”\n “Ms. Lincoln, I plan to make Roma happier than she’s ever been. I’m falling in love with her. She’s sexy, sensuous, has a voice I love hearing. She’s everything I’ve wanted in a woman determined to make it on her own.”\n “You know now. What’s your next action?”\n “I didn’t know and I’m glad I didn’t. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go find her. I’m sure she’s worried about my reaction, and I don’t think she saw me come in here with you.”\n “Kat, go. I think you’re the perfect woman for Roma. Love her fiercely as I know she does you. Now scat.”\n***\n “Kat, you’re still here. Where were you? I thought you left.”\n “Having a talk with your Aunt Sybil.”\n “Oh, I’m sorry about all this. I should’ve told you.”\n “No. It might have made a difference. I would’ve been more skittish.”\n “So, you don’t mind?”\n “Roma, I like Addi and Sybil and I understand their concern. I turned around and you were gone. Why?”\n “I got scared. My mind went into overdrive thinking you might call it off before it began. I didn’t want to hear you tell me you couldn’t see me.”\n “Baby, I want to see, touch and love you. I know we belong together. I want you to forget any hurt you’ve ever experienced. We still have things to learn about each other but how to love isn’t one of them.”\n “I didn’t think anyone could evoke such emotion but what you’ve said opens a tsunami of love for you. I’ll tell the old ladies we’re leaving. I need time with you.”\n “What old ladies? Addi or I could teach you, youngsters, a thing or two.” She saw Roma’s red eyes. “Are you all right? You’ve been crying.”\n “It’s nothing, Auntie. Kat just told me things I’ve longed to hear.”\n “Go, I’ll tell Addi you left. Take care of each other. Don’t worry about work either of you. Kathryn, we won’t be making any selections to pursue before Wednesday. Torres is notorious for dragging her ass, especially when outvoted.”\n “Why does she fight you two?”\n “She hopes like a poker player I know to win one day. Won’t happen. Go.”\n “Pat and Overbeck, be back Wednesday.”\n***\n “Roma, let’s get something to eat. There’s a quaint place on the ocean with checkered tables.”\n “Sounds good. Let’s sit inside. Don’t like sand in my food.”\n “A dozen oysters? Trying to get me worked up?”\n “Yes. I want you hot and ready when we get home.”\n “Home, I like the sound of that. Kat, I may have to find a place to park and ravish you.”\n “Now, that might be fun.”\n “Kat, let’s get out of here. I need you.”\n “Can you drive?”\n “I saw a motel back about a mile. I can make it there.”\n***\n “Baby, what’s wrong?”\n “You want a doctor? What can I do?”\n “Just hold me. I’ll be all right.”\n “Baby, I love you. I’m here. Let those tears fall.”\n “Thanks.”\n “Kat, I’m sorry. I felt a pain I hadn’t felt in a long time.”\n “Why? Were you remembering something?”\n “Yes. I saw Tamara, my former lover, in the distance. She was brutal.”\n “What happened?”\n “We went out for a while then she began to get pushy. She insulted me in public, slapped me and tried to get me to perform for her friends.”\n “I took it until my grandmother caught her hitting me. She threw her out and threatened her. Tamara left with, ‘your granddaughter ain’t worth my time.’ I wept for a week.”\n “I understand hurting. Hopefully, we’ll never fight like my lover.”\n “I’ll never hit nor demean you. I’m sure, Kat, we’ll disagree but I won’t hit you. I don’t believe in fighting unless it’s self-defense.”\n “Sorry, I wasted all that seafood.”\n “No problem. We can do it again.”\n “I want to go to a party. Are you game?”\n “Sure. Let’s drop my car off at your house. I need some fun.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Golden Cord\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2473\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“You have got to be fucking kidding me…..” Darius Porter said to himself as he stood behind the counter at Saver Gas and tried not to throw up recently eaten lunch.\nHe could tell that today was gonna be a bad fucking day. He wished he had normal bad days but instead he saw fucking Dead People.\n“Good Evening.” Darius said through gritted teeth as he pretended he didn’t see the dead girl following the white dude into the store. Darius knew exactly who she was—- he’d gone to high school with her. She was an older girl by the name of Tenesha Edwards and she’d been killed in a car crash after she was hit by a drunk driver. Darius had known her as a pretty girl with a big smile, a big attitude, and an obsession with cats. \n Now she was a ghost and currently following a random white guy down the snack aisle of the gas station. He didn’t look like he was from the neighborhood since Darius was born and raised here and knew every saint and sinner on the street. He looked like he came from money and this was a working class neighborhood.He looked like he hadn’t worked a day in his life. \nHe was handsome in a bland, forgettable way but he was clean cut and neat. He had a friendly smile as he walked up to the cash register to pay for his chips and drink.\n“Can I get forty on seven and a pack of Marlboro Red 100’s.” He said with a friendly smile as he placed his items on the counter. Darius glanced out to the lone car at gas pump seven and reached behind him to grab the man’s cigarettes.\nHe looked at the ghost of Tenesha Edwards again.\nHe didn’t really know her all that well but he knew she definitely came from good people.He knew her parents went to church with his grandmother and they were nice people.\nNow she was apparently haunting this unsuspecting man.\n“May I see your I.D please?” Darius asked politely as he never took his eyes off Tenesha. It appeared she definitely died in a car crash. She was covered in blood and half of her face was caved in. She was also dripping invisible blood and other viscera onto the tile floor behind the man. She was staring at the man with an intent focus that only the dead seemed to have.\nUnwavering.\n“Sure.” The man said in a friendly tone as he pulled out his driver’s license. Darius finally tore his gaze away from Tenesha Edwards as he glanced at the man’s information.\nDarius did his best not to get involved in the personal lives of the dead….but this was different.\nHe kind of knew Tenesha.\nShe’d been a nice girl. She’d always been nice enough to him and cracked jokes every time she came into the store. It was none of his business— but it was obvious some kind of grudge was tying her to this man.\nThe man’s name was Kevin Aston Stevens and he lived on 1505 Ivory Lane, Apartment 202.\nHe lived in the city.\n“You have a good evening' sir.” He said politely as he rang up the man’s purchases.\n“You too, man.” The man called Kevin replied with a nod. Darius watched as he exited the store with a bloody ghost trailing behind him. He noticed she was gripping a Cord in her hand. It was golden and bloody…. And it hung limply from her hand as it disappeared into the nothing beside her. It was the thing that often tied the dead to the living world.\nTenesha was gripping it tight.\nShe definitely had unfinished business.\n* * *\nIt took Darius awhile to figure out what he wanted to do. He really didn’t want to get involved in the affairs of the dead— but there was something about the intensity of the way Tenesha was staring at the man.\n It wouldn’t leave his mind.\nSo he did some research.\nHe learned a lot about Kevin Stevens from his public social media account. The man seemed to have the perfect life. He attended the local city college and was getting his MBA in business and marketing. He came from an affluent family and was very much well off. He seemed to be well liked in most circles of his life. He was also dating a beautiful young woman by the name of Naomi Edwards. They appeared devastatingly happy together. \nNaomi looked like she was glowing in Kevin’s arms and Kevin looked absolutely smitten and in love.\nIt was too much of a coincidence to think that Naomi Edwards had nothing to do with Tenesha Edwards. \nIt turns out that Naomi Edwards was Tenesha Edwards' younger sister. She ran track, was a cheerleader, and was very involved in a lot of college activities. She didn’t look much like her sister. \nIt was also apparent that Naomi adored her older sister from the amount of pictures she had of Tenesha. Darius stared at the last picture of Tenesha and Naomi that was taken before she died. She was sporting a cocky pose and a wink for the camera. It was obvious that Tenesha was loved by her sister and family.\nAnd this led Darius to his current dilemma.\nWhy was she haunting her sister’s boyfriend?\n* * * *\nDarius decided to follow his intuition and decided to stake out Kevin Steven’s apartment that was close to the local city college. It was so close to the college that he was able to blend in with the other college students. He’d woken up super early and made his way across the city in the hopes of catching Kevin before he started his daily schedule.\nTurns out he was right.\nNaomi and Kevin were early risers….. And arguing very loudly.\nDarius had barely found Kevin’s apartment block when he heard the shouting and yelling that seemed to come from their apartment.\nHe was very much aware that he was a strange dude lurking around an affluent apartment complex. There was a very good chance that someone would call the cops on him if he wasn’t quick. \nThe closer he got to their apartment— the louder the yelling sounded.\nThe door to the apartment flung open as Naomi ran out crying.\n Kevin came out a few moments later looking far more composed. If Darius hadn’t heard the yelling and screaming— he would never have thought the man who walked out of that apartment had been yelling and swearing a moment ago. Every hair appeared to be in place as he calmly locked his door and walked away fucking whistling.\nEverything would appear normal if he didn’t have a fucking vengeful ghost trailing after him. Tenesha barely looked human anymore. She was twisted and warped and she let out an unearthly scream.\n She looked like a deranged medusa as her braids floated and snaked in the air around her. \nKevin had no idea what was following him around.\nDarius saw the golden cord in her hand glowing brightly.\n Something had set her off something awful. \nTenesha was on the verge of Changing— she wouldn’t be a harmless ghost for much longer. She was changing into a Poltergeist— a violent and vengeful spirit. It was obvious that the lives of Naomi and Kevin weren’t as perfect as their social media pictures led others to believe. \nBut whose life was?\n No one was truly what they appeared to be. \nThe problem was— what was Darius going to do about this situation?\n* * *\nDarius decided to focus his attention on Naomi. She was definitely a busy bee and it took a while for him to finally track her down. He found her at the college library later that evening. It had been a long day and Darius was determined to come to some sort of decision before he left.\nWhether he would interfere or not.\n“Hey” Darius said as he walked up to Naomi in some random book aisle in the library. She was working as a library aide. “You’re Naomi Edwards right? You went to Booker T. High school on the Southside right?”\nDarius knew that from her social media page. It was kinda surprising that they went to the same high school. However, they did live in the same area even though they had never really interacted with each other. \"You’re Tenesha’s younger sister right?”\nNaomi’s face lit up at the mention of her older sister.\nShe was even prettier up close but Darius could see the bruises on her wrists and forearms. It looked like someone had grabbed her. He examined her heavily made up face and saw the shadows of bruising under her right eye under her concealer.\n However, she smiled brightly at him as she pushed her braids behind her ear.\n“Hey babe…. Who's your friend?” Kevin’s voice said menacingly from behind him. However that’s not what caught his immediate attention. There was a strange tension in the air and the temperature dropped suddenly. Darius saw his breath fog up in front of him.\n Naomi suddenly went silent and stared intently at the floor. She bit her lip nervously as Darius glanced over his shoulder to see Kevin Stevens standing with an unassuming smile on his face. However, it was the look in his eyes that caught Darius’ attention. He had a displeased glint in his eye.\nDarius’ eyes flickered over Kevin’s shoulder and if Tenesha barely looked human before— he didn’t know what the fuck she was now. \nShe was a writhing mass of flickering darkness.\n A soft shrieking noise seemed to come from deep inside of her.\n He could still see her clutching the golden cord in her hand and now he could see where it led. Tenesha was gripping the cord in what passed for a clawed hand tightly.\n Darius saw it float past him and towards Naomi and saw the cord wrapped tightly around Naomi’s neck.\nNaomi was rubbing her neck in discomfort.\nDarius ignored Kevin and looked straight at Tenesha.\n“Loosen your grip.” He said to her softly, “ You’re hurting her.”\nHe watched as what passed for Tenesha paused for a moment. It tilted its upper body like it was trying to tilt its head.\n“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Kevin’s voice hissed suddenly from in front of him. He took a menacing step forward. Darius heard Tenesha growl from behind Kevin.\n This is why Darius didn’t usually attempt to address the dead. He sometimes forgot that other people couldn’t see or hear them and he often ended up with his foot in his mouth.\nHowever, that was beside the point.\n“What?” He replied calmly to Kevin,“I say something you didn’t like? Something about your grip? Or is it the bruises on your girlfriend's arm? Or the black eye she’s trying to cover up. Thought I wasn’t gonna notice you beating on your girlfriend?”\nDarius didn’t have any proof but Kevin’s face flushed red from anger. He looked like he was going to vibrate out of his own skin.\nHe opened his mouth to retort but Darius cut him off.\n“Shut Up.” He said before Kevin could speak. He took a step towards the man and placed his hand on his shoulder. This was another thing he normally didn’t do— but he was gonna do it anyway. He felt his own awareness seep into Kevin and felt the other man stiffen as he felt the sudden temperature drop. That wasn’t what scared him though….. It was the low growling rumble that was coming from what was left of Tenesha’s spirit. She was on the verge of changing into a poltergeist.\n “You hear that?” Darius continued conversationally. “No man, you’re not imagining it. It is not in your head. That cold shiver down your spine is real. Now you have a very real choice. You are going to stay away from Naomi. It is 100% your choice on whether you do that or not. I just want you to know that if you don’t—- this feeling that you have that you’re being watched, followed, stalked. It’s going to get worse. If you don’t stay away from Naomi— I’m gonna let the thing that’s following you get you. It’s no skin off my back. You’re an abusive piece of shit and deserve whatever’s coming for you. So the choice is yours. What are you gonna do?”\nTenesha’s growl became more menacing throughout his whole speech and Darius knew that Kevin heard it. He watched as the jackass pissed himself and felt absolutely no pity for him. The dead were terrifying and not to be fucked with.\nHe felt Kevin jerk his shoulder from his grip and run straight through Tenehsa’s spirit in his haste to get away. She dissipated like gas around him with a screech but otherwise didn’t move.\nDarius turned back to Naomi.\nShe was looking shell-shocked, confused, and scared out of her mind. Darius wasn’t sure if she was entirely aware of Tenesha’s presence in her life but she was rubbing her neck as if she could feel the tight cord around her neck. \n“Now you also have a choice to make.” Darius told her kindly. “I know you don’t understand what’s happening right now but it’s up to you to decide what to do about your boyfriend. But keep this in mind….you have an angel looking out for you and she’s not gonna let go until you get outta this relationship. She’s holding on really fucking tight. So what are you gonna do? Stay or Go?”\nNaomi looked like she would scream and crumble into a thousand pieces.\n“I want my mom and dad.” she finally whispered. “I want to go home.”\nDarius nodded. He could do that. Good thing they lived in the same neighborhood.\n“Okay, we can do that. Let’s go get your stuff okay and then we’ll get you home.” He said kindly again and was surprised when Naomi threw herself into his arms. He awkwardly patted her back as he glanced over his shoulder at Tenesha.\nShe was still gripping the cord tight that tied her to her sister.\n“You can let go now. She’s as safe as she's gonna be for now.” Darius told her, “ I’m gonna take her home to your parents. So let go now. She’s safe now. I’ve got her.”\nTenesha suddenly looked like she did when she was alive\nBeautiful. \nShe smiled at him and winked and then let go of the cord holding her to her sister. She didn’t disappear or pass on onto the next life— but she let go of the cord that tied her to her sister….. \nAnd that was a start." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Shoe Queen\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1014\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet all or part of your story in a jam-packed storage unit." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Shoe Queen\n---------------------------------------------------------------------------------\nHow many pairs of shoes did you give away? When? Yesterday. Only ten, but I cleaned out the closet last month when my sister and her godmother visited; they both took home five pairs. Ma, you have a problem! No, you are about to have a problem if you talk about my shoes. I moved almost all of the store inventory to the storage unit, and now it’s jammed-packed, but I will not bring the shoes back to your house: thirty years and the same complaints, too many shoes. You are getting on my nerves. I understand my shoe store idea doesn’t interest you, but I’m onto something useful to many. I don’t care if I don’t get rich doing this.\nToo many veterans worldwide have only three pairs of shoes: 1) one pair of black dress, 2) simple sneakers, and 3) some combat boots, all issued by Uncle Sam. That is okay when Uncle Sam dictates your every move, job, and daily thoughts. When the government no longer employs you, you will need more than just three essential pairs. No matter the type of shoes, you’re looking at $40 or better for adults and teens per pair. Many veterans have families.\nDon’t get me started on the amputees, with one new shoe in the closet and the other fading or getting dirty from consistent use. Why can’t there be an exchange store? My job at the VA hospital and my love of shoes make me the perfect person to do this. Yes, I do sometimes buy shoes with upcoming events in mind. How often will you have to choose between getting your daughters ready for the prom or paying the light bill? When a father who faced that situation tried to figure it out, I asked him to volunteer to get the storage unit looking like a store, and that is how we got started. Unfortunately, so many people have the same problem at least three times a year: Christmas, birthdays, and the beginning of the school year. Everyone with children will encounter similar issues at least once. It is often easier for a civilian to seek handouts. Veterans are very proud people, proud of the opportunity to serve the country, but sometimes too embarrassed to admit needing help. Also, I think sometimes things should be given to those who freely give themselves.\nProject Usable Shoes was born from an ad four months ago. We only ask the users to donate their gently worn shoes back to the program and to bring in their other shoes left or right when borrowing another. They won't be turned away if they can’t afford to purchase. Most people who use our program will leave a tip in a jar on the counter. I don’t know who donated the counter or the jar, but we have about 70 dollars donated daily. I suspect it is the policeman that works this beat. He lost two brothers in the 80s in the Iran Contra Affair. Coincidentally his name is Rian; it’s his surname.\nYes, I can spend all day shopping for more shoes. I was in the Army for twenty years and only wore four pairs of shoes. I wore a black dress, running shoes, combat boots, or nursing clogs. I began looking to replace a particular pair of shoes from my younger life, but then I realized shoe shopping was relaxing. I shop for babies 0-12 months, children 1-5, and adults 6-15. Some people come to me with requests when they can’t find what they want. Those with requests know they must pay at least 75% and donate time, shoes, or both.\n Usually, I can find most people’s requests. Once, I was asked to find a set of 6’4’’ triplets matching size 14 Stacey Adams for prom. After searching all my “go-to big and tall” shops, I convinced them to wear the same style in different colors. Although they were dressed in the same pattern, one wore a blue tux will matching blue shoes. Another did black and the other white. That was the first time they had dressed as individuals.\nAs early as the fifth grade, I had priorities, and shoes were number one to me. My mom took me school shopping; she told me to look for four outfits. I found three pairs of shoes and then looked for pants, blouses, and skirts. One Saturday afternoon, mom gave me $30 for dad’s socks, two brassieres, and notebooks; in my defense, the socks were on sale, so I had to get the cute shoes screaming, “buy me! “\nSome people would say I hoard shoes, but I don’t think so. I share, give them away and sell them. A hoarder has to have them. It’s a possession thing for hoarders. I might hoard a little because I cannot pass up a sale. If a big store lets go of their last season’s stuff or hard-to-find merchandise, I jump on it. I don’t mind being called a hoarder by my clients. I will admit that I may never wear every pair of shoes in my closet, but doesn’t every woman deserve choices?\nI don’t remember when I got the Shoe Queen nickname; my mother’s baby sister and my shoe-loving aunt got killed. I didn’t know how to get the family back from that loss, but it was about the tenth grade. I do remember that it wasn’t meant to be flattering. I have always loved shoes from the 30s,40s, 50s, and 60s. My aunt Peggy used to let me play dress up in her shoe room. YES, to a young girl, a walk-in closet with shelves to the ceiling lined pointy-toed boots in several different colors, kitten-heeled dressy ones in all colors, sensible church 2’’ heels, and many work flats. As mom accepted aunt Peggy’s absence, she slowly gave me her shoe collection and told me the stories attached. Although ten years apart, they shared a love of shoes and bought matching pairs almost every time.\nSo, call me a hoarder…It’s a family thing!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dead Mans Hand\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2684\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a tense event where everyone is unsure whose side they’re on." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Dead Mans Hand\n Chad McConnel slapped his cards down on the green felt tabletop. A small cloud of dust coughed in protest.\n “Two pair. Aces and eights. Your hand’s like your ranch Creed. Nothing but bullshit!” The sheep raising farmer glared at the well-dressed cattleman across the table. “This is one fence you can’t cut!”\n Connor Creed eyed his adversary with a thoughtful squint. Personally, he felt that 1848 would be a better year if Chad McConnel would be swallowed up by the earth, his sheep with him. For now, he wanted to savor the moment. He laid his cards in a pile on the table with the two of spades showing. An expectant hush fell over players and onlookers alike. Slowly Creed fanned the first three cards, all twos.\n “Three of a kind Mac. It appears to me you’re busted.” He swept the stack of chips towards himself, then looked across the table with a rattlesnake’s stare. “Unless you maybe want to keep playing, for that farm of yours?” His bushy eyebrows raised hoping for a response.\n The smaller man in the decidedly worn clothing jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backwards and to the floor where it banged for everyone’s attention like a judge’s gavel.\n “I hope you get trampled to death by your own beeves Creed!” Hands around the saloon reached for their sidearms, but the beaten man was unarmed, and sensing he was over matched, he stormed through the front into the falling night. Before the twin doors stopped swinging a stranger entered the saloon that was already returning to its self-absorbed distractions.\n “I see that there’s a newly opened seat. Mind if I join in?” the stranger asked the players remaining at the table. A small nervous man with darting eyes returned to the table just then, and pulling out his seat and sitting he broke the silent pause of scrutiny.\n “Sure, you can mister. My names Clay Baker.” he said, offering his hand to the new player, and gesturing to the seat to his left.\n “Texas. Texas Rabbit is my name.” A tall man with a sun weathered face smoothly shaven, Rabbit waited for the inevitable reactions.\n “Well, I’ll be damned,” Connor Creed, vest buttoned, wearing a large turquoise ring on his right hand, sat to the new man's left behind the biggest stack of chips on the table. “Now that’s a name with a story to tell!”\n “Rosalee! Chip up the new player dear.” beckoned a pudgy balding man with a gray walrus moustache. “Allow me to introduce myself, Mr. Rabbit. Doctor Walter S. Ragsdale, this town’s resident medical expert.”\n “And known to self-medicate with a bottle from breakfast and beyond!” chipped in Clay Baker sarcastically as he shuffled the deck of cards.\n “Young Clay, need you be reminded that I brought you into this world thirty-two miserable years ago.” Doc Ragsdale pointed a crooked finger at the dusty man. “I can take you out of it as well.”\n “You and every claim jumper east and west can come at me for my mine, but you’ll end up buried in it instead.” sneered the miner, gold tooth catching the light and winking at the doctor for emphasis. “Um, that mine is gonna pay out soon, you watch.”\n “As long as you’re only mining your claim, right Clay?” interjected Connor Creed.\n “What do you mean by that cattleman?” the miner shot back quickly.\n “I’m just sayin’. I wouldn’t say a man was seen panning the river north of the oxbow, which is, by the way, on my ranch, but what I’m sayin’ is that if he was seen doing that, he might not be seen again.” Creed emphasized the threat by dancing a poker chip deftly back and forth across the knuckles of his well-manicured fingers without releasing the miner from his icy stare.\n Just then a buxom young woman dressed in a petticoat and tight white blouse approached their table with a serving tray. She set a stack of chips in front of Texas Rabbit and leaned in closely as she did.\n “If a stranger were needing some…companionship, upon finding himself in a new town, he’d do well to remember the name Rosalee.” She leaned even further so that Texas had a clear view of her ample cleavage, and as if she needed any more emphasis, she squeezed her breasts together with her arms, nearly thrusting them into the cowboys’ face. He caught a flash of gold that disappeared into her bosom as if it had never appeared.\n “Rosalee, you may be making our guest hungry, but you’re making me damn thirsty!” growled Doc Ragsdale.\n “One for everybody Rosy.” insisted Clay Baker.\n She set a half glass of whiskey in front of Connor Creed, then began to pour one for the man between Creed and the Doctor.\n “I didn’t catch your name stranger.” Looking intently at the fifth man at the table, Texas meant it as a comment, not a question.\n The stranger slowly raised his eyes and stared at Texas from under the brim of his hat. “I didn’t give it. Mister Rabbit.” Both men locked eyes while sizing the other up. After a moment the man with the black pencil thin moustache answered.\n “Bone. Zeke Bone.” He waved Rosalee back as she finished pouring the last of the men’s drinks. He knocked back the half glass in a swallow and held out his glass for another. “I’m a gambler Mr. Rabbit, so if you don’t mind, can we play some cards?”\n “I’ll take that bottle Rosalee.” said Doc Ragsdale as he snatched the bottle from her tray. “Mr. Baker, it’s your deal.”\n The poker chips soon found their rhythm again, like the cicadas in the darkened night.\n Zeke Bone broke the silence after several hands. “Mr. Rabbit. You are nearly as unreadable as the cards you hold. You may already know that Mr. Creed is a gluttonous greedy rancher who practically runs this town.”\n “Now you wait just one minute!” Connor Creed began to rise to protest his innocence, but he sank back into his chair, sweat beading on his brow.\n Zeke Bone raised a single finger as if commanding silence. His sharp features cut off any resistance.\n “You may already know that Doc Ragsdale is a drunken fool who dresses up sometimes as the towns sawbones.”\nDoc Ragsdale gripped the bottle with defiant agreement and knocked back a swig.\n “You may also know that Clay Baker is a gold miner, and that he’s struck it rich with a motherlode in that mine of his.”\n The miners’ face slowly reddened until the silent answer couldn’t be hidden.\n “So, knowing all of this Mr. Rabbit, we know so very little of you.”\n Just then the doors swung open, and Sheriff Zucker entered, scanning the room, he headed for the bar. No one caught the unspoken look exchanged between the sheriff and Texas Rabbit. Zeke Bones’ eyes tracked the sheriff from the front doors and across the room where he settled against the bar with a boot on the rail.\n “I bet two.” Texas Rabbit opened the betting on a new hand. “Actually, Mr. Bone, I was given my name by the family of Osage Indians that raised me. My Indian name, “Moschinka”, means rabbit. My real father, who I am looking for now, was a Texas Ranger.”\n Zeke Bone’s reaction wasn’t lost on Texas. When he mentioned Texas Rangers, his look was like a one-armed man who once again meets up with the rattlesnake that bit him in the hand.\n “I’ll bet one.” Connor Creed struggled to hold his cards still. The stocky man loosened the kerchief around his neck.\n “You can’t bet one Creed! Rabbit here already opened with a bet of two.” Clay Baker told the cattleman with a measure of scorn.\n Ignoring the bet Doc piggybacked on the conversation between Bone and Rabbit. “I remember treating a Ranger once, years ago. Arrow in the ass specifically.”\n Texas Rabbits eyes widened. He had searched for his father ever since his Osage Indian brother Wahto had returned a Rangers badge to him that his Indian father had hidden from Texas for his entire life. When Onaga passed from this world Wahto had returned the badge to Texas, explaining that Onaga as a young warrior had shot a white man in uniform, and taken his badge as coup while sparing his life. He said that the man was ruined, as he shot him in the back side with his arrow, and what man had any use if he could not sit on his horses back?\n Before Texas could press Doc for details, Connor Creed stood partially from his chair, suddenly falling to the wooden floor. In moments he started thrashing about like a fish on the bank of a river. White foam flecked his lips as moans escaped his clenched teeth.\n “Creed!” shouted the Doc as he rose clumsily from his chair. Texas kneeled at the stricken man’s side and tried to restrain the convulsing cattleman. The thrashing eased, and Creeds body relaxed. Rabbit thought he saw the man’s eyes clear for a moment. He leaned closer as he realized the rancher was trying to speak.\n “Gold” was all he said before he took a hoarse shuddering breath and lay still. Texas and Doc both wrinkled their noses and shared a look over the man’s body. The doctor held his finger under the fallen man’s nose, then looking back up, sadly shook his head.\n Zeke Bone, grabbing his remaining chips, rose from his seat. “Looks like that man is done, and this game too.”\n “Just have a seat stranger.” ordered Sheriff Tom Zucker, placing his right hand on the butt of his Colt .45 revolver for encouragement. “Keep your hands on the table too, until we get this straightened out.”\n “Straighten what out? This rich bastard drops dead from gluttony and gout, and you hold us here?” Bone growled as he returned to his seat and slowly put both of his hands on the table.\n “Stranger’s right Sheriff.” Chimed in Clay Baker. “We were all sittin’ right here when he keeled over. None of us touched him!”\n “Doc, what do you think?” Sheriff Zucker asked Doc Ragsdale.\n Doc unsteadily got to his feet and gave the body one last look. “It would seem, er, ah, by the first impression I have of this man, I mean Mr. Creed, well, I am forced to conclude that he was poisoned. Beyond that I can not tell you more, until…until…morning at least!” The doctor shuffled unsteadily towards the door.\n “Hey! You mean you’re letting him go? That’s just downright unfair!” Zeke Bone pounded the poker table petulantly with both closed fists.\n “I know where to find him! You, now that’s a whole different story.” Sheriff Zucker shot back.\n Clay Baker chimed in “You know, that McConnel fellow left here pretty heated. You know how often beef and sheep ranchers have at it these days. Seems to be a prime suspect to me.” The gold miner nodded his head knowingly.\n “That right Texas? Did McConnel and Creed have a beef?” It was to everyone’s surprise that the Sheriff seemed to know Texas Rabbit.\n “What Mr. Baker tells you is true. Losing his money to Mr. Creed seemed to be one of many feuds running between those two men. But that man didn’t kill Connor Creed.” Rabbit said emphatically.\n “How can you be so sure?” asked the Sheriff.\n Let’s have Rosalee bring us a round of drinks, and I’ll tell you. Rosalee? A bottle and glasses please!” Texas yelled out. “Empty glasses.”\n At this addition Rosalee seemed flustered, but more so when she brought the drinks and he insisted that she take a seat at the table with them. She reluctantly sat, and shakily measured out each glass one after the other, finally pouring one for herself.\n “I noticed earlier that when you brought us a round of drinks, one of them was already poured.” This statement by Texas caused the barmaid to spill some whiskey from her glass as she was sipping it. Her eyes darted from Texas to the Sheriff and back. Then to Zeke and Clay, where no help was forthcoming.\n “I ah, must have started filling them all but got, maybe distracted. Then I finished the job when I got here to the table. What’s the big deal? What are you saying?” She tried to hide the shaking of her hands by gripping the empty glass tightly to the table.\n “How are the tips at this job?” Texas suddenly changed tack.\n Even more flustered, Rosalee nodded before she could dig up the word “good”.\n “Some nights better than others I suppose. Some tippers…better than others.”\n Rosalee’s hand went instinctively to cover her cleavage as she softly answered, “I suppose so.”\n “But who would tip you a gold nugget, and for what?” Rabbit’s voice rose and he leaned over the table at Rosalee.\n “Stop! Here,” she dug between her breasts and fished out a golden nugget, “take this cursed thing back!” She slammed the nugget down on the table, in front of Clay Baker. The miner’s eyes widened, and he sputtered to find words.\n Texas held up a hand to silence any protests, then began.\n “Mr. Baker, when I entered the saloon, you were just returning to the table. Mr. Creed made a comment that implied that you have been panning, at least, on a stretch of the river that is his property.”\n “Now there was nothing of the kind…”\n “Please Mr. Baker, allow me to go on. You claim lack of success, yet your dental work says different. That tooth took a good bit of gold to make it fit right.”\n The miner clenched his jaw defiantly but kept his lips sealed.\n “When Rosalee here came to the table, there was one drink already poured, and she gave it to Mr. Creed. There was an empty glass for each of us, but I had just arrived. The glass must have been meant for the man that just left, meaning someone ordered those drinks just before I got here.” At a small jerk of Rabbit’s head, the Sheriff slid quietly behind the miner’s seat and stood at the ready. Texas Rabbit continued, “Even the “how” of it points the finger of guilt at you, Mr. Baker. When Creed expired both the doctor and I smelled almonds. I happen to know from experience that cyanide has the smell of bitter almonds. Also Mr. Baker, I happen to know, that cyanide is used by gold miners in processing their gold.”\n The miner dropped his head but remained silent.\n “The question I have is,” said the Sheriff taking Baker by the arm and hauling him up from his seat, he looked directly at Rosalee. “Who poured Creed’s drink?”\n “What difference does it make?” spat out the miner.\n “Difference? Well, none to you. But to her, it’s the difference between jail, and a rope.”\n “I didn’t put no poison in the man’s drink!” Rosalee shrieked, but the Sheriff’s heavy hand kept her in her seat.\n “Hold on Sheriff. She didn’t do it, I did.” Baker confessed. “He was a dirty rotten scoundrel who deserved to die!”\n At this Zeke Bone rose from his chair and flicked the sides of his leather overcoat over the handles of his twin pistols. “I appreciate your help Mr. Baker. What an irony that I watch the murder of the man,” he paused and looked Texas Rabbit straight in the eyes, “that I was hired to kill! Having his confession, no doubt, I am free to go. But one more thing.” He spoke directly to Texas Rabbit. “Good luck on finding your father.” He paused as he pushed open the saloon’s swinging double doors, and before slipping into the darkness of the night, he said, “For his sake…I hope you find him first!”\nTHE END\n Texas Rabbit appears in the short stories “Dogfight at Yellowstone Pass” and “White Gold”, as well as “Dead Mans Hand”. Building the saga for a collection, “The Tales of Texas Rabbit”." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 time will pass anyways\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1929\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is convinced they’re going to be betrayed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The bright light of the television screen fills the dimly lit living room. I’m watching Cartoon Network, and my mom is sitting 6 feet away from me. I’m perfectly still; she doesn’t know it’s past my bedtime. I’m hoping I can get the most out of this moment, I hate sleeping. My mom looks up from her phone, she looks at the TV, then the clock. Damnit.\n“Alright honey it’s time for bed, come give me a hug and don’t forget to take your medicine.” My mom says softly. I love my mom, I definitely don’t love my medicine though. She slowly gets up and reaches for the remote, I’m still sitting on the couch. I’m pretending to be zoned out, just so I can stall before I go to bed.\n“Now, please.” my mom muttered. \n“Okay, sorry.” I moaned. My mom’s voice was still soft but it had a hint of passive aggression. I guess I can’t stall anymore. I get up from the couch and walk over to the kitchen and reach up at once of the cabinets. I feel around with my hands for a little bit before taking out two pill bottles, one of them is Melatonin and the other is Alprazolam. I get a glass of water and pop both pills in my mouth. I don’t like pills, but I’m used to them by now. One of the pills is to help me sleep, but the other is for my anxiety. I honestly think that doctors are just selling my mom pills that do nothing because I’ve had loads of doctor visits and god knows how many kinds of pills and they all do the same thing; nothing. I walk over to my mom as she gives me a hug before she sits back down on the couch and changes the channel on the TV. I don’t know what she turned on but I don’t really care.\n“Goodnight honey, sweet dreams! I love you!” My mom beams, she’s so nice. She doesn’t deserve me.\n“I love you too, goodnight mom.” I also sorta kinda beam. I try to match her energy, but it’s hard. Even though it is my bedtime I’m not tired, I’m just upset I have to go to bed. I’m never tired at bedtime, only times I’m ever tired is during the day when I’m at school. Maybe I’m nocturnal or something.\nI continue up the wooden steps going upstairs, still looking at my mom before I get all the way up and I can’t see her anymore. Now I’m alone, upstairs in the dark hallway. I’m unprotected. Something could be coming and I wouldn’t even see it. Even though it’s dark and I can’t see, I close my eyes and walk through the hallway to get to my bedroom. This is something I’ve done my whole life, closing my eyes in the dark even when I can’t see anyways. I do this because if there actually is something in the dark, I’d rather it kill me than have me see what it is… and also kill me. I feel around with my hands so I don’t walk face first into a wall, but I know my house pretty well. I get to my bedroom and feel around the wall for my light switch, then I see the lights come on through my eyelids and I open my eyes. I leave my bedroom door open, even though it leads to a dark hallway, that dark hallway also leads downstairs which is where my mom is. If this door is still open then it feels like I’m connected to her, I’m near her, in the same room as her. I shuffle over to my bathroom door, I open it but I don’t look inside of the bathroom before I turn on the light. I hate mirrors in the dark, something about them is so creepy. I walk into the bathroom and look at my reflection in the mirror. I’m very physically underdeveloped, I just look like a skin suit that was vacuum sealed to a skeleton. I also have very noticeable eyebags, they’re very embarrassing. So is my body as well. I hate walking around, anywhere really. It’s honestly a weird feeling, almost like I should be ashamed to go out into public looking like this. But I’m stuck with this body and face for the rest of my life, and I can’t really do anything about it. I get my toothbrush and some toothpaste and begin brushing my teeth. It's difficult to brush because of my braces, but I’m used to it. My teeth are pretty yellow, I don’t know why though. I brush twice a day and I brush well, it seems like no matter how hard I try my teeth are always yellow. Let's just add that to the list of things I don’t like about myself. After I’m done brushing my teeth I just walk over to my bed and sit on it and stare at a wall. I don’t wanna go to bed. A sharp tingly feeling in my stomach begins building up and I begin tapping my feet. Please don’t make me go to sleep. I hate my bed and I hate sleeping. The night is trying to betray me, I just know it. I have lived my life not being able to appreciate the beauty of the night. People go to sleep at night as a reward for their hard work during the day, so they can get rest and get energy for their work that’s yet to come. For me, going to sleep has always been another hurdle I have to clear. I continue to sit while tapping my foot faster and faster, tears welling up in my eyes. Maybe the night is doing this to me on purpose. I haven’t done anything bad in my life, I’m generally a good kid, but maybe I was a bad person in a past life and I’m just dealing with karma right now or something. I get up and start pacing in circles in my room. Why does the night have to play with my trust and my feelings? I’m so tired all the time, I want that reward. That reward that people get at the end of the day, the reward of a good night’s sleep. After pacing in circles for a little bit I speed walk out of my room and sit at the top of the stairs. The TV is still on and my mom is on the phone with one of her friends, chatting and laughing and all that. I just sit up there in the dark and listen to her quietly as tears stream down my cheeks. I feel so safe around her, when I’m within earshot of another person. I don’t know why or how to explain it. Sometimes I feel like I’m too old to rely on my mom as much as I do. I’m thirteen years old, and I feel like most kids my age don’t worry endlessly about being with their mom. Just another thing for the list of things I don’t like about myself. I could go downstairs and talk to my mom, but she’d be mad at me. I’m not supposed to be awake right now, and when I tell her about my anxiety she always tells me something like; \n“Just try to find 3 good things that happened to you today.” God. I know she means well, but that doesn’t exactly help. Doctors have told me to do similar things with mind distraction games but those don’t help. What’s even worse is that when I say those don’t help they always tell me that I never try hard enough or something like that. Suddenly it gets quiet, the TV is still on but my mom stopped talking for some reason, then I hear my mom’s voice again.\n“You can come downstairs.” she yelled. Damnit.\nI slowly walk down the stairs and stop half way down to look at her. She gives me that look that moms give you when you do something wrong, but it’s only really a minor inconvenience. She sees the tears on my face, my shaking palms, the way I’m looking at her. She sighs, then softly says;\n“Come over here and sit with me.” She says it in a way that doesn’t sound threatening, that’s good I guess.\nI sit right next to her and she looks right into my eyes, she wants to say something but she’s blanking. Before she can say anything, I Interject.\n“Mom, I’m so sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be up there and-”\n“Please don’t be sorry.” she says softly. \n“What does the night want with me…” I whine, my voice breaks and I'm crying now. I really couldn’t care less though.\n“I’m so tired, I just wanna sleep… But I can’t control my mind from thinking about stuff that I don’t want to think about…”\nMy mom strokes my back. “You know I was just like you when I was your age. I never wanted to go to sleep, I was always worried about something. Something that I couldn’t even articulate.”\nMy eyes widened. “Really?”\n“Yes, really. In a way, anxiety is good. It’s just the human body’s natural response to worry about something it doesn’t like. But, I mean, the way I see it, why should you worry about something that’s out of your control? Whether you worry about it or not, it’s still going to happen. Take school for example, I know you spend a lot of time worrying about that. School still passes anyways, and every day you come home and tell me that you had a good day at school. I want you to know I’m not denying your feelings either, I know that no one likes going to school or whatever you’re worried about. My point is that it’s always half as bad as you make it out to be, and the time will pass anyways.”\nI stop and think for a moment, I guess I’ve never thought of it like that. “That’s going to be harder said than done, you know. You’re practically just telling me to stop worrying.” I reply.\n“I know it’s hard, it just takes time is all.” my mom consoles me.\n“That will take too long, I just want an instant solution and not something that will take months or years.” I say, my voice is a little louder.\nMy mom puts her hand on mine and looks at me right in the eyes. “The time will pass anyways.” she whispers, her voice calms me down.\nFor once, I stop worrying and just think. I think a lot. I sat there at night with my mom on the couch, we’re both watching whatever was on the TV, I think it might’ve been a cooking show or something. Right here in this moment, I feel good. I feel safe, there’s not anything that’s actively on my mind. It’s pretty refreshing honestly. After a while, my mom sends me back to my room to go to bed. At this point I’m too tired to be anxious about anything. I lay my head on my pillow and fall right asleep. I know that learning not to worry is going to take forever. It could take months, maybe even years. I don’t even know if it’s guaranteed to help me out fully. I don’t see why I shouldn’t do it, because the time will pass anyways." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: It's Mine\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1093\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart a story with someone saying, “It’s mine, and you can’t have it!”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It’s Mine\n “It’s mine and you can’t have it. You shouldn’t even get to see it.” The old man’s sudden burst of fury came as a big surprise to the boy, Jack, his grandson. His grandfather had never yelled at him before. Young Jack did not know what to do as he saw his grandfather, also called Jack, clutch the article close to his chest. So he just walked out of the old man’s room, in tears, but not wanting to show that to Grandfather Jack.\n When his grandson had left the room, old Jack put the item down and shook his head, almost in tears himself, which came as something of a surprise to him. He slowly set the item he had been clutching down on the small table in front of him, which was not its usual resting place. He looked at it intently, as if he half-expected it to speak to him, telling him that he was wrong to say what he did. He then gently slid the object into its cover, so it would be out of sight, both to him and to his grandson..\nLet me tell you a story.\n A few days later Grandfather Jack walked into the living room where grandson Jack was playing a computer game filled with loud noises and bright flashes of warfare. The grandfather stared at the boy for a while before speaking. He saw that the boy’s game had just ended, so he grabbed the moment that was made available to him..\n ‘Let me tell you a story about what can happen in war.’ The boy reluctantly put the game down, and listened as politely as he was capable of at that moment. The old man realized that his audience was probably not going to listen to him for a long enough time to tell his story properly, so he kept the story short, even though the boy looked to be gaining interest near the end, and even looked like he was about to ask a question when the story had ended.\n It was a story that the old man had thought through many times, but had never told to anyone before. He was glad that he had built up his nerve to do it. If he were of the sort that wrote a memoir, it would certainly be included. It was that important to him. \nNot a Long Time Later\n Not a long time later, grandson Jack was playing another computer game featuring wild warfare of flash, smash and crash. He heard the slow shuffling of his grandfather’s feet as the old man made his way into the room. In a matter of seconds, he turned off his war game, and asked his grandfather – “Can you tell me another story like the last one?”\n His grandfather was happy to oblige. He coughed briefly, clearing his throat for the telling of his tale. It was longer than the first one, as he knew that his audience really wanted to hear it. It was about the same man as the first tale was. \n As grandson Jack was listening, enthralled by the story, he wondered why his grandfather didn’t say who the man was that he spoke about. He didn’t have the nerve quite yet to ask him. \nHis Parents Talk to Grandson Jack\n His father said to him, “Jack, we need to talk to you about your grandfather. We don’t know whether you have noticed it, but he is getting weaker and weaker. We won’t be able to take care of him much longer here at home. We are soon going to have to place him in a nursing home where he can have someone attend to him, maybe even a hospice…, based on what the doctor told us last week. Grandson Jack did not know what a hospice was, but from the tone in his father’s voice, he knew that it must be a bad place, maybe even a place where people went to die. And he wanted Grandfather Jack to stay with them for as long as possible. He couldn’t say anything that would change his parents’ minds, but he felt that he needed to say something.\n “I will miss Grandfather Jack, especially his stories.”\nHis mother replied, “I know that he will miss you too”.\nMore Stories\n As the days went by, and as Grandfather Jack got weaker and weaker, he told more stories to Grandson Jack, all about the same man. Grandson Jack felt that he that person was someone he knew better than people he had met and had known for years. He asked more questions, and the sessions got longer because of it.\nThe Last Story\n Grandfather Jack walked into the room where his grandson was on his computer. His slipper-covered feet slid across the floor, not once being lifted even a bit. When he finally reached his grandson, he tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to come with him to his room. The boy stood up quickly, not having been in the room since he had been yelled at by his grandfather. ‘This must be a special occasion’, he thought. It would turn out that he would be right.\n The story began as usual, the speaking being a little slower and not all that much louder than a whisper. Grandson Jack moved his chair closer so he could hear the words properly.\n When the tale was done, Grandfather Jack stood up and spoke. “Grandson, I am going to tell you now who the person is that I have been telling stories about. He was my grandfather Jack. I was named after him of course. The stories were about his experiences in World War I as he told them to me. As you can tell, your great, great grandfather was a very courageous man. For his bravery, he received a reward of honour. “\n With those words, Grandfather Jack stood up and walked over to where the object was that he had warned his grandson off of not so very long ago. He unsheathed it. It turned out to be a sword, a very shiny sword. He must have been polishing it for years.\n “When he was about to be put in a nursing home, he gave the sword to me, after telling me all his stories. Now that you know those stories, the sword can be handed over to you. Maybe someday you will have a grandson to tell the stories too.”\n With those words he gave him the sword, handle first." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Long Way Home\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2226\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with an unexpected betrayal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Depictions of sex, violence, drug use, and mental health\n\n“I was a freshman at St. John’s Academy, a catholic school for girls, just fourteen years old, when I met Bobby at the mall. He was so cute with his big blue eyes, that curly mop of hair, and those dimples when he smiled. He was sixteen, could drive, and said he was a junior at a prestigious private school in the city, St. Louis University High School. He had a way about him that was very different from other boys. He seemed more focused on having fun with me rather than doing stupid things to impress me. I liked that. He was big and looked strong. It made me feel safe to be around him. I liked that too. I was with my friend Stacey. He was with his friend Brandon. We walked through the stores, played at the arcade, and split soft-twist pretzels and sodas. The boys invited us to go do something else, but I didn’t dare go. That was the first time my parents let me roam the mall without them being there. I was not about to lose that privilege. Mom was on her way to pick us girls up as we spoke, so we called it a night.\n “The next day, after school, Stacey, my other friend Tosha, and I were walking home from school. Bobby and Brandon pulled up beside us in this beautiful, brand-new cherry-red Mustang that purred like a cougar. He looked so cool. I was very impressed. They asked if we wanted to go for a ride, saying they’d take us to a place where a lot of people hung out after school to unwind. I immediately hopped in the car, excited to be seen with my new boyfriend in his stylish new ride. Brandon even slipped into the backseat so I could ride shotgun. Stacey and Tosha said no. Tosha’s parents were very strict, and Stacey didn’t want to leave her hanging.\n “Bobby got on the highway and opened her up. Before I knew it, we were weaving in and out of traffic as Linkin Park’s ‘Given Up’ blared on the radio. That’s when, from the back seat, Brandon grabbed my face with a cloth. The next thing I know, I’m waking up in a cage designed for transporting wild animals, stripped of my clothes. Only my underwear remained.\n “Adrenaline pumped through my veins. Fight or flight and I couldn’t do either. I rattled my cage, realizing it was just one of many crammed into a corner of a warehouse, in rows, stacked on top of each other. I was cold. My eyes burned. I felt like I couldn’t breathe and that I might lose my lunch. I could hear the soft cries of other girls and a few boys along with their sniffles, the smell of their defecations wafting through the air. Across the room I saw a very large man counting out cash and handing it to Bobby and Brandon. God, I hated them in that moment. I wanted to scream and claw their eyes out for betraying me like that.\n “I sat back and cried. I felt so stupid for trusting some guys I just met. For all I knew they weren’t even high school kids. I cried because I let my parents down. By that time, they must have been worried out of their minds. I cried because I had no idea where I was, no idea why I was there, no idea what was going to happen next. I fell asleep crying and hungry, balled up on the cold steel floor of that cage.\n “I woke to the sound of cages rattling and men shouting. The occasional hiss of a cattle prod made me jerk. We were lined up single file and led to a make-shift photo studio there in the warehouse. It was pretty much just a white canvas backdrop, some painfully bright work lights, and a man with an iPhone and computer. They took pictures of us and made quick videos that they uploaded to the internet.\n “None of us had fully developed yet, having just started puberty. Some looked like they hadn’t even started puberty yet, especially the boys. Looking around, I wasn’t sure if anyone there was even old enough to drive. What I learned really quick is that there is a fetish for that age range. They will pay a good price for you and sexually objectify you, hurting you without any sense of remorse.\n “After we were photographed and our profiles placed online, we were put back in our cages and fed some beans with a slice of bread and a cup of water. We weren’t even allowed to finish before they started loading us, cages and all, into a trailer bound for California. That’s where I met my employer, Ms. Crystal LaShea.\n “LaShea owned a busted down old motel off a desert highway where men could rent us to satisfy their shameful, disgusting urges. Now I don’t know how the business side works. I don’t know how she brought in the clients or how much she charged. All I know is that we gave the customer what they wanted, or we were beaten and/or starved. LaShea didn’t like to damage the merchandise, didn’t want anything visible, so it was usually taken out on our feet. Drugs were used to subdue the more resistful girls. That’s where I became addicted to heroin.\n “At first, I was fearful and very cooperative. I pushed through the pain and would cry it out later. Then I grew numb, hateful, angry. One customer decided to do me anally while fish-hooking me in the mouth. Once he was done, I turned on him, slapping him, and ended up scratching his face. He was a married man who was going to have a hard time explaining that to his wife, the mother of his daughter who was the same age as me according to LaShea. Ever since that incident, I had to be sedated. It reached a point that I became very cooperative just to get the heroin.\n “I had been working for LaShea for about two years when they brought in a new girl, Shannon. Shannon had a habit of screaming, crying, and trying to fight off the customers. They starved her. They took razor blades to her feet to the point that she had to be carried in to one client. But she never quit fighting. A new batch of girls came in and LaShea made an example of her in front of us all. She slit her throat from ear to ear and we all saw the fear in Shannon’s eyes when she realized she was dying. It was a very effective way to get the new girls to mind.\n “My body fully developed at the age of seventeen. My services were no longer needed, so I was sold to a man called Loppy. He was a heroin dealer/pimp who had a reputation of lopping off body parts of those who didn’t pay for services rendered. Loppy kept me and a couple other girls in his home, which was a small place where he ran his product. Significant buyers were allowed a free taste of us girls during the day. We would work the streets at night. By that time, I had become used to servicing anywhere between six and ten men a night. I was used to crazy request. In a way, it was easier. Most of these guys were just lonely. Some of them were pigs with wives at home. I’d see pictures of beautiful families while swiping cash from their wallets. But for the most part they were lonely.\n “The only difference between being with Loppy and LaShea was that with Loppy I didn’t want to get back to my family as bad. By that time, I guess I just accepted things as my lot in life. I wasn’t the same girl they remembered and questioned if they’d even want me back. I didn’t know where else to go or what else to do. Loppy was rough and scary but there was a roof over my head, and he kept the withdrawals away.\n “At the age of twenty-four, someone got me pregnant. Loppy dropped me off at the abortion clinic. They took care of the pregnancy. Part of me wanted that baby, but I knew my life was no life for a child. The thoughts of who I used to be started haunting me along with the thoughts of who I could have been. They made me crazy, and I lashed out at everyone, including Loppy, which was a bad idea.\n “Loppy locked me away and let the withdrawals take control. First there was sweating and chills. Then diarrhea and vomiting started. My body tried to expel things that weren’t there. Every muscle and bone in my body hurt. It was like being punched in the same spot repeatedly, all over your body. He came to me while I was at the peak of detoxing and told me he would give me a hit if I’d give him a little head. I did so eagerly, I was suffering so bad. I knew what he was doing. He was making a point. The drugs owned me, and he owned the drugs. Therefore, in a roundabout way, he owned me.\n “I prostituted for Loppy for another three years, but because of the life I lived, I looked ten years older than I really was and wasn’t earning him enough money, so he turned me loose. After Loppy kicked me aside, I lived on the streets for a while, selling myself for next to nothing, just enough to buy a hit of smack.\n “A church van came around one nasty evening looking to get the homeless out of the cold and rain. The idea of a warm, dry place to sleep and maybe a hot meal was too much to pass up. I agreed to go with them. There I got some soup in my belly, the first decent meal I had in a long time. A man sat down on the cot across from mine and began talking to me.\n ‘My name is George Tisdale. Who are you if you don’t mind me asking,’ he said.\n ‘Rebecca Shaw,’ I told him, a little guarded.\n ‘Rebecca, I would like to get you off the streets. What would you like,’ he asked.\n ‘I’d like to be rid of this heroin addiction I didn’t ask for. I’d like to clean myself up and go back to St. Louis, go home, and find my parents. I want to someday be a mom, but not like this,’ I replied.\n “George checked me into a rehab and visited me every day. Detoxing from drugs or alcohol is a painful and torturous experience. I recommend never starting. George was there when I got out. He flew with me back to St. Louis and helped me locate my parents, which wasn’t hard, they had never moved. George stood by my side as I rang the doorbell, unsure of what to expect.\n “My mom opened the door and gasped for air, her eyes filling with tears. I was surprised she recognized me. She reached out and touched my face and smiled. ‘Larry,’ she yelled back into the house to get my father’s attention. He came running, expecting an emergency. When he saw me, he stood up strait with a look of recognition. He tilted his head and started to cry. ‘Don’t just stand there, Susan. Let her in,’ he said.\n “It may not sound like it, but things worked out better for me than most girls. I eventually found my way home. Some never get out. Some die, usually at very young ages. Some are sold overseas. Some are turned into slaves once they are no longer found desirable. I hope my story has some effect on you, so that when you meet someone new, whether at the mall, at a party, or online, you think before agreeing to do anything or go anywhere with anyone alone. You never know who someone is until you truly get to know them.”\n Mrs. Rivers, the principal at Northwest High approaches Rebecca and shakes her hand before taking the microphone. “Let’s give Mrs. Dent a warm round of applause for coming here and sharing her story. I hope you ladies take to heart what she has told us and use caution out there in the dating world.”\n The gymnasium erupted with clapping as young ladies rose to their feet. A lump formed in Rebecca’s throat and tears moistened her eyes as she felt that her message didn’t fall on deaf ears. Mrs. Rivers shook her hand again and Rebecca left with a wave to her audience.\n After her speech, Rebecca stops at her parents to pick up her daughter. From there, she is meeting her husband at home who is preparing dinner for their second anniversary. He’s a good man and they have a nice home. Rebecca still suffers from PTSD. She still sees a counselor regularly and takes her medication as prescribed. She considers herself extremely lucky, blessed, and now puts the past behind her, focusing on her future, going from school-to-school warning young women about sex trafficking." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Tired of This\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1011\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone saying “Houston, we have a problem.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Tired of This\nHey, Houston, come here…look! M*@T%^*F++K Damnit… Houston, we have a problem! Look, someone is doing it again right now. How the heck are they getting in? They are being bold as hell this time. A remote predator hacked me, and they attempted to steal $500 through a fraudulent payment. They tried to create a payment from my PayPal account for services not received from a company I have never heard of. Luckily, I looked at the computer when it was happening. It would have gone unnoticed if I didn’t look over at that moment until I was overdrawn. There’s nothing more frightening than looking up and seeing the cursor moving effortlessly across the screen and not knowing what is happening or how to stop the blatant invasion.\n I’ve been hacked twice in less than six months. I’m no one important, just someone who angered someone with too much time on their hands. I once considered that person a friend. They were someone I would ask for ideas to write about, like a daily topic to develop into a poem or short story. They claimed to be a good artist but never produced anything useful for my books. So, after sending five poems and asking for drawings to accompany them, I decided art would not be needed. The person felt as if I owed them something. They began fabricating issues, such as their child being deathly ill and needing medical treatment, that they could not afford. That would be Friday, and they would post new pictures on Instagram by Sunday of the daughter modeling new clothing and smiling. Come to find out, it was her birthday weekend. Why lie? What kind of parent would lie about their child being sick to get money from a friend? Because of the lies, the friendship deteriorated, and I had to block them on Facebook. At first, I missed the daily conversations, but one day, while watching the Steve Harvey show, Steve said something that made perfect sense:\n “Not everyone that comes with you can go with you. Your journey is just that… YOURS! You should not feel bad or try to carry anyone with you. Don’t block your blessing, trying to help someone else.” \nI never looked back; that was three books ago. I chose to self-publish all the earlier books. I realized that I needed professional help with promotions if I wanted to sell to more than my friends and family. So, I set up a “go-fund-me” page to raise money for publishing. That put a target on my back. Because he could not get me to respond on Facebook, he hacked my page and email account. A week ago, I learned that he is still harassing all of my family, contacts, and friends. When I thought I was finished with his meddling, I got an email from the cloned account. As if he was doing me a favor by letting me know I had a message from Reedsy. I’ve been shut out of my original Facebook account, but I have been writing for years. Anyone who knows me can tell that it is not my messages they hear from that account. All the people that mattered enough from that account have my primary and secondary emails and have found their way to my new Facebook page.\nThis second hack happened the very day I discovered my antivirus had expired. I got sidetracked because of a meeting and couldn’t rebuy Norton for an hour. How wild, umm…or was it a coincidence, karma, or stupidity? I did get comfortable after recovering from the first attempt to rattle me. I changed passwords and thought I had done what I needed to regain control. This time I decided to close all credit card accounts, delete all online banking accounts and pay my bills that old-school way by writing checks.\nWell, maybe that’s drastic, but I don’t know what to do. If my hacker, stalker, or ex-friend were in the United States, there would be things to do; Stalking laws and Cybercrime laws. Now I understand why in the ’70s, my mother feared the world’s embrace of computers. She predicted the government would become “Big Brother” and how computers would run the world before the 2000s. If Wells Fargo and Bank of America can be compromised by hackers, who do I think I am?\nI wish going analog was the solution, but I can’t just drop off the grid, or can I? I can still publish books with a pseudonym, or I think that is what it is called when you write books anonymously. That feels like I am running scared; since I like seeing my name in print, I won’t hide. I should be fine until I become as famous as Thomas Seuss Geisel, Dr. Seuss, or Samuel Clemens, known as Mark Twain. The more I write, the angrier I get. I need a break from this.\nI checked and returned four emails. I played four words in three different games of Words with Friends. I got something to drink and realized I was stalling. I also realized I live through my computer! Since my car accident and paralysis on St. Patrick’s Day 1998, my computer has become my connection to the world. Sometimes I have to message my son or whichever caregiver who’s on duty in another part of the house. Now, you can make telephone calls from your desktop or laptop with nothing but a headset and a cursor click. I love the ease of connecting for free. You can talk to your next-door neighbor or someone around the world.\nWhat else must I change to avoid being victimized again? I believe that the blessing God has for YOU, no one can steal it. The people that you anger will be used to promote you. Think of yourself as an Oyster. Oysters have protective shells. They have no natural enemies, and those wishing to eat them must work hard for little yield. Oysters produce the most giant pearl from the greatest irritation." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Hippocratic Oath\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1221\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is stuck between two opposing sides and can’t decide which one to choose." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: Mention of sexual abuse, incest\n***\n\n“With regard to healing the sick, I will devise and order for them the best diet, according to my judgment and means; and I will take care that they suffer no hurt or damage…”\n\nI scan the cross-stitched words in the examination room of my clinic, framed in gold and screaming at me in scarlet thread, as I feel the prickle of what feels like a thousand knives at my throat. Five years ago, as I walked across the stage of a packed auditorium to receive a diploma from the medical school and a shiny new prefix to attach to my name. I pronounced these very words, The Hippocratic Oath. To this very day, I am bound to this promise I made, swear to never use the scalpel I wield to cut the patients under my care unless absolutely necessary for their health.\n\nHowever, how exactly do you define what is crucial for someone’s well-being? What if what is needed to prevent hurt means violating one part of the oath I swore by? What if….\n\n“Doctor Blackwell?”\n\nI glance at my assistant Amanda peering at me from the door. From my seat, I see her hazel eyes streaked with red veins. She’s gripping her scrubs so tightly that I see her knuckles turn white.\n\n“Yes, Amanda?”\n\n“Well, you asked me to see if there are any available tickets for flights to LA…”\n\n“Oh, but of course,” I reply. I try to make my voice sound as sure as possible, as if I’m making the first incision during surgery. However, it cracks, betraying the fact that my throat feels like a knife had scraped it, that I had shed tears about this very decision the night before.\n\n“Well, there are two seats available on the 8:30 am flight tomorrow,” Amanda states. She stares into my steel grey eyes before continuing.\n\n“So, shall I book them, Dr. Blackwell?”\n\nI gulp. It’s a question as simple as “What is the colour of blood when it oozes out?” Yet, at this moment, my heart races and my head feels like it’s being stabbed multiple times. I know that my response would cleave two different paths for me, that this is the sharp knifepoint that has the potential to be plunged in my back if it goes wrong.\n\nIf I could distil all of my work as an obstetrician and gynaecologist in a single statement, it would be this: I am not only the medical professional that oversees my patients’ procedures; I’m also a witness to their tears.\n\n Countless of times already, I’ve cut through skin, muscle, and organs to bring a baby to life and hear their first cry. Of course, it usually isn’t just the new-born sobbing in moments like this; as soon as their child is placed into their arms, couples usually couldn’t help but be taken to tears, their sniffling cutting through the still, sterile operating theatre. I hear them whisper wishes through the flood coming from their eyes as their newly arrived child coos at their mother’s chest.\n\nHowever, those aren’t the only type of tears I’ve been witness to. It’s also up to me to hold couples’ hands if ever life cuts them and they lose their baby prematurely; as the most bitter of sobs escapes from their lungs, I’m there to comfort them, to try to remove the pain from the invisible dagger in their heart as best as I could. It always feels as if I’m being bludgeoned every single time I have to break the news that a woman has miscarried. Oftentimes, I too end up crying after one of these appointments, but I know I have to hold back my own weeping and be a source of strength to the person whose medical care I’ve been entrusted.\n\nThen, of course, there are the sobs of relief. I’ve celebrated with countless patients when they’ve rung the bell after a round of cancer treatment, their tears soaking into my scrubs. When a test comes back negative for the Big C, I’m there to hug them as their bodies quake and their eyes open the floodgates. If only they know that their physician sheds tears of joy along with them, that their victory from disease feels as if it were mine.\n\nIn my five years of treating women, these moments of crying have become familiar to me. So, when a panel of men who do not have medical degrees, who have never had to ensure a tearful patient continues to live, made a decision in 2022 to cut off what could be a lifeline for thousands, I could not help feeling as if my limbs were being hacked apart from my body with a saw. Of course, they wouldn’t understand. Of course, it isn’t them that had to be there, all ears, as the worst wails of desperation pierced the air.\n\nSeventeen year-old Gwen entered my clinic one night, an emaciated thing trembling like a leaf in her t-shirt and bloodstained shorts. Her large ocean blue eyes and blonde curls were apparently a gift from her late mother, and, unfortunately for her, that was all her father thought about every time he dragged her to his room, locked the door, and released his alcohol-fuelled longing for his dead partner out on his daughter. She had already endured four years of molestation by the time her best friend Kelly found out, helped Gwen escape the house through an open window, and sat next to her in the waiting room of my practice. I sighed when I saw how deep the lacerations on her intimate area were, marks of her father’s abuse towards the girl he was supposed to protect. Sadly, that night, we discovered that those weren’t the only souvenirs of these forced encounters.\n\nI know what the law states. If authorities were to find out that I helped a weeping, terrified teenager get rid of an embryo conceived in tears, I would lose my medical license, be severed from my right to help hundreds of women who trust me to aid them in getting better. I may even end up in jail, deprived of liberty because, according to them, I’m robbing someone of a life.\n\nBut am I, really ? Is the life of a minor thrust into an unfortunate situation worth less simply because her ovaries decided to release an egg at the wrong time? Should Gwen be forced to birth a reminder of her trauma, no longer have a shot at the normal, worry-free life she was supposed to have?\n\nI stare at the words of the promise I made five years ago, and the answer is clear. I am a doctor. It is my duty to prevent hurt. It is my duty not to prolong harm.\n\n“Amanda, yes, go ahead and book them under Gwen and Kelly’s names please. I'll be the one to call Dr. Salvador in Cedars-Sinai. She's my friend from medical school, after all.”\n\nI feel a peace cut through my heart as a flow of warm, happy tears fall from my eyes. No matter what happens, I'm content knowing I stayed true to the very same oath I cried in a packed auditorium five years ago, the very same one I promise to always uphold." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: How the Devil Stole Pastor Henry's Soul\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1662\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where someone’s paranoia is justified." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "How the Devil Stole Pastor Henry’s Soul\nBy K Arlington Andrews\n\nPart One: Traynesha\n The night I met Hen, the -stroll was hot and popping like fish grease. When he pulled up, I got in, and our conversation just clicked off the bat, ya know? Didn’t take long before he was blowing up my phone, all the time. He was one of my regulars, and I didn’t know he was a preacher until Dominque and me went to his church on Save a Soul Sunday\n Every hustler, streetwalker, and gangbanger in the hood, knew about Save a Soul Sunday. It was held every first Sunday, at the old House of Transformation on 12th Street.\nThe streets had been talking about this new preacher that won $2 million in the Lotto. Some said he used to be a low-down-dirty pimp. Said his Momma was a witch from Haiti, and she cleaned the Mob’s dirty money through the Strip Joint she ran in Midtown. I heard all kinds of crazy rumors, but I never met that side of him. \nAll I know is, Hen had a good heart, and did right by his people when He bought the old House of Transformation and turned it into the Dream Center. On Save A Soul Sunday, The Dream Center had service, and opened its doors for anyone in need.\nHe was still Hen to me when me and Dominique went to his church for the first time. I was so nervous; I had no idea what to expect when I walked through the doors. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d stepped foot in a church. But I had to see for myself if it was really my Hen that was the star of the show. \n\n\n\n\nIt took a minute for the initial shock to wash over me. I couldn’t concentrate on a word he was saying because I was suddenly on fire.\nLike flames, Random thoughts flashed through my mind.\nGotta turn in my application at the McDonald’s down the street… \nThese too tight stripper heels is fuckin up my big toes…\nI tried to think of anything other than the memory of his delicate touch, exploring every inch of me. His lips, kissing every part of my body, and I couldn’t wait to be alone with him again.\n\nLater that evening, tucked under the covers, bolted behind locked doors in the sanctuary of my room at the Grand Hotel, he confessed to me, with an unhinged glint in his eye, that he had made his bed with the Devil, the night he met me.\nSurely, he was joking.\nHen reached in the nightstand and pulled out a small jewelry box.\nNo\nThe sincerity of thought was like a wet slap. Hen was dead serious when he slid the delicate ring on my finger, and I wondered how he could stir my soul and stimulate my body at the same time.\n That night, he introduced me to his favorite scriptures. I believed him when he said God Loved me despite the whorish life I’d chosen to live. I deserved to be loved, and he surprised me again. This time with a trip to Indianapolis, just the two of us.\nI’d never met someone who knew my secret and loved me for it. Maybe it was my spiritual depravity that Hen could relate to. He’d been a liar and a thief, but God had changed his heart and delivered his soul. Every day he was fighting to stay right.\nSo, how can what we share, be right?\nI knew the cracks in his family façade because I had tried to live that DL lie myself, many lifetimes ago. He’d forsaken his wife, who stood faithfully by his side despite his transgressions. Running from his wrongs he’d escape to my room in secret, and I swept open the doors to his madness. Praying and crying, some nights he’d fall asleep in my arms.\nI knew that I was surely going to hell, I’d done too much sinning to be saved. But I played along anyway. I loved being myself with Hen. Plus, I needed a vacation. \n\n\nPart Two: Dominique\n\n When the dumb bitch called me, it was three o’clock in the morning, and the Caller ID said it was an out of town number. Traynesha lucky I answered. But I already knew the trifling ho needed help. Bitch sounded like a hot mess. Girlfriend was Way Too high and completely hysterical. \nI finally got her to calm down when she Said she was stranded in Indianapolis with Pastor Henry and Begged me to help get her home. \nBitch, where is Pastor? And she screamed,\nPastor Henry is dead. \n My eyes were as wide as shit when she said:\nPastor Henry\n dead next to me\n in bed. \nWell, first of all bitch, if a married preacher man, worth over $2 million, is laid out naked and dead next to you in bed, being stranded is the least of your worries. I told the bitch to check his pockets. She found about $2000 in cash and enough credit cards to choke a horse. Told the bitch to grab every single one, and get the hell out.\nBut first, and this is the best part, I told the dumb ho to take pictures. I think she did. Bitch wasn’t that stupid. I told her, don’t look back and call me when you touch down. That was the last time I heard from her. Claudine, who work housekeeping at the Grand Hotel, was the first one to call me with the T\nCouldn’t believe it when she Told me they found Traynesha stabbed to death in her room. Same room the good ole Reverend used to creep to.\n Think this street life a game if you want to\nOh Yes child, everybody knew Miss Traynesha turned tricks over by Union and Martin Luther King. Made good paper too when she got herself all made up. Kind-of remind you of a broke down Rihanna. I think that’s where she met Henry.\nYes sir. Gonna miss that bitch. I used to tell her to sit her crazy ass down. Seems like she was always working some kind a root. But I gotta give it to her. Traynesha knew how to make her coins, talking more shit than a little bit. \nShe played these stupid ass tricks. Got them thinking they had picked up a real woman. Probably that mouth is what killed her. Somebody said it was thirty-seven stab wounds. Fucked that pretty face up. \nNow look at the bitch. Pastor Henry dead In bed with his tranny girlfriend. Now she dead too. Don’t get no better than that shit. Not that I got a problem with it. To each his own.\nBut I’m thinking to myself, really? Does your wifey know about this shit?\n\n\nPart Three: Wifey\nDear Jasmine:\nI’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. You’ll be my baby girl forever and I love you, and my Grandbaby more than life itself. I’m so proud of the woman you’ve become. Stay strong, because you’re the only one who will know the whole truth after you read this letter.\nYou see I had no choice. Your father’s secret indiscretion had gotten out of hand. For years I was silent when he strayed. When he left me for days and indulged his sick tendencies. I tried to remember how much I used to love him. I reminded myself of the man I married and the beautiful soul he had. \nAt first it was like my prayers had been answered when he won that money. You know how much it was a blessing for our family and the community. We created a ministry together and shelters for the homeless and in some ways your father was a prophet. But Henry was a troubled soul. He had a dark side, like me.\nPlease don’t blame me for snuffing out that little bit of nothing, and that’s what she was. A piece of trash, simple as that. That heathen took pictures. Horrible Pictures of your father, my husband, laid out naked, in the hotel, where they found him. She was gonna tell and sell it all…\nI had hired a private detective longtime ago, and I already knew about her scheming ways. So, I wasn’t surprised when she called. I went to her room at the Grand with $5000 in cash the heifer told me to bring. I was ready to pay for her silence and be done with it all.\nBut I wasn’t expecting her to be so pretty. She had a confidence that surprised me… so young and comfortable in her own skin. She said Henry loved her and would want her to be taken care of. I laughed in her face, but she wasn’t moved. She informed me that this $5,000 payment would be the first of many more payments to come.\nI KNEW THAT SHE WAS A MAN under all that fake hair and makeup. How could Henry love her, and a fireball of hatred and jealousy consumed me. I couldn’t leave her room without making sure we were alone, and I checked her kitchenette for knives of which she had many. With the whisper that this would be our little secret, I slit her fine yellow flesh from ear to ear.\nYou already know the rest to be sure. They find her slashed to ribbons and I go mysteriously missing. The burden of hiding your father’s truth is too much to live with. You will receive this letter and see the postmark from Niagara Falls, New York. I imagine you will call the authorities and alert them to my last confirmed whereabouts as well you should.\nI made sure your father’s ministry and business affairs were in order before I left. There will be no open casket for me. Please forgive me. \nWith my Everlasting Love,\n Your 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: Church on Saturday\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1788\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is stuck between two opposing sides and can’t decide which one to choose." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I had a friend in college who said he was never going to have children. At the time I thought he didn’t want the responsibility. Looking back now, I wonder if he was actually hoping to avoid the heartbreak.\nI can’t speak for all fathers, but the day my son was born, I saw his life flash before my eyes. He was going to dominate the other infants in the nursery, be valedictorian of his preschool, hit puberty at nine, and start at quarterback on the varsity football team his freshman year. \n\nAfter that, the visions became more serious and less scripted. My son was going to be his own man. He would choose his profession and his wife. Then, when the time was right, he would present me with my first grandson. It didn’t seem too much to ask. I just wanted him to be a good boy who would become a good man. I saw it all so clearly, but as they say, “The best laid plans…”\n\nWhen did I first know? I’ve asked myself that question more times than I can count. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment—it’s actually more of a process than an event, but I would say it’s similar to trying to remember when you stop believing in Santa Claus. In the beginning, you don’t know the truth and it’s wonderful. Then certainty gives way to doubts, ones you dare not verbalize or share. Next comes the internal realization, but you still find a way to pretend because the alternative is unthinkable. Last comes the inescapability of the obvious, the moment all reasonable—and unreasonable—doubt is removed. At this point your world becomes forever less good.\n\nI was blissfully unaware when my son was young. Looking back, there were signs, although I didn’t see them. I tried to connect with him the same way my father had with me—through sports. I was obviously disappointed when he resisted playing Little League. But with a few words of encouragement, he gave baseball a try and seemed to get better from week to week. At least, that’s what I told myself. \n\nOn Sundays, when I parked myself in front of the living room TV to watch football, he would give me a hug and head to the bedroom to watch romcoms with my wife. I never said it out loud, but it broke my heart each time he walked away. I remember praying on more than one occasion that he would gain an interest in my favorite game and decide he wanted to spend Sunday afternoons with me.\n\nMy son also wore his emotions on his sleeve. When we would watch sad movies, I did everything I could to choke back the tears welling up in my eyes. Not him though—he cried unashamedly. Then he'd come hug me because he could sense I was sad as well.\n\nIt was during his high school years that I started to suspect. I was proud of him, to be sure. He was so smart, much smarter than I, but he was also sensitive and gentle. He was popular, especially with the girls, but he never asked any of them out. For the homecoming dance, he dressed up in a three-piece with a tie. He looked so damn good in that suit, but he didn’t go with a girl. He just went with a group of friends. It was then that I knew something was off.\n\nWhat happened next confirmed my unspoken fears.\n\nI was still up when he came home after the dance. It was pitch black outside, but the dome light in the car worked perfectly well. I wasn’t completely sure, but it looked to me as if he leaned over and kissed the boy who dropped him off. I can’t say for certain how long I sat by myself, in silence, in the dark before I went to bed. I only know it was precisely long enough to convince myself I hadn’t seen what I knew I had.\n\nDenial is a powerful tool, and I wielded it often. I was intentionally blind to the obvious until one day I came home early from work. When I walked in the door, I saw him standing there, right in the middle of the living room. He had on lipstick and eyeshadow and some sort of foundation all over his cheeks. It’s the only time in his life that I hit my son. I slapped him so hard that my hand stung, so hard I left the outline of my palm on his face. In a moment of rage, I had lost all control. When I saw the makeup smudged on my hand, I ran, like Lady Macbeth, to the kitchen. I had to wash off our shame. I insisted he never tell anyone what he had done and hoped he'd never tell anyone what I had done. Ironically, he didn’t cry, not a single tear. In his life I was never more proud of him. To this day I still don’t completely understand the dichotomy. \n\nThe day he actually came out was equal parts expected, dreaded, and heartbreaking. My wife asked all sorts of questions. Was he bi? Was he trans? Was he sure? I just sat stoically and listened. I loved my son, but on that day, I didn’t like him—not at all—and I told him as clearly as I could with my silence.\n\nIt has been said that time heals all wounds, and that is true, even the self-inflicted ones. By the time he left for college, we had entered into a détente. I loved my son and, for reasons known only to him, he loved me, too. I know he discussed deeper subjects with his mom, but we had an unspoken agreement. We stuck to safe conversations: my job, his schoolwork, his mother, finances. He even started to watch football. More than anything, I started to dream again. The dreams were different, but they were no less sincere. I wanted my son to find success and happiness.\n\nAfter college, he settled into his own life—further from home than either my wife or I preferred, but close enough to visit regularly. He had become his own man, just as I hoped. Whenever the chance presented itself, and I made sure it did, I would brag about my son who worked for NASA. I was the only one in our golfing foursome who had an actual rocket scientist in the family.\n\nAs always, his mother was the one who would talk with him about his personal life. We observed the old military policy—don’t ask, don’t tell. I would quiz him about his job and bore him with stories about the neighborhood, and we found commonality with football. He had actually grown to love the game and my New York Giants. That was an answered prayer.\n\nHis last visit seemed like all the rest until the final night. I had retired to the den to enjoy a cigar. Neither he nor my wife liked the smell of smoke, so I was caught off guard when my son walked in, sat in the chair next to me, and told me he had a question.\n\nNothing can really prepare you for the joy you feel when your son chooses you to be the best man at his wedding. The moment it happened, I unexpectedly teared up. I remembered all the hopes and dreams I had for him on the day he was born. Then, in an instant, reality crashed over me like a tidal wave. If I answered yes, I would have to stand up next to him while he pledged his life to another man. I would need to remain silent when the pastor said: “Speak now or forever hold your peace.” I would be forced to watch as he kissed his husband in front of our family and friends.\n\nI’m not sure who was more surprised by my answer, him or me.\n Planning an event on short notice can be unimaginably stressful, but it can also serve as a necessary distraction. We had to find a pastor, invite all our family and friends, and make sure there were plenty of flowers. I purposely kept myself so busy that I never allowed any time to consider what was happening. Even the night before the event seemed surreal. There were people in attendance with whom, given the chance, we could spend hours talking, and yet we only had enough time to carry on short conversations and share hugs. \n\nMy wife and I were the last ones to leave. \nUnlike most Friday nights, everyone wanted to get home and get a good night's sleep. The next day we would celebrate my son. Every conversation that night had obviously been about him. Everyone marveled at how great he looked. I, on the other hand, wasn’t the least bit surprised. Say what you will about my son, he might never have learned to throw a football, but that boy could sure wear a suit.\n\nWhen everyone had gone and without having to ask, my wife left me alone with him. She instinctively knew there were things I needed to say. \n\nHe thought I didn’t love him—I had to tell him I did. \n\nHe thought I wasn't proud of him—I had to tell him I was. \n\nHe never heard me say I’m sorry. This was my greatest regret. I was so very sorry—more than he would ever know. I hoped—somehow, someway—he would still hear me and forgive.\n\nMy son had asked me if I would be his best man, and I said, “No.” At least that's what I wanted to say. What I actually said was, “Hell fucking no, and I won’t be at your goddammed wedding either.” \n\nJust as I had years earlier, I allowed rage to overcome common sense. The look on his face spoke volumes, as did his silence. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me, but he didn’t cry. I had verbally stabbed him in the heart, but just like when I slapped his face, he remained stoic. That boy was one tough son-of-a-bitch.\n\nI think my answer is why he killed himself. I’ll never know for sure though. He didn’t leave a note.\n\nI answered his question with a definitive no, but even if I had said yes, I'd have been in the exact same place. Because there are only two reasons to be in church on Saturday: weddings and funerals.\n\nI guess the real question is, if I had it to do all over again, knowing what I know now, would I have changed my answer? Would I have said yes?\n\nI'm ashamed to say, I honestly don't know." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Siobhan's Winter Retreat\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2713\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who, for whatever reason, retreats to a remote cabin." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“I can’t believe the friends you are starting to make, Siobhan,” Debra said as she folded laundry. “These people are bad news for you.” \nSiobhan looked at her aunt skeptically. “My friends are helping me.” \nDebra scoffed. She pulled out her phone, scrolling through…something. “Look at these pictures you took, Siobhan. What are they? Look how you are dressed!” \n“Auntie, what-” Debra quickly sauntered over and placed the phone in front of Siobhan’s face. \n“I thought when you moved out, that you would at least respect yourself and your appearance.” \nSiobhan sighed. She didn’t want to say anything and start an argument like they had in the past. Things were good between them. At least that was what Siobhan wanted to think. After all, Debra was the only family she had and any nonsense is what she had to put up with. That’s what her cousins told her every time she needed to vent. \nDebra continued to drone on about the importance of one’s appearances, and Siobhan made to appear as if she was listening; she wasn’t on her phone and she made scarily prolonged eye contact as Debra spoke, even going as far as to nod her head in understanding. \nOnce the boring lecture was over, Siobhan made herself something to eat and went into the guest bedroom her aunt made for her. Her mother smiled up at her from the picture placed on her bedside table. How Siobhan wished she was still alive. She was the complete and total opposite of her sister. She had an old person’s name, Nancy, but she never had a baby-boomer personality. Now, Siobhan felt because Debra was the only family she had, she was obligated to visit her and keep in touch. But she often felt she had to compete with her cousins, who were more like siblings to her. They were living normal lives and into normal hobbies like fantasy football and hockey. It’s just that something about her wasn’t right. Siobhan went to sleep, excited about leaving her house in the morning and going to her apartment. \nThe sun peaked through the blinds the next morning. Siobhan packed her belongings. She paused to look at her mother’s picture. She wanted to take it for herself, but she didn’t want to go through with arguing with her over a picture of her mother. She could hear her aunt shuffling in the kitchen as she made herself a pot of coffee. Siobhan entered the kitchen as well and made her pot of coffee. Debora was in her robe and bonnet looking ever so comfortable. \n“Good morning,” Debra greeted her niece. \n“Good morning,” Siobhan replied. \nDebra eyed Siobhan’s suitcase. “Wish you could stay with me a little longer. Your cousins are coming over, but you’ll be gone by then.” \n“Yeah, I would have liked to see them.” \nDebra sat at the high table. “Breakfast is on the stove; help yourself as always.” \n“Thanks.” Siobhan fixed a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast. The aroma of breakfast had been filling the room, making Siobhan’s stomach growl. She sat across from her aunt.\n“So, have you only registered for on-site classes as I told you?” \nSiobhan paused mid-bite of her eggs. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. She wasn't in the mood to have this conversation, especially when she had already told her that the class she needed to take wasn’t on-site. \nDebra noticed her reaction and put down her fork, glaring disapprovingly at her niece. “You need to take on-site classes,” she told her sternly. “You need an actual teacher in front of you. You know you don’t do well with that online stuff.” \n“It was only one class,” Siobhan said. “Am I not allowed to pick my classes anymore?” Siobhan was just as shocked as Debra was at that reaction. Siobhan hoped it wouldn’t turn into a full-blown argument. \n“I’m just trying to help you!” her aunt exclaimed. “But you just wanna do what you want!” \n“Isn’t that the point of being an adult?” Siobhan asked. She didn’t raise her voice, but Debra acted as if she did.\n“Just so ungrateful for my help,” Debra fussed. She slammed her fork on her clean plate and abruptly got out of her chair to wash the dishes. “If only your mother were here to see how you’re acting.” \n“My mother would be proud of me,” Siobhan replied. She rose from her a chair as well. Her suitcase was by the living room couch. It faced the door. \nSiobhan didn’t say goodbye as she left her aunt’s door. Instead, she dragged her suitcase and walked out of the house. She blasted some rock music with Spotify and drove home. She wanted to scream, but she knew it wouldn’t help things. A tinny ringtone blared from her speakers, interrupting her music. She answered.\n“Hey!” Charon’s voice rang through Siobhan’s speakers. \n“Hey,” Siobhan responded flatly, her mouth forming into a flat line. \n“Lemme guess, your aunt,” Charon responded in the same flat tone. \n“Bingo,” Siobhan responded with the use of a finger gun for emphasis. \n“Hmm, come over, friend, I’ve got something to show you,” Charon said. \n“Why?”\n“Just come over.”\nSiobhan arrived at Charon’s house moments later. Charon had been a long-time friend of Siobhan’s. If her aunt would not support her, Charon was always there. \nCharon greeted her friend and gestured for her to come in. Siobhan sighed and plopped on the plush couch in the living room. \n“What was your aunt fussing about this time?” Charon said. She was behind Siobhan, in the kitchen, rummaging around and then the sound of a bottle cork popping could be heard, followed by pouring. Siobhan was about to stop her, but she thought better of it. Chance. She strode over to the couch and gave Siobhan a glass of the blood-red drink. \nSiobhan sighed. “I just knew we were gonna get into an argument. She doesn’t want me taking online classes.” Siobhan took a sip. \n“Did your aunt pay for the college?”\n“No.” \n“Did she get a grant?” \n“No.” \n“Did she make the schedule for you?” \n“No.” \n“Then she has no say-so in how you try to pursue your education!” Charon exclaimed. “My dear, you need to stick up for yourself.” \n“I know, but it turns into an argument!” \n“Then, let it become an argument,” Charon replied. “Don’t let her guilt-trip you. Stand your ground. Even if you were still living with her, you are your own person, not her.”\n“You’re right,” Siobhan admitted.\nCharon sat next to her on the couch with her glass of wine in one hand and her cell phone in the other. She set the glass down on the coffee table and began typing something on her phone. She turned the front of the phone towards Siobhan. \n“What’s this?” Siobhan asked. It was a beautifully decorated picture advertising a log cabin complex nestled in a winter cove. In big, bold words, it read, “Soulstice Retreat! A place where you can rest your weary head.”\n“I thought we could go together. I saved up enough money to pay for both of us. It’s on me,” Charon beamed.\n“Charon, you didn’t have to do this!” Siobhan exclaimed. \n“You can’t back out on this now,” Charon responded cheekily. \n“I’m going to have to tell my aunt!” \n“To hell with her!” Charon exclaimed, throwing her phone down on the couch. “This is more so for you! That’s why it’s on me! It’s my random gift to you.”\n“I don’t know what to say!” \n“Just say you’ll start packing. We’ve got two weeks till the beginning of the school semester!” \nSiobhan and Charon had an impromptu celebratory dinner and wine. Charon cooked unstuffed cabbage roll stew. After settling down Charon raised her glass. \n“To getting away,” she toasted. \n“To finally getting away!” Charon cheered. They clinked their glasses.\nCharon rode with Siobhan to her apartment. They had a good time, packing Siobhan’s things when she fell on the bed hyperventilating. Pools of tears freely flowed out of her eyes. Charon ran over and hugged her tightly. \n“What’s wrong?” Charon asked. \nSiobhan sobbed, “I’m not ready to tell my aunt.” \n“Then just make up something,” Charon suggested.\nThe day arrived when they would take off on the trip. Charon was at her apartment getting her things ready. Both girls were on their phones talking excitedly. Charon picked up Siobhan and, with their suitcases packed in the trunk, was off on an adventure across the country to the mountains. They sang karaoke in the car and made pit stops until…\nFinally, they arrived at the wintery wonderland complex. The girls looked in awe at the whole scene. Pine trees were tenfold, landscaping the snowy area, with scenic mountaintops behind them. Patrons settled into their cozy vacation havens. The cabins were spaced out, giving everyone their own space of solitude and rest. There were optional social activities; skiing, snowboarding, gatherings around the fire, and so on. The girls settled in a small, cozy cabin with a fireplace. They both were in awe of the amenities. Complimentary wine was placed on the table in front of the lit fireplace. There were two bottles. \nSiobhan flopped herself on the bed. She looked at her phone and frowned. “There’s no signal here.”\n“Well, we are in the mountains. They should have at least WiFi here,” Charon mumbled, still packing. They were settled and getting comfortable within moments. \nSiobhan felt as if she were in a fairy tale. When it was chilly, she warmed herself by the fireplace. She sent one text message (after setting up WiFi) to her aunt saying she was out of town. She did not specify where, but she said she needed a getaway. The college semester was hard, she texted. As usual, she had gotten a boatload of texts from her aunt asking where on earth she was, and to call her immediately. When Siobhan did not call, she received call after call from Debrah. \nThe cabin was medium-sized. Aside from the fireplace in the common room, there was a fireplace sitting perfectly above it. The cabin had one bedroom, which was all the girls could afford, but it was nice all the same. They even had a fire pit outside. \nSiobhan and Charon spent the morning curled up by the fireplace like two napping cats.\n“I know that this is sort of weird, but this is romantic, isn’t it?” Siobhan asked. \nChalice giggled, “Yeah, I guess. I’m just glad you can finally relax for a while. And while on break, practice standing up to your aunt. Set some boundaries.” \n“I’m constantly getting texts from her,” Siobhan admitted. \n“Text her back when you feel ready, but don’t wait too long. She needs to know that you have boundaries. Anyway, I’m getting hungry. Let’s see what we can get to eat. There are shopping places nearby.” \n“Sounds like a plan,” Siobhan agreed. \nThe girls got in the car and traveled down the mountain slopes to a nearby small village. It was a little late in the morning, so the market was bustling. The market they shopped in had the best quality farm ingredients; the eggs were good quality and the bacon was fresh. They had even bought milk and cocoa powder. \n“I feel like I’m back in time,” Siobhan admired as they perused through the market.\nCharon smiled. “You’re right. It’s so rustic.” \nSiobhan felt a strange feeling as Charon looked at her with a smile. She quickly pushed those feelings aside. After the girls gathered ingredients for breakfast, they traveled back to their cabin in the chilly air. \nWith their coats covered in snow, the girls entered their home away from home and let the fireplace warm them up. Charon popped open the wine that was chilled in ice on the living room table. She grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. The fireplace crackled and maintained its warmth. Siobhan lay on the bearskin rug. She was so grateful to get away and have her vacation be spent with someone she cared about. Charon always made her feel better. This trip was the best thing that Charon had ever gotten her. Charon handed her the glass of wine and padded back to the kitchen area. Siobhan followed her and they began preparing breakfast. Siobhan scrambled eggs while Charon made pancake mix. Siobhan added the needed seasoning to her eggs. She was much more relaxed, feeling every bit as comfortable making breakfast with her best friend. She wished it didn’t have to be just a vacation. Siobhan whisked the eggs fervently, until they were turned into liquid, then poured the egg scramble on one of the sizzling pots on the front burner. Charon, simultaneously poured the batter. Siobhan glanced at her and couldn’t help but feel some strange but lovely feelings for her. She thought about all the times Charon was there for her.\nThe aroma of food swelled throughout the room. Siobhan added two sausage patties sizzling on the stove. After a few moments, breakfast was ready. They returned to the fireplace and ate. \n“That was fun,” Siobhan said cheerfully. Charon nodded her head in agreement as she put a piece of syrupy pancake in her mouth.\nThey each drank the rest of the bottle of wine. The stress and worry seemed to melt away as they sat on the couch behind the two chairs and watched a movie. Siobhan found herself cuddling Charon, and she did not seem to mind at all. Charon wrapped her arm around her friend. \nSiobhan’s phone vibrated with text notifications from Debra. “Where are you?” “I called the police!” \nCharon noticed the text messages from her cuddling position. \n“I’ll call her. This is ridiculous,” Siobhan said. She called her aunt. \n“Why did it take so long for you to call me?!” Debra shrieked. “I have been worried sick! And you think texting is going to help ease my worry? Is that friend with you? I knew she was bad news?” Debra continued to rant and rave until Siobhan couldn’t take it. \n“Auntie stop it!” Siobhan exclaimed. She had never raised her voice at Debra and she was a little afraid of retaliation.\nThere was a tense silence on the other end. And then, “What did you say to me, girl?”\nCharon squeezed her friend’s shoulder, which bolstered her confidence. \n“I am on vacation. I’m relaxing and having a good time,” Siobhan stated. Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke. \n“When you get home, we will have to talk about this.” \n“She means guilt trip,” Charon muttered, rolling her eyes. \n“Let me talk to her, right now,” Debra demanded. \n“No, Auntie. I’m going to relax. Goodbye.” Before her aunt could get another word in, Siobhan hung up the phone.\nCharon gave Siobhan a big hug. Siobhan took in a deep breath. \n“I’m proud of you,” Charon said against Siobhan’s ear. \nSiobhan didn’t know whether it was the whisper in her ear that made her feel this way or the years of true friendship between them. She looked at Charon with intensity. Chan smiled at her. Damn those prominent dimples. Siobhan pressed her lips against Charon’s. Charon pulled away and gasped. For one horrifying moment, Siobhan thought she had messed up. But, Charon smiled and kissed her back, holding Siobhan in her arms. This was the happiest that Siobhan ever felt in a long time. \nThe moment couldn’t have been more appropriate to spend time in a jacuzzi that evening. The night was approaching and it was getting a bit chilly. Siobhan felt her aches go away as she sat with Charon in the warm, bubbling water. The winter wind howled outside the cabin and turbulent snow flecks flew by. \n“Are you worried about when you get home?” Chance asked, rubbing Siobhan’s shoulder. \nSiobhan sighed contentedly. She faced Charon with a look of intensity. “I am scared, but I think I can face her now.” \n“That’s what I like to hear,” Charon said with that dimpled smile. “You know, you were right about this place feeling romantic.” Charon smiled cheekily, her intense brown eyes boring into Siobhan.\n“I love you,” Siobhan responded. And she meant it. \nCharon kissed her forehead. “I love you too,” she replied sweetly." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Beautiful Day\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1430\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a backstabbing (literal or metaphorical) gone wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Dusty was worn out. He hadn’t worked this many days in a row since he couldn’t remember when. He shut down his excavator for the day and walked back to his truck. He kicked his boots against the running board to knock some mud off. Didn’t work too well. As he climbed in, his foot slid out from under him and he smacked his side on the running board and fell into the mud. \nWhen he got home he noticed Chad’s truck parked on the street out front. Chad drove semi-truck sometimes, fixed up cars sometimes, cut down and trimmed trees sometimes. A guy that made his living in different ways, but seemed to somehow never be working. He was also Dusty’s best friend. Chad came outside while Dusty was walking up the cracked, uneven sidewalk to his front door. \n“Oh, hey Dusty, how was work?” he said in a suspiciously normal voice. \nChad should’ve said, “Hey you ugly son of a bitch,” or something like that. Since when did Chad ask him how his day was? It reminded Dusty of something his dad always told him: never tell another man good morning. It makes a guy uncomfortable. \nChad gave him a forced smile, and it seemed to Dusty that he unintentionally betrayed a slyness. His face flushed under Dusty’s gaze and then he said he’s gotta get going. “Gotta get dinner ready for the kids,” Chad said, and off he went. Dusty didn’t reply, just stood there and watched him get in his truck and drive off. Then he went in to talk to Nadine. \n“Nadine, god dammit, what was Chad doing here?”\n“Well, nice to see you too honey. How was work?” \n“Don’t. Answer my question.”\n“He was looking for you. But he ended up helping me hang the new drapes. I know that sounds funny but it's the honest to God truth. Look at the drapes.” \nDusty couldn’t help but laugh. How ridiculous. I guess they did hang the drapes. What a load.\n“He came over here looking for you,” she continued, “but you’ve been working so much later than normal lately. He’s used to you being home earlier.\"\nDusty studied her face.\n\"Don’t look at me like that.”\n“What's for dinner?” Dusty asked, and flashed a grin.\n\nAt work the next day he was trying to let it go. He trusted both of them. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about it though. He was behind schedule on this job, digging out the foundation for a new hotel. On top of that he was driving an hour both ways every day, and with the long hours and the commute he knew Nadine was getting fed up. And then there was the damn credit cards. He tried not to bring it up anymore. They always ended up in the damndest fights over that. He liked providing for her, and she did keep a nice house. She was old fashioned and he liked that. But she never learned how to control her spending. Clothes, clothes, clothes. Seemed like she made a trip to goodwill or the consignment store multiple times a week, and there’s still more clothes than she could ever wear. Meanwhile he’s had the same damn overalls for the last five years that are covered in colorful patches and grease and trans fluid and oil. Ah well, he thought. No sense worrying right now. It was too easy to drift off like this while you’re diggin these holes. \nHe decided he was gonna go home early today. It was beautiful out, and he’d spent the last two weeks worth of beautiful days sitting in a cab digging up dirt. Besides, being a foreman had to have some privileges, right? This decision got him daydreaming again, pleasantly this time. Thinking about where he was gonna fish when he got off, how he was gonna give Chad a call and see if he’d wanna go along. He tried not to keep checking the time, because boy was it just crawlin today. \n\nHe had the windows down and the radio up on his way home. He decided to cruise by the campus of the local university and indulge in a favorite pastime of his: leering. His truck had a custom horn he was very proud of. It could do ice cream truck music, it could do the General Lee’s Dixie horn, it even had a speaker he could talk through. He saw a young woman on a bike and as he drove by thought it’d be a good idea to say through the speaker “boy, I’d like to be that bike seat.” This induced a wave of second hand embarrassment among the witnesses. It even caused one mild hearted student to give up on venturing into the world that day, and the young man went back to his dorm to contemplate things. \nDusty swung by the McDonald’s and got a big mac and a chocolate shake. His truck tires were so big and his truck lifted so high that when he used the drive-thru he had to park a little ways out from the building, hop out to pay then climb back in and do the same at the pickup window. He didn’t mind though. He loved the way those tires screamed once you got over fifty mile an hour and you could no longer hear anything else, not the radio, not your thoughts, not the wind if you had the windows down, and not Nadine when she was riding with him. He also loved how loud his exhaust was. He’d cut the muffler off himself years ago when he first bought the truck, just cut it with a sawzall above the catalytic converter then welded a straight pipe on. Every once in awhile somebody’d call him in for a noise complaint if he was doing burnouts late at night, but that was all worth it to him. It was just the price you pay for having a cool truck. \nHe stopped off to look at the river and eat. Wanted to see how dirty the water was, if fishin’d be any good. It looked very brown and dirty, still too high, so he decided to wait on calling Chad until he could think of a better place to go. He’d think it over on the drive and call him then. Words came out of the radio and Dusty sang:\n\nI brought it on myself and I guess that I shouldn't complain\nDoc said, \"Son, you can't do anymore of that cocaine\"\nBut she made me higher than all of those expensive things\n\n\nHe pulled onto his street when he realized he’d forgotten to call Chad. Oh well, he’d do it at home. He pulled in the driveway. Nadine’s car was there, but that was all. He walked through the front door and called out “Honey, I’m home!” She didn’t answer, but he thought he heard shuffling and voices. He walked through the kitchen up to the hallway and looked around the corner, watching and listening. Yeah, he heard something. Well, Dusty knew it was Chad. He must’ve parked in the alley. Dusty stormed back there and Nadine tried to shut the bedroom door as he got to it but he just shouldered right through and knocked her backwards and walked straight up to the closet door and yanked it open. Sure enough. Chad. Dusty grabbed him by the neck and spun and flung him onto the bed. Then Dusty went for the handgun he keeps in the top drawer of his dresser. Chad knew though. By the time Dusty was about to turn around and use it, he felt the blade slip in between ribs just below his right shoulder blade. His hand still gripped the gun. Chad pulled the knife out as Dusty twisted with gun in hand and Chad drove it home again, aiming for the heart this time. Dusty didn't have the strength to raise and aim but he was gonna make damn sure he emptied that gun before he was dead. As he fell backwards he pointed it in Chad's direction and squeezed the trigger as many times as he could. Bullets hit the floor, the window, Chad's stomach. One shattered the light cover on the ceiling fan, which must not have been installed well. This bullet knocked it loose, and when it fell with its jagged glass it came down on Chad, sending him to the floor. They died there, in a pool of each other's blood." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: One Night\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1022\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a home alarm system going off." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Without warning, Pheobe, a mid-height African American woman of 30 years, is startled awake one night by her home alarm system going off. Many years of listening for babies, allows her to go from deep sleep to full wakefulness to identify the threat! What is that sound? Quickly she recognized the alarm system and wonders who or what had triggered it!\n Ignoring the alarm, she climbs out of bed, grabs a robe, putting it on, and quietly walks down the long hallway toward the front of the house. Knowing it like the back of her hand, she easily moves through the inky darkness. An odd clinking sound and several short light flashes greet her, as she rounds the corner into the Dining room/Living room area. The outside dust-to-dawn light shines through the Dining room windows illuminating the dark silhouette of a man! A man has broken into her home!\n A bit freaked out at first, then suddenly angry, Phoebe steps quickly into the room, turns on the overhead light, and demands, “What the hell are you doing in my home?!”\n Fully illuminated the man is white, of medium build, dressed in a black and red flannel shirt with tan bibbed overalls, workman’s boots and with red hair, slightly balding on top. He stands there quietly blinking his eyes for a few minutes to allowing them to adjust to the change in light, then says, “A girl at the bar up the road says that this house is empty, so I can come and get whatever I want!”\n In a way, the girl is right for about six months the house was empty, but now it isn’t, although Phoebe is currently living alone. She says, “It’s not empty anymore, so go pass the word!” She blusters the man out of the front door, which is how he got in, and watches as he fades into the darkness of the tree-lined driveway. With her heart racing, she checks the rest of the house, turning on every light in the place, to look for more uninvited guests while calling 9-1-1. Once confident there is no one else in or around her home, she resets the alarm.\n Then she waits – all thoughts of sleep gone! Scanning the security tapes, she is happy to note that no one else had accompanied or followed the man during or after the break-in. While searching the house initially, she identifies the clinking sound she heard as the handle on a brass cricket box. The handle fell over hitting the side of it when the man took it down from the shelf. Even without the alarm, the clinking sound would have been enough to awakened her because it was not one of the usual night sounds in or around her home. She is used to the light traffic on the street, the occasional train passing by, sounds of night birds and frogs singing, even the stray cats that frequently visit or stay on her back porch.\nAs for the short light flashes – before she surprised him by turning on the Dining room light, she recalls that he was holding a cigar and a pocket lighter – the light flashes were his attempts to light the cigar. All this passed through her mind as well as the details of the encounter while waiting for the police to arrive.\n Twenty minutes later, though it felt longer, a police car pulls up the hill to her house. From the front porch, she tells him what happened and includes the description of the man. The police officer leaves to check the neighborhood for any signs of him. The officer returns half an hour later, opens the back door of his car, illuminating the inside. A man is sitting in the back seat. The officer asks, “Is this the man who broke into your house?”\n Looking closely from the safety of her front porch, Phoebe says, “Yes.”\nThe officer asks the man, “Do you know this lady?”\n “Yes,” the man says quickly. “She’s my girlfriend, we had a fight.”\n “Is this true, Ma’am?” the officer asks.\n “No! I’ve never seen him before in my life - before finding him in my house, that is,” Phoebe says sharply.\n “Ma’am, did you know he was carrying a weapon?” the officer asks.\n “No,” she says as cold chills run down her spine at her narrow escape. She shivers, hugging herself and rubbing her arms briskly. “What happens now?” she asks.\n “Don’t leave town, there may be more questions after I file my report,” the officer says calmly. He closes the back door of his squad car, climbs in and leaves. Phoebe turns off most of the lights in the house, double checks the alarm, braces both the front door and the back door with chairs, just in case. With heart still pounding, she climbs back into her bed, knowing she has to work in the morning, she tries her best to fall asleep. Tomorrow, she will buy two new dead bolts!\nArriving a bit late for work with bags under her eyes, testimony to her failed attempt at sleep, her boss Becky says, “You look terrible, are you alright?”\nPhoebe explains about the break-in. Becky says, “You’re welcome to sleep at my house until you’re ready to go home.”\n“Thank you, I’d like that,” Phoebe replies. In the meantime, she goes to the hardware store on her lunchbreak. Deciding to stay a couple of nights with Becky before returning home, even though the alarm did come on and did wake her, she still didn’t feel quite so safe there. After she installs the deadbolts, she is able to sleep a lot safer.\nA few days later the news is all over the office, the man who broke into her home had earlier in the week, broken into an auto garage taking some tools, and a number of homes stealing jewelry and money. He was arrested the night of the break-n and charged for it and the other crimes. She is glad that he is no longer free to cause panic and fear in their neighborhood.\nThe End." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Millionaire's Lottery Guide\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1023\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a casino." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A Millionaire’s Lottery Guide\nGames of chance can make or break you. One roll of the dice can be boxcars or snake eyes. I put so much belief into a lucky charm that I carried it everywhere. It was a nickel minted on my birthday, June 5, 1966. I dreamt I needed to go on the casino trip I had wanted to do for years but would not splurge for. Everyone dreams; some scare us, some make you chuckle, and unfortunately, we don’t remember 85% of our dreams. Of the 15% we remember, we forget 10 minutes after we wake up. It’s that “window” that our left brain tries to speak to the other side. The right brain is the one that controls impulsive activities.\nMany people dream of numbers and never play the lottery. Others chase that dream every day. Unfortunately, most of us wishing to get rich with those numbers we call “lucky” will be working until retirement. Most don’t understand that we have different types of luck daily. We have a certain number that is our one-digit. When you figure out your digit, use it to guide your gambling and gaming. My number is three. So, any form of threes 333, 666, 999, 3303, and 3333 have been good to me on Pick 3 and 4.\nAlso, for the dreams that center around something specific, listen… spell it out (A is 1- Z is 26); objects with 5-letter names can fit Cash 5, Mega Million, Powerball, and Cash4Life; add your lucky numbers for the (+) if you can only use a single digit and your “pet #” has multiple digits add them together until you have a single number. Every number has a sister 1 has 7, 2 has 5, 3 has 8, 4 has 0, and 6 has 9.\nAnother surefire way is to keep a record on a paper calendar. Numbers tend to follow patterns; we recognize them but forget to pay attention to them. A form of birthdays, anniversaries, deaths, and odd occasions like April Fool’s Day 401 on Pick3 and 0401 on Pick4. Numbers that add up multiples of 3,4, or 5 often back up to each other, like 333 today and 999 tonight or tomorrow. A good rule of thumb is to play the same numbers weekly, and if you’re feeling something new, add it. Don’t replace something seen too many times. When I drop a number, it comes out twice a week.\nIt would be best if you allowed numbers to speak to you, they do daily, but most don’t know what to listen for. We are bombarded with numbers daily, but they are not all for you; learning to see or hear with your left brain is a job. My first big win was found by writing down the numbers that I encountered every day of the week. I know what you’re saying. Is that all? Hell No! I played those numbers faithfully for seven years. I played them before I ate lunch. Sometimes I wouldn’t have enough for the lottery if I bought groceries for the week, so I would eat half my dinner plate and carry the rest the next day, to have the appropriate amount for my lottery. I was even late to pick up my children from grandma and school, so many times I can’t remember. My husband would have left and taken the kids had he known. \n Of course, I don’t know that I am the one to be trying to teach you how to become a millionaire because I went broke chasing my first million. Still, I was trying to make it by working 69 hours a week for someone else that already had millions and didn’t care if the people under him had homes, shoes, or food.\nI bought the company from that tightwad when he wanted to retire. I gave everyone five shares of G.E. and five of Hydro-Co, the local water plant… I told them he included it in the benefits package he set up last year as our Christmas bonus. I also started a 50/50 matching insurance and savings account up to $250,000.00 per family or $125,000.00 individually. The very thing I needed when I was homeless the first year I started. I was scared of being late or fired if the truth was discovered. When you understand what can happen if one paycheck is missed, you don’t want to see it again in your life or anyone around you.\nOops… I realized I had skipped from my dream to the end. I listened and went to Atlantic City that weekend. I won $400 that Friday night and was scared to continue playing. Saturday, I went to shows and shopped. After breakfast on Sunday, I went to the casino to bring home the five hundred dollars I still had. I cashed in the two casino cards happily. The plan was to play slots until noon, linger over a plate of seafood ‘til time to board the bus and return home. Unfortunately, I made a rookie move, not knowing I could have gotten the money to be redeposited. Someone saw me cash out and decided I was an easy mark; they took all the cash from my front pocket. As the thief grabbed the money from my pocket, my lucky nickel fell to the floor. “You can keep that,” he uttered, running off. Shaking like a leaf, I bent over, picked up the nickel, and felt a hand touch my back. I screamed take it! It’s all that is left. It was a lady from the bus who saw what had just happened. She recorded the incident, and another person went for security. Now I have to make a report; I'll miss lunch, and I need a drink.\nWell, that didn’t take long, and they brought me a muffin and a Whiskey Sour. Because of the supporting video, I can file a claim with my insurance. Wanting me to be a happy client, I assume.\nThis nickel didn’t protect me against theft, so to the slot machine for you! Woohoo, five lemons, $5.25 Million!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Bad Luck Revolution\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1170\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone whose luck is running out." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I picked up a charm\nIt was teal and bucked\nI thought it was\nA bit of good luck\nI want you to hear\nThe lesson I learned\nIt has been imagined\nNow I have adjourned\nDay One: \nDo the flowers bloom\nLike my new Transaction\nMy chance to make\nAn extra action\nI made a change\nBe filled with cheer\nI wish I wish\nBefore new years\nMake things right\nFrom things before\nMy big mistakes\nAnd so much more\nI had a secret\nI had to hide\nMade a big mistake\nI had classified\nMy teacher from 2nd\n4th and 5th\nMade me sit\nWith Cassandra Kits\nSo then I peed in my seat\nIt smelled so very sick\nSo then she kept it a secret\nThen made me sit next to rick\nBut now that things have changed\nI really wanted revenge\nI was told before\nI may have just avenged\nShe said I could have followed\nBehind my brother Mark\nThe stories he has told\nAbout the little starks\nHe left me in terror\nSo I followed him\nAs if he was serious\nAbout what he still going in\nThe lesson I have learned You don't trust everything\nBecause you tear up enough not to smile\nThat does not mean you can’t believe\nJust gain trust for a while\nI kissed I kissed\nI kissed my luck \nit was not better\nAnd now I sulked\nDay two:\nI put on a tinder chushell\nFor leaking or discreet\nAll the kids at my school\nwould make fun of me\nI would start to cuss\nAnd say profound things\nThat leaves them under pressure\nTo what they can do to me\nThey really tell the teacher?\n‘Bout something I cannot hide\nI just decided\nTo tell a little lie\nBut did that work\nNo not at all\nI said she put something in my mouth\nA broken credit card\nCan you really judge me?\nDoes it come to your surprise?\nI wanna see you do better\nOk, I see you tried.\nDid you come up with something good?\nThat matches my lie\nEven if you did\nThat's my lesson tonight\nNever lie to your peers\nOr rather anyone\nIf you do it is true\nYou will get nothing done\nI kissed I kissed\nI kissed my luck \nit was not better\nAnd now I sulked\nDay three: \nMy sister pushed me\nWhat should I do\nIf I was young \nI will be very true\nI would be very true\nPush her into a pool\nDo something so cool\nBut it is so cruel\nI just made her drown\n6 feet underground\nShe is 3 feet\nNow I wonder how\nI have some questions\nSome were un-answered\nAnswers are confusing\nHow will I figure out what I can do?\nHow did she survive?\nWhy did I care?\nIs she ok?\nDid I give her a scare?\nMay I have hurt her? \nIs she mad at me?\nThe lesson I learned\nWhen I was three\nDon’t be rude\nNever be mean\nAlways be cool\nNever be me\nI kissed I kissed\nI kissed my luck \nit was not better\nAnd now I sulked\nDay four:\nI think hard about the stolen credit card\nI did not take the blame\nI really really hope\nI never do the same\nMoney don’t grow on trees\nDon’t steal money for your charge\nI did this before\nI stole a credit card\nMy mom got mad\nMy dad a roar\nMy sister would cry\nMy brother would mope\nMy brother was teaching\nMe to pickpockets\nHow to steal money\nAnd other kids' toy rockets\nI stole from him\nHe got upset\nNow he regrets\nHe taught me how to pick pockets\nThe one thing I learned from here to yonder\nThat we do that I have pondered\nThe fact of the matter not to steal from a first responder.\nNever to steal from your mom or you look upon her\nDoing this promise in honor \nDon’t steal from my friend Glen O’connor\nDon’t steal because that will be a dishonor\nDon’t go to china and steal a yuan per\nBut everybody knows\nStealing is ODDER\nJust means you Broke\nI kissed I kissed\nI kissed my luck \nit was not better\nAnd now I sulked\nDay 4\nI think I could relieve\nI saw the the big social unit of my generation destroyed,\nHow I mourned the household.\nDoes the household make you shiver?\nDoes it?\nA mansion, however hard it tries,\nWill always be cool.\nDown, down, down into the darkness of the mansion,\nGently it goes - the smashing, the sleek, the lukewarm.\nI saw the the wooly fasten of my generation destroyed,\nHow I mourned the firm.\nNow wooly is just the thing,\nTo get me wondering if the firm is flocculent.\nI asked to many questions\nWhile people sat and cry\nSomebody yelled at me\nAnd now I go in sign\nThat lesson told me be curious\nBut not too much.\nI kissed I kissed\nI kissed my luck \nit was not better\nAnd now I sulked\nDay 5:\nOde to I\nI could never have loved anyone\nthe way I loved you\nbodies and hearts facing light\nI shared with you my soul\nWas there no swear?\nBut our kiss was just a mirage\nyou never believed\nand always meant only an instant\nWe are now just two lonely bodies.\nThe lesson was don’t trust love.\nI kissed I kissed\nI kissed my luck \nit was not better\nAnd now I sulked\nDay 6: \ncalate is that? I think I know.\nIts owner is quite sad though.\nIt really is a tale of woe,\nI watch her frown. I cry hello.\nShe gives her chocolate a shake,\nAnd sobs until the tears make.\nThe only other sound's the break,\nOf distant waves and birds awake.\nThe chocolate is beautiful, Pretty and deep,\nBut she has promises to keep,\nUntil then she shall not sleep.\nShe lies in bed with ducts that weep.\nShe rises from her bitter bed,\nWith thoughts of sadness in her head,\nShe idolizes being dead.\nFacing the day with never ending dread.\nThat's when I learned\nI honestly don’t know\nI kissed I kissed\nI kissed my luck \nit was not better\nAnd now I sulked\nDay 7: \nWell last day before new years\nHappy as ever\nThis will be now or never \nplease be cautious\nBe so good\nI hope that\nYou understood\nIt was nice\nTo share secrets making everything unique\nI think I have had some fun\nI have got my job done\nDo the right thing\nIf you don't mind \nThis is the end\nOf my writing time\nShare your thoughts\nBe united\nLearn the thing\nYou ponder right then\nI feel my\nJob is done\nThis is a victory one\nNow that I know\nDon't pick a clover that's teal\nJust to remember\nGood luck is not real\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: It's a Toss Up\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1087\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that hinges on the outcome of a coin flip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I stood in front of the class and recited \"two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both, long I wondered, long I stood...\"\nI thought it was funny because the day before I was asked to make a big decision that would affect the rest of my life, although I was just 12 years old.\nYou see, my mother and father were splitting up. They both wanted me to live with them. They told me that the decision was up to me where I would land.\nI wanted to scream at them, \"You can't leave this kind of thing up to a kid!\" But I didn't do that.\nI was known as a precocious kid, so nobody would believe me anyway.\nI was always \"popping off\" at the mouth as my mother called it. But now, I didn't have much to say. I told them that I would give them my decision at the end of the week.\nIt wasn't like the time that I had to decide on a puppy at the pound. I just picked the one with the curly tail. We named him Piddles, and I still loved him.\nDon't get me wrong, I still loved my parents too. But which would be the best to live with?\nI asked my favorite science teacher Mr. Steinmetz which I should choose. He said, \"Oh no, you're not dragging me into that one! I suggest you use a scientific method. Gather data, and then decide.\"\n\"Data?\"\n\"Yeah, why don't you list the pros and cons of each one.\"\n\"Good idea,\" I said.\nI got out a pen and paper and started to write. I drew a line down the middle, and I wrote Mama on one side and Daddy on the other since that's what I called them.\nIn mama's favor was that she always made me lunch, did my laundry, drove me to school, and invited my friends over for dinner. Her cons were that she was always nagging me to pick up my room and telling me to get off the phone. In daddy's favor was that he was always saying I was his \"best girl\" even though I was an only child. He took me hiking and gave me my allowance. His cons were that he sometimes ignored me when the game was on. Didn't matter what game, as long as a ball was involved. He wouldn't let me stay out past curfew. I scratched that one out because mama wouldn't either.\nI decided to ball up the paper and throw it away. This wasn't helpful.\nI remembered that my history teacher once had me interview my grandmother to find out what life was like when she was a girl. I decided that I need to gather data that way. I told mama and daddy about my plan. My mother rolled her eyes and my father just laughed but they both said they would do it.\nI decided to interview them separately.\n\"Mama, what makes you a good mother?\"\n\"I love you,\" she said.\n\"I know that already,\" I said. \"But what makes you a good mother?\"\n\"I can take care of you. Remember that time you wanted to go roller skating, and you never went before? I held onto you the entire time so you wouldn't fall?\"\n\"I remember falling,\" I said.\n\"Yeah, because I never went roller skating before either,\" she said.\n\"Right,\" I said, and we both laughed. That's another thing in my mother's favor, I thought. She was funny.\nI asked daddy the same question or at least a similar one.\n\"Daddy, what makes you a good father?\"\n\"I love you,\" he said.\nI sighed, and I folded my arms. \"I know but you never say so.\"\n\"I did just now Little Buddy,\" he said.\nI really liked it when he called me that.\nHe cleared his throat, and continued, \"I'm a good father because whenever something is spooky to you in the house, I'm the one who checks it out. I protect you.\"\nThat's true. When I was little, dad was the one who checked under the bed and the closet so the monster wouldn't get me at night. He never said that I was \"silly\" like my mother did. He was always at the end of every slide to catch me too.\nI still didn't know what to decide.\nMy best friend was Shirley. I called her up on the phone, and I told her what I had to decide.\n\"That's messed up,\" she said. \"They shouldn't put that on you. Tell them you're not going to do it.\"\n\"I already told them that I'm going to do it,\" I said. \"I can't back out now. What would you do?\"\n\"Mine is easy,\" she said. \"I don't like my mother.\"\n\"Right, I forgot,\" I said.\n\"Hey, why don't you flip a coin?\" she suggested. \"You know like they do before a big game to see who goes first or whatever.\"\n\"That's a great idea!\" I said.\nI grabbed a quarter, and I went looking for my parents. They were both in the kitchen, heads together, and whispering.\n\"I'm going to toss a coin,\" I announced.\nThey both looked at me, eyebrows raised.\n\"You know, so I can see who I want to live with,\" I explained.\n\"What?\" my other asked, although I thought the answer was obvious.\n\"You see, I love you both, and I can't decide, so I'm going to let, what do you call it--fate decide. You know like in those games that daddy's always watching.\"\nI pulled out the coin. My hand shook a little.\n\"Heads and I'm with daddy, and tails I live with mama.\"\nThe coin twirled in the air. It seemed like forever, but it must have only been a few seconds. My whole life was going to change when it hit the tile floor, I thought.\nJust as this crossed my mind, the coin disappeared into my father's fist.\n\"I'm sorry Little Buddy,\" he said. \"I can't let you do this. It's not right.\"\n\"You were right,\" my mother said in a tiny voice. \"We should never have put this on you.\"\nMy father crouched down, eye level with me now:\n\"We're sorry,\" he said. \"This whole thing has made us rethink splitting up. We both love you, and we both want you.\"\nMy father hugged me close, and my mother joined in.\nWhen I think about it, this is what I really wanted." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Winds\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2356\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a lighthouse surrounded by powerful gale-force winds." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Port Orford, Oregon\nSpring 2040 (28 A.E.)\nThe winds batter the walls of the main house, causing them to rattle and jolt. Storms like these are never enjoyable, especially with Mona's fear of hurricanes and tornadoes. I often wonder how she managed to survive in the wilderness alone. Perhaps I've been too protective of her, though I've tried to provide only minimal comfort to help ease her fears of the world. After all, she's just fourteen and deserves some peace and security.\nSitting in the lighthouse's main cabin at our small dinner table, I struggle to find my way in the dark with only candles for light. It must be nearly ten at night, as Mona is already fast asleep. She finds solace in sleep, considering it a form of escape from the harsh realities of our world. In times of desperation, a good rest truly is a gift.\nArriving at the coast after weeks of travel on roads and through forests, we were both exhausted. Along the way, we encountered unfriendly individuals, desperate souls, and the general misery that pervades our world. Now, we take refuge here, enjoying a month of peace and solitude. No one else has ventured by since our arrival, and we've grown accustomed to the constant storms that batter the coast this time of year.\nI've been fishing for food and setting traps for rabbits and squirrels to supplement our supplies. Lately, I've been considering the idea of setting up a small indoor farm. I found some tomato seeds in a packet and wonder if they'll grow in this environment. It's a hopeful thought, one that offers a glimpse of sustainability and stability in an otherwise uncertain world.\nAs the winds intensify, the walls of the house are pummeled even harder, and the rain turns to hail. Each icy pellet strikes the windows and roof with a resounding clunk, echoing through the empty rooms. Glancing toward Mona's room, I notice that the door is closed, and I can't help but worry that the hail will wake her from her slumber.\nSuddenly, a flash of lightning illuminates the room, followed by a deafening clap of thunder that reverberates through the house. The storm's fury is on full display, and I can only hope that Mona sleeps soundly through it all, finding peace amidst the chaos raging outside.\nWith a sense of comfort, I retrieve my Bible and settle back in the chair against the sturdy table. Immersing myself in the words of the New Testament, I find solace in the life and teachings of Christ. Each passage brings a sense of peace amidst the tumultuous storm raging outside.\nAs the lightning flashes once more and the winds grow stronger, rattling the walls and causing the wood to creak, I remain undeterred. The rain beats down relentlessly upon the roof, yet within the confines of the cabin, I find refuge in the timeless wisdom of scripture, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness of the storm.\nAs I immerse myself in the pages of the Good Book, I hear the creak of Mona's door as she emerges from her sanctuary. Her bedroom, a haven of solitude where she often retreats for moments of introspection, prayer, or quiet contemplation. With a yawn and a stretch, she crosses the room to join me, her gaze fixed on the storm outside, a look of concern etched on her face.\nI glance up from the pages of scripture to see her standing there, clad in her one pair of pajamas and old-world bunny slippers. Despite the chaos of the storm raging outside, her presence brings a sense of calm and reassurance, reminding me that even in the midst of uncertainty, we can find solace in each other's company.\n\"Hey kid, did the winds wake you?\" I inquire as Mona takes a seat at the table.\n\"Yeah, I couldn't sleep with all of that noise,\" she replies, rubbing her eyes.\n\"This storm is bad,\" I remark, closing my Bible.\n\"What part were you at?\" she asks, curious.\n\"Lazarus was just brought back from the dead,\" I respond.\n\"Can you tell God to calm down the rain?\" Mona quips with a playful smile.\n\"I can try,\" I say, managing a smile of my own as I fold my hands and offer a silent prayer for calm and peace.\n\"What did he say?\" Mona asks, her smile widening.\n\"Nothing yet,\" I chuckle, glancing out the window.\n\"Are we fishing tomorrow?\" she queries.\n\"Of course. We need fish to eat; the traps are useless in this weather,\" I reply.\n\"I'm tired of squirrel soup anyway,\" she remarks with a grimace.\n\"Bah! Beats eating spare jerky, snails, and bloody mushrooms,\" I retort with a laugh.\n\"Why don't I go gather berries tomorrow?\" Mona suggests.\n\"No, we need to fish,\" I insist.\nBlowing a raspberry, Mona gets up and heads back to her room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the raging storm outside.\nShe returns with her notepad, the one we found back in Idaho. Its pink cover bears her name written in bold letters. A diary of sorts, filled with stories of our adventures together. Mona is determined to release it in Denver, the Golden City. She fancies herself a writer or a modern-day castaway, chronicling our journey for others to read. I'm certain there'll be someone in Colorado who'll appreciate her tales.\nAs she scribbles away in her notepad, humming an old rock tune from the 1980s, her head bobs to the rhythm. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, letting the sound of the storm outside wash over me. In my mind's eye, I picture myself on a sailboat, navigating the choppy seas. The wind whips through my hair, and the spray of the ocean kisses my skin, transporting me to a world of freedom and adventure.\n\"Hey Jim, wake up!\" Mona's urgent voice jolts me awake.\nStartled, I open my eyes to a distressing sight: two men, drenched from the rain, stand before me. One of them has a knife pressed against Mona's throat, and they both appear frantic and agitated. They speak rapidly to each other in what sounds like Italian, their faces obscured by masks.\nMy instincts kick in as I rise slowly, hands raised in surrender. I notice the glint of a pistol on the belt of the man not holding Mona hostage.\n\"What do you want?\" I demand, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.\n\"We want this cabin, the food you have stored in this cabin, and all of your goods!\" The man on the right spoke with a thick accent, his knife pressing slightly against Mona's skin.\n\"Hey! Let's not hurt the girl!\" I interject, my heart racing as I assess the situation.\n\"This cabin is ours! The food is ours!\" The other man declares, his tone frantic and erratic.\nAs I take stock of the situation, I notice my knife lying on the kitchen counter next to the cutting board. It's a risky move, but I may need to act fast to protect Mona and myself.\nIn a swift motion, I dashed towards the counter on my left, grabbing the knife. As I turned around, I was met with a sudden punch to my face, the pain numbing. I pushed through it, focusing on the immediate threat.\nWithout hesitation, I lunged towards the more frantic man before he could draw his pistol. I stabbed him first in the side, then in the neck, blood spraying onto the floor. The scene was chaotic, but I had acted to protect Mona and myself.\nThe other man released Mona, his focus shifting to me as he prepared for a fight. Our eyes locked, his gaze darting between his fallen companion and me. Without a moment's hesitation, he bolted towards my room.\nI chased after him, noting with anger that they had broken into the cabin through my window. Those bastards.\nI return to Mona, who is staring at the lifeless body with wide, teary eyes. The once imposing man now lay still, his eyes frozen in a look of fear. Despite the lights being on, there was a palpable emptiness in the room.\nI comfort Mona as she sobs, guiding her away from the grim scene. Leading her to her room, she sits on her bed, covering her eyes to shield herself from the sight.\nDeath is never easy; until it is. I feel numb about the situation, recognizing it as a matter of survival. It's a stark reminder of how things have changed, how the line between right and wrong has blurred.\nIt's as if I've become a stone, worn down by the harsh realities of this world until there's nothing left to feel.\n\"Listen, Mona. You need to stay alert, alright? We can't be sure if more of them will come looking to cause trouble,\" I tell her firmly amidst her tears. \"You hear me, girl?\"\n\"Okay, okay. I'll stay vigilant. I'll... help fix the window,\" she responds, wiping her eyes and trying to steady her breathing. It's tough for her, trapped in a world that offers little room for emotions beyond anger. I give her a nod of understanding.\n\"Are we still safe here?\" she asks, her voice shaky with worry.\n\"I'm not sure. Just keep watch,\" I reply, before leaving the room to attend to the grim task of cleaning up the scene.\nFacing the storm's fury, I drag the Italian man's body on the tarp behind me, making my way to the edge of the ocean cliff. The wind howls, the rain pelts down relentlessly. With each step, I fight against the elements, straining to push the body over the rocky precipice, into the unforgiving abyss below. I push and push, the wind and rain whipping against my flesh.\nExhausted and battered by the elements, I finally manage to push the Italian man's body off the cliff edge, watching it disappear into the churning sea below. As the rain continues to pour down and the wind howls around me, I let out a primal scream, a cry of frustration and desperation. Will the Lord ever heed our pleas again?\nDragging myself back to the cabin, I feel the cold rain soaking through my clothes, but I'm grateful for the life it brings to the surrounding plant life. It's a small comfort in this harsh world. The lighthouse stands tall, adorned with vines and leaves, a testament to nature reclaiming what was once man-made.\nStepping into the cabin, I'm greeted by the sight of the blood puddle where the man's body had lain. It's beginning to congeal, a grim reminder of the violence that had taken place. With a heavy heart, I set about the task of cleaning it up.\nMy hands ache from the work, and the smell of the blood makes me queasy. The water only makes it worse, and the sponge feels slimy in my grip. I grit my teeth and scrub harder, determined to clean up the mess before Mona sees it. With each scrub, the blood slowly fades away, but the mixture of water and blood is nauseating. I cover my mouth and nose with my shirt to block out the smell. I'm careful not to cut myself on the wooden floor, knowing the risk of infection from the blood.\n\"Jim?\" Mona's voice interrupts my thoughts, and I glance up to see her holding a piece of plywood.\n\"I found this behind the stairs, in the little room underneath. I also found a cap gun,\" she says, placing the wood down and revealing a small plastic toy revolver.\n\"Huh. I used to have one of those as a kid,\" I reply, a distant memory resurfacing of playing with a similar toy in the woods behind my childhood home. “Let me finish cleaning up this mess. Then I can nail in the plywood over the window.”\n\"I can do it, Jim!\" Mona insists, tucking the cap gun into her pants before picking up the plywood and heading back to my room. I sigh, noticing the man's pistol on the floor beneath the table. I pick it up, feeling its weight in my hand. It's a loaded Colt 1911, a fine weapon.\nCarefully, I place it on the table before returning to finish cleaning up.\n\"The stain will never go away,\" Mona says, her voice heavy with solemnity as we both peer down at the faint but stubborn bloodstain. Outside, the rain is easing up, signaling the end of the storm. I've secured the window, shutting out the outside world.\nI let out a sigh, sinking back into the chair and resting against the table. Sometimes, I catch myself yearning for a cigarette, but those days are behind us now. Perhaps in Colorado, we'll find both tobacco and safety.\nMona settles beside me, her presence a silent comfort. It seems she wants to speak, yet no words emerge. Together, we sit in quiet contemplation, grappling with the weight of all that has unfolded.\n“Let’s make our way to Colorado,” I decide, hearing Mona swallow nervously.\n“Are you sure?” she asks.\n“Yes, it will be safer for you there,” I assure her, rubbing my eyes wearily.\n“That’s a significant decision, Jim,” she remarks.\n“Indeed, but it's the right one,” I affirm, crossing my arms and closing my eyes. “We'll leave on Monday to give us time to prepare.”\n“We should stay vigilant,” she suggests.\n“Agreed,” I reply, opening my eyes. “I'll take the first watch. You go get some rest.”\nMona nods, her gaze lingering on the bloodstain.\n“Hey, kid. Don't dwell on it,” I advise, tucking the pistol into my waistband. “We just keep moving forward.”\nAs I ascend to the lighthouse, I cast one final glance at the room. Mona appears weary, anxious, and on edge. “Get some sleep, Mona.”\n“Right. Well, goodnight, Jim,” she says softly.\n“Goodnight, Mona,” I reply, watching as she retreats to her room and closes the door.\nAntony “Tony” Ritchie – b. 12 June, 2014 (2 A.E.), d. April 11th, 2040 (28 A.E.) aged 25" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Alice in Wonderland\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2920\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character always makes the same promise; to change. Will they finally make it happen this time?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Alice’s breath fogged the windows of the bus, further obscuring her view of the unremarkable countryside, its features silhouetted by the darkness of early morning. Beyond the glass, she could just make out the blurred shapes of forgotten farmland against the backdrop of rolling hills far in the distance. The lopsided farmhouses and single room homes now just empty carcasses – mementos of those whose dreams, realized or otherwise, had come and gone.\nThe desolate landscape was a stark contrast to the oppressive skyscrapers of the city. Just the thought of the towering monoliths had Alice pulling her legs to her chest as though huddling next to a fire for warmth. Almost unbidden to her, she remembered her first impression of the place. Of how she had stared up in wonder at the flashing lights, her very skin seeming to vibrate in response to the car horns, the street vendors and performers, the men and women marching down the street, eyes straight forward, lips moving in rapid speech into their cell phones. Never had a place made her feel more alive.\nThat was a long time ago.\nOr it felt as though it was. Before her own dreams had slowly taken on the shape of the forgotten dwellings still whizzing past. Dreams eroded by rejection in all shapes and forms. How long had it been since she had dared to imagine a bright future? Had looked into her small bathroom mirror, and felt pride and not shame? She had promised herself, time and time again, that her new life in the city would bring about the change she sought. To be able to look at herself in the mirror and see herself as someone worthy.\nAlice blinked, her flitting eyelids dragging her attention from the view beyond, to the window itself. She pulled up the sleeve of her hoodie and, while trying to ignore the neglected nail polish tarnishing the tips of her fingers, wiped clear the excessive fog cloaking the glass.\nThere it was again: her reflection, in all its unfiltered glory. She saw her frizzy, brown hair, which stood up like bundles of wire. She saw the freckles and pimples marring her skin like graffiti. Then there was her weirdly shaped nose, the shape of her mouth…everything was just wrong. Reflexively, Alice scowled and turned away from the window, flipping up the hood of her jacket and shoving her hands into the front pocket. Her thumb perched on the volume button of her music player. Louder. Louder still, until she could no longer hear the thoughts in her own head. Still, her eyes drifted to the backpack resting on the floor. To the headstock of her ukulele peeking out from the top. How many hours had she dedicated to mastering it and her voice? To creating music good enough to be heard? And how many times, after all that effort, had she failed?\nToo many times. Far too many.\nAlice stared at it for a second longer before closing her eyes. Let the pulsing music silence every stray, maligned thought, until there was nothing but pounding bass to join the faint rumbling of the bus, and the welcome darkness of her closed eyes.\n“Let me get this straight. Because it sounds like you’re having a rough time adjusting to the city and pursuing your passion. Which is normal – everyone struggles. But going on a sabbatical? Don’t you think that’s a tad…drastic?” \n “No, mom. I just need to get away for a while. Someplace I don’t have to…” Alice bit her lip to stop the next words. Words that would reveal too much. Instead, she chose, “Just somewhere I don’t have to be surrounded by so many distractions. You get it, don’t you?”\n Alice’s mother stilled, as though a ghost suddenly whispered the unspoken words. Alice laced her fingers together beneath their shared table, failing to avert her gaze from the one pinning her to the seat.\nHer mother was something she could never be; so effortlessly, annoyingly…beautiful. The sun seeping in through the blinds caught her twinkling, looped silver earrings, and limned her brown hair with the last golden sighs of the evening. Everywhere they went together, Alice heard snatches of conversation complimenting her mother’s eyes. Of their rich caramel hue, rimmed with a color like sunshine on honey.\n “My little queen,” her mother spoke gently, in a tone almost wistful. “Life is so much more than what lies on the surface. You have to see the beauty inside yourself. See just how much you’re truly worth. If those are things you’re struggling to realize…then perhaps this trip is what you need. I just wish you saw what I already see – that you’re more than enough.”\n Alice scoffed, choosing instead to stare at her messy green fingernail polish. “Whatever. You’ve ALWAYS been pretty and talented. And I have to listen to people go on and on about it. When I’m around you, I feel like…like I’m not even there. Like I’m invisible! And I’m just…just…”\n “Just what?” \n “I’m just not good enough! Okay?” Tears blurred Alice’s vision, her green nail polish becoming unfocused. “I moved to this big city because everyone told me there’d be so many opportunities! And what do I find? Doors slammed in my face, one after the other! So maybe it is me! Maybe I’ll never be…worthy. Worthy of just being seen, for once in my life. To not feel invisible when I stand next to you. Is that too much to ask? I just want to change who I am. It's what I’ve been trying to do for the last year. But I’m still the same, unworthy person.”\n A sudden lurch from the bus had Alice snapping her eyes open, her dislodged headphones bringing the old bus’s machinations to the foreground. With her groggy senses lagging behind, Alice reached dazedly for her backpack, blinking rapidly in the abundant sunshine streaming in through the windows. Had she arrived already? Overslept?\n Alice’s mild panic caused her to half-rise from the seat, surprised that only she and the driver remained the bus’s only occupants. What was more, was that the old windows were slightly opaque with age, making it nigh impossible to see through them properly. Alice could tell, though, from the shapes passing by that people milled about the bus, a sort of buzzing excitement permeating the otherwise stilted silence of the interior.\n “Are…are we here?” Alice called in a falsely cheery voice.\n “You’re exactly where you wanted to go, miss,” The driver answered, his gravelly voice sounding bored, if not, slightly impatient. \n Alice swallowed, unable to shake her apprehension. However, she wasn’t keen on pestering the driver more, so with trepidation slowing her steps, she shouldered her backpack and ambled to the front of the bus. She gave one last, perfunctory glance to the bus driver, who only gave her a customary tip of his cap.\n It’s fine, Alice mentally berated herself. You’ve just got the heebie-jeebies because you slept all morning.\n With that thought, she strode out of the bus, immediately shielding her eyes against the oppressive sunshine. Still, she could discern the mountains standing tall against the horizon, a sea of evergreen trees obscuring the jagged rock beneath. The din of voices outside the bus became amplified as though she had just removed a set of ear plugs, and before her, rows of homey, two story buildings lined either side of the street – a cozy, if not bustling town at the foot of the mountains. So far, so good.\n But that was where everything stopped being…normal.\n Why were there so many Volkswagen vans parked on the side of the street? Why were the people passing by saying “groovy,” and “far out” so much? Alice then turned, and felt her mouth fall open.\nWomen bedecked in crop-tops and bellbottom jeans strut up and down the streets, the men joining them sporting afros and aviator sunglasses. Indeed, something was very, very wrong.\nAlice spun, hand flinging for the bus. But to her horror, it was already a small blue dot in the distance, getting smaller and smaller as it rumbled away from her. For a moment, she stood there, hand suspended awkwardly before her. All she had wanted was a quiet get away in a quaint mountain town. To go on a trek through those nearby mountains, where she could be alone with her thoughts and discover who she was at her core. And, just maybe, find the change within herself she so desperately wanted. Instead…\n“Hey there! You look lost!”\nThe voice, so bright and cheery that it ought to be fined, shook Alice from her brooding. Slowly, she turned towards its source, ready to pop in her headphones and don her hood if she needed to make a quick getaway.\nThere stood a tall woman in 70s regalia, her bellbottom jeans obscuring most of her platform shoes. She wore a bright red tube top with noisy frills at the edges, and her permed hair and ebony skin caught the rays of the sun in ways Alice had never seen before.\n“You could say that,” Alice ground out, not caring for how unfriendly she sounded. “What, exactly, is going on here?” She made a wide sweeping gesture, indicating to the antiquated automobiles, bedazzled peace signs plastered on seemingly every surface, and the decades’ old wardrobe on display.\n“Oh!” The woman laughed in a way that made the air around her seem brighter. “You poor thing. Happens every year. I’m guessing you didn’t know about the Wonderland Festival! It’s an annual tradition – people come from all over to relive the 70s!”\nAlice stood there in stunned silence. She ran a hand through her hair, fingers getting caught in the knots, all while trying to wrap her head around this “Wonderland Festival.” How many times over the past year had she planned something, only for everything to go awry? Now here she was, trying to do something for herself – to get away from it all – only for “it all” to find her.\n“Aw, I’m sorry if we ruined your plans, sugar,” the woman kneeled to Alice’s height, the wrinkles around her eyes making her words that much more genuine. “But if you wanna tag along with me, I promise I’ll make this trip worth your while. How about we just start with the basics? Mind tellin’ me your name?”\n“Alice,” Alice said numbly. “Yours?”\n“Well,” the woman leaned in as if sharing a secret. Alice, to her own surprise, leaned in too. “I’ve got two names. When I’m not here, I’m Shanice. But when I’m here, my name is Dawn.”\nIt was a struggle for Alice to not roll her eyes.\n“Right. Do I need to come up with a ‘other’ name?” She crossed her arms, raising a brow.\nDawn paused, then gave Alice a mischievous smile – one that, for some reason, stirred something in her chest. A tight knot, comprised of every negative thought and disappointment she’d recently felt. And as Alice uncrossed her arms, she felt that knot loosen, too.\n“Nah. I think Alice is perfect! Now let’s not dilly-dally. Come with me!” Dawn grabbed Alice’s hand and steered them forward with an exaggerated sway to her hips, her permed hair bouncing in ways that made Alice jealous.\nThe quaint mountain town Alice had seen in pictures had been totally transformed, both in appearance and atmosphere. On top of the artistically graffitied Volkswagens, the animated spring everyone seemed to have to their walks, and the disco music blaring from the inside of most buildings, there was an inexplicable feeling of…was it happiness? Contentedness? Alice couldn’t put her finger on it, but the feeling was infectious. It buoyed her spirits, and further loosened the knot stirred by Dawn’s smile.\n“Where are we going?” Alice asked.\nDawn turned midstride, dazzling smile still intact. “To meet my friends of course! I just knew I had to after I saw that Ukulele. Cause wouldn’t you know it, they’re musicians too!”\n“No!” Alice skidded to a stop, pulling her hand from Dawn and shoving them both in the pocket of her hoodie. “Sorry, I know that was really drastic. I just…I’m not that good. I never have been.”\nDawn seemed to be at a loss for words. Alice kicked at a pebble on the gravel road, glad to be out of the hustle and bustle of the town. Glad that no one else could witness her embarrassment.\n“I didn’t know I’d hit somethin’ so heavy,” Dawn’s sad voice reached Alice from what seemed like a great distance. As if they hadn’t just been happily joining hands. “How about we all just mellow out to some music then? You don’t have to play. Promise.”\nAlice could feel the knot in her chest tighten. And in spite of herself, she fought down tears. Why did every fiber inside her scream to play her instrument, to sing her songs, when doing so had brought nothing but pain?\n“Yeah. Okay.” Alice resumed walking down the gravel path, an unwelcome weight causing her footfalls to feel heavier. She looked up, through the slightly swaying pine trees, and at the mountains towering above. They weren’t unlike the skyscrapers, with their intimidating height. But unlike the city, these mountains had a way of making her feel small, but not forgotten. At the foot of these nature-made monoliths, she felt as though they were trying to teach her something. That she, too, could be seen.\nMinutes later, the sounds of voices and instruments joined together began drifting from a small grove in the woods. Sunset had begun, the final rays of light finding their way through the trees and into a grove where a small group of people were gathered.\n“Good times!\nThese are the good times!\nLeave your cares behind!...”\nA smile tugged at Alice’s lips. “I know this song! My mom…she dances like a total dork to it when no one’s watching.”\n“I’d say your mom’s got good taste,” Dawn said, clapping Alice on the back.\nTogether, they wound through the small encirclement of trees, the music and voices causing Alice’s heart to race.\nAlice counted five people sitting on logs around a low fire: a small drum set played by a slender man with an afro, his aviator sunglasses reflecting the orange sun; two men – Alice assumed they were a couple by how they sat next to each other and gazed into each other’s eyes – played acoustic guitars; a woman who could pass as Dawn’s sister sang, her eyes closed, hand raised as though in a trance; a woman with porcelain skin, her long platinum hair swaying as she played a small, electric keyboard. The evening sun caused all their instruments to twinkle and glow, as if what they were doing was…\n“Magic…” Alice whispered under her breath. She joined Dawn on a spare log, taking in the sun, the music, and both Dawn and the woman’s voices as they took up the song together. Again, Alice felt the stirring to join them. To lift her voice as she imagined her mother dancing along.\nBut the voice in her head – the one she listened to most frequently these days – told her she would ruin the performance. Because like so many times before, when she dared to show her face, dared to play her music and sing her songs, the result had always been failure.\nHer backpack, now resting at her feet, shifted slightly as it settled on the ground, her ukulele nudging her shin. As if it were a sentient being yearning to do that for which it was created.\nAlice looked away, content to just…listen. To watch Dawn take up the chorus with her friends as the fire crackled and popped merrily in the background. Maybe she wasn’t meant to play music. Maybe the purpose of this journey was to learn to appreciate it from a distance. Perhaps this was the change she needed.\n“Do you know why we come back to Wonderland every year?” Dawn suddenly asked. Alice looked at the woman, her dark skin glowing in the light of the fire. “It isn’t about ‘just getting away’ or ‘just being a hippie’ …though that last part’s pretty fun.” She nudged Alice and winked. “But most importantly, it’s about letting go. Letting go of all the negativity we endure. Both from the outside, and the inside. No prison is more powerful than the ones we build for ourselves.”\n“Our new state of mind!\nThese are the good times!...”\nAlice blinked, and felt a tear roll down her cheek. The music she heard no longer felt like it was merely around her, but moving through her. A melody coursing through her bones and renewing something she didn’t know was broken. She revisited the moments she scowled at the person she saw in the mirror. The moments her voice and her songs were deemed “unworthy.” They were all part of the prison. Dawn, with her kindness and patience, had given her the key to walk free.\nShe didn’t need to make herself seen, for she had never left.\nAlice reached for the ukulele in her bag and withdrew it, cradling it in her arms. She took in the singers and players, absorbed in the music and song, and found she was already with them. With a gratifying sigh at the star flecked heavens, Alice put fingers to strings, and began to sing." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Port Anne\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1243\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a lighthouse surrounded by powerful gale-force winds." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As it was beginning to shake, the lighthouse let out a slow breath. Air popped between the bricks, and the glass up top asked to let go. From within its belly, Cori played a game of checkers against herself. She put on a thick, wool sweater--and then another. The chill had gotten past her skin, and she tried to make her teeth chatter along to the song in her head.\nCave senes, cavete iuvenes.\nDown on the sand lay two bodies. One belonging to an old man and one belonging to a young man. These two were of no relation to each other. Cori picked a piece up off the board and examined it. Something about the color red was off to her. It might have been her eyes or the day or the storm outside. Storms had a way of changing the air quality, and once the air was different, well, nothing else was allowed to sit in place.\nShe got up when she smelled cinnamon. There was no cinnamon anywhere in the lighthouse. If she was smelling it, it must have been brought in by someone. The old woman picked up her knife off the table and left the game unfinished. There were two bodies down on the sand, but there was room for more. The storm would be her accomplice for any crimes tonight. Although as her mentor had often reminded her, there was no crime in defending yourself.\n“And Cori,” she’d say, “A woman is always defending herself.”\nAfter a cursory check of the entire lighthouse, she established that the cinnamon must be in her mind or carried to her by the storm. There was no trusting anything. Every sound might be a trick of the wind. Every concern magnified by the power of a dust-up right by the ocean. During the last tempest, a wave reached up nearly to the light itself. Cory had braced for extinction, but the crest hesitated, and when it did, she knew she would be alright. Men and waves have so much in common. They have to get a running start to find their power, but no matter how far back they run, they always break against the shore.\nThat morning, she had no intention of hurting anyone. Her only job was to board the place up as best she could and keep the light going the same way she had for forty years now. Her mentor would crow that Port Anne was the only lighthouse in the region run by a woman, but Cori didn’t really see herself as a woman anymore. She felt more like an owl crouching up on a rafter in a barn. Her roots were in the Midwest, and she only wound up by the ocean, because she’d followed a bad husband as he gambled his way up the eastern seaboard.\nNo storm needed to take him. He did that himself one night when he went driving after a hot streak and took a turn too fast. When they found him, half the vehicle was charred, and that’s the half he was in. The police gave her their condolences and his glasses that were found at the scene. By then, she was already living in Port Anne, and she’d seen a posting on one of the community boards about help needed at the lighthouse.\nThat’s how she met Ginny.\nWhile the two didn’t exactly get along at first, Ginny soon warmed up to Cori when she learned that the farmgirl could outdrink her. That meant there was finally somebody to put Ginny to bed on the nights when she’d start singing songs about long-dead boyfriends and the girls she stole them from. Rumor in town was that the women in the lighthouse liked other women, but that wasn’t so. Ginny and Cori didn’t like women, because they didn’t like people. They managed to like each other, because that made living easier. Wasn’t that what everybody did?\nOne night Ginny didn’t wake up early the way she always had, and that’s how Cori became the woman in charge. She didn’t bother posting any sign looking for help, because she knew she’d be the last person to run the lighthouse. The town had already made it clear they wanted it turned into some kind of museum. That meant no keeper leaving there and no real urgency to keep the light going. Ships had all kinds of devices now to keep them from smashing themselves up on the rocks. Most of her work was ceremonial now.\nEven her day-to-day activities took on that feeling. When she cracked her first egg to fry every morning, she envisioned a monk somewhere drawing in sand. It was all a ceremony.\nWhen the two men showed up around quarter to ten, Cori knew at least one of them was going to end up on the beach. They pulled up in a car with a spare on the passenger side, and another tire wobbling so bad, she couldn’t believe they’d made it anywhere. They got out of the car and introduced themselves as lost souls looking for a place to stay before the storm hit. Cori mentioned the motel in town, but they explained to her that they didn’t have any money on them, and weren’t lighthouses supposed to be sanctuaries of some kind?\nAfter that question, she was sure both of them would be covered in sand by the evening.\nCori led them inside and let them shower. By then, the wind was already picking up. The lighthouse swayed a little to the right when the first man came downstairs in only a towel. The second man was sitting at the table setting up the checkers board. The man in the towel was young. Cory noticed a scar just above his navel. She asked the two of them if they’d like anything to eat. They didn’t know she was offering them a final meal. The old man setting up the board told her to sit down and be quiet. He wanted her to know they had a plan.\nShe suspected that when she finally did die, she would regret not asking what that plan was. It might have been fun to know what the men thought they were going to pull off there in that lighthouse. When she searched the car in her raincoat, drops the size of half dollars falling on her, she found two bags of what looked to be cash. Leaving everything where it was, she went back to the lighthouse just as something struck one of the windows. Glass blossomed all over the rocks. Cori wondered which man she should drag down first. She wasn’t worried about the storm hurting her. The storm was only interested in the lighthouse. It had no truck with its keeper.\nWhen both men were splayed out on the sand, Cori returned to her spot at the table and began to play the game the old man had set up for her. Her knife was going to be stained permanently now. For some reason, blood just never came all the way off. After her inspection, the wind kept harassing the stones all around her. Cori tried to ignore it, but that only made it louder.\nShe put on a pot of tea and thought about the glass that would need replacing.\nThere was always something that needed doing.\nAnd always plenty of time to do it." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Not Again\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1110\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character always makes the same promise; to change. Will they finally make it happen this time?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Not Again\nMy teacher used to say,” if you can see it, you can achieve it.” The same thing happened every year, I wrote down the resolutions by Christmas day, and by Valentine’s day, I had broken all the important ones. Not this year; I’m determined to make a vision board…they say they work. Posting one up in my office at work and one on the refrigerator here at home. This way, others can keep me accountable. So, I can return to my high school weight by our fortieth reunion in June.\nNot sure if what I see in my mind’s eye is even a vision board, but anyway, here I go…\nPicture one, my sister snapped this last year at Nana’s when I swore I didn’t need a cigarette with every cup of coffee. Picture two (me chewing a pencil and checking the time during a regional meeting with a coffee cart) was snapped by Stephen the previous year in early February, just before I kicked the proverbial wagon down in the lake. Picture three my ashtray in my home office that says work causes smoking and coffee consumption. It’s legible whenever the ashtray is clean, ironically. Picture four, my birthday mugshot, YES, arrested for a healthcare banner for American Heart Association’s fundraising project; we raised six hundred dollars (I couldn’t lie to raise more; I smoked at bingo). In my defense, they didn’t have an empty seat in the nonsmoking room. The last one, the graduation photo, was taken on April 24, 1983; I remember it because that was my ex-boyfriend’s birthday. In that picture, I was a perfect size twelve.\nCaptions above each photo need to be a true statement. I drink coffee when? I smoke when? When do I do both? Photo one I do both when family members stress me out. Photo two I’m not smoking but anxiously awaiting a break. I’ll eat lunch with a soda, juice, water, or a shake. Photo three doesn’t tell the true story; my home office is the only place I don’t drink coffee; I have a five-thousand-dollar computer system, and I don’t let anyone drink in there. When I have clients over, we have drinks in the kitchen outside my office. Photo four should have spoken to me; I started helping AHA thirty-seven years ago after mom’s first heart attack; I lost her in 1995. The last photo is what I want to look like again.\nI have put tomorrow off for years…Making it this time means the world to me. I am fifty-six, and at this moment, drinking Go-Lightly for my first colonoscopy. I can only have clear liquids for the next twenty-four hours. No coffee or cigarettes for 72 hours. If I can go three days without a cigarette, I can quit.\nGood, I’m still alive… wow, I’m sore. Wait, what the heck, where am I? Ms. Walker, calm down; welcome back! You gave us a scare. It’s January 4, 2023; you’ve been in a coma since November 30th. What do you remember? Struggling to think, can’t swallow, looking around, confused about the handcuffs. Stop, don’t do that; that tube is your feeding tube.\nConfused… I remember counting backward from 100, 99, 98… hmm, the colonoscopy was on the 30th. Why? What happened? Can I have some water? I remember nothing after 97. Where am I?\nYou’re in TCH, the Transition Care Hospital. You’re loved; by doctors, nurses, family, and many friends who have called and visited. Everyone left your room teary-eyed. No one would give up, however. Your friend, Peaches, has been right there on that cot. She has learned how to do your care and would not leave you alone. We had no idea when you arrived that you were an author. Your doctor has been notified that you are awake. Unfortunately, the speech therapists will have to approve something to eat or drink. Girl waking up was the first step. I’ll be back with your next feeding in an hour. Are you feeling any pain? You have medicines due in thirty minutes, but I haven’t seen my other patients yet. If you are okay, I’d like to bring everything together in an hour. What’s wrong, girl? You’re alive. Don’t cry!\nI don’t know why I am crying! Maybe I am anticipating what the doctors will say. Did I do this to myself? Smoking for so many years. Did I have a heart attack? My mother had several heart attacks before her death in 95. I also learned last year that my birth mom passed away because of heart complications. I should have been diligent about quitting. My dad is the only one from the immediate family that ever smoked other than me.\nI wanted to fit in with the “in crowd” in high school. Later my husband became a chain smoker, and I admit the smell of his pipe was alluring. I never smoked a pipe, but I did roll my cigarettes until I settled on Newport or Satin menthol. Like friends, I complained about every price increase but found myself putting a carton into the shopping cart once a month. I would lie to myself that I could quit smoking anytime I wanted. First, I said work was stressing me out. Then I blamed the divorce and how his affair with the babysitter stressed the family dynamics. The truth is we just fell out of love. Some high school sweethearts have made it work for decades. We forgot to nurture the relationship between new clients and children around the sixth year of building our business. We began to make empty promises and tried to pencil each other in. When a former client sued us, that was “the final straw that broke our marriage’s back. The lawsuit against us pulled us into court every month for two years to eventually pay the case.\nMs. Walker, I’m Dr. Helms covering this weekend for the U.M.A. staff. Nice to see you’re awake. We will be doing many tests to get you back on the mend. Can you tell me where we are? University of Virginia hospital. Oh, no, TCH. What happened to me? (flailing my handcuffed arms). Without further testing, I can’t answer that. I can remove those restraints if you promise that you won’t pull out any tubes. Physical and Speech therapy will be around sometime today to start the battery of tests, so we can see if you can swallow regular foods and liquids. From the Neurological standpoint, things seem fine. It looks as though you decided to take a long-needed nap.\nNonetheless, I don’t smoke anymore. A smile crept across my lips." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Night Before The Holiday\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1781\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a family (biological or found) coming together for Christmas." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“ Can you pass the salt Geneva?” Luke asked, pointing his hand to the shaker on the table.\nGeneva picked it up slowly and raised it in the air.\n“ You mean, may you” she insisted.\nLuke’s mother, Nicole turned to Geneva. Her long weave swung as she did so.\n“ Geneva, give the boy the damn salt”\nA look of annoyance covered her caramel covered face. \nGeneva did not protest as she handed Luke the salt shaker.\nLuke grabbed it, pouring it heavily on the potatoes that Geneva had prepared.\n“Good lookin” he mumbled. \n“ Is that what you say when somebody hands you something?” Nicole asked.\n“Thank you Geneva” he forced.\n“ Geneva straightened herself in her seat.\n“ You’re welco-“\n“ And don’t say Geneva , say Miss Geneva. The woman is your stepmother”\n“Not exactly “ said Leo.\nNicole glared at her oldest son.\n“ Leo, please not today.”\n“She doesn’t need to be my stepmom dork “Luke snapped at his older brother.\n“ Dork? They teach you that at prep school” Leo mocked.\n“ Leo!” Nicole shouted\n“ No I learned it from your girlfriend “ Luke replied.\nNicole rolled her eyes.\n“ Ok boys now that’s enough. This is a special day and nobody needs you two arguing at the table” \n“ Yeah, you guys are brothers” added Leo Senior. \n“ Dad, he’s not even your-“ \n“ I said that’s enough Leo” Nicole snapped.\n“ Fine whatever”\nGeneva cleared her throat. \n“ So um, Nicole, I absolutely love what you’ve done with the place.”\n“ It looks the same since last time” said Leo Senior.\n“ You should probably look into getting some glasses LT. I hear men your age often have sight problems”\n“ and women your age need hair dye”\nCarol, Leo’s sister, shook her head. \n“ you two are acting like the kids now”\n“ oh relax Leo knows how we joke around “\n“ so Um who made the corn?” Geneva interrupted again.\n“You know, I used to think the two of you were made for each other”\n“Ahem” Geneva coughed. \n“ Back when we’d have play dates for the kids”\n“ I remember we’d stay up all night and play video games” said Louie, Nicole’s third born son.\n“ And Lawrence used to wear those stupid cloud underwear ” Luke said, jokingly.\nHadeon laughed.\n“ No, they were Superhero, dude. “\n“ Jesus Hadeon , no one wants to hear your corny jokes” said his sister , Hailey.\nShe rolled her eyes.\nTheir mother Carol, raised her fork to them.\n“ Children, behave. It was very nice of Nicole to invite us here for the holidays. With everything that’s going on.”\n“Nonsense” said Nicole. “ You’re family”\n“ Well I know that. We know that, it’s just that the holidays can be intimate. “\n“ Carol, you’re my sister. “ Leo Senior added.\n“ I know , but still, thank you all for allowing us to join”\n“ It really isn’t a problem .”said Liam. \n“ See that’s what I mean when I say family is everything.\nThe lights flickered and then went off completely. \n“ Hadeon, can you help me in the basement?” Nicole asked, as she got up from her seat.\nLiam, her estranged husband, cleared his throat.\n“ I can help you Nicole”\n“ Im fine, Liam. Hadeon’s the electrician. He can help. Can’t you?”\n“ Hadeon help your aunt in the kitchen.” Said carol.\n“ Uh, sure , yeah”\nHadeon finished his mashed potatoes quickly and rose from his seat.\nNicole walked out of dining room, Hadeon , right behind, \n“ You know where the fuse box is down here?” He asked.\n“ Of course, I do, Hadeon. I live here “\n“ Oh, yeah right. How long has it been now?”\n“ 7 years”\n“ Those clothes must be doing real good”\n“ oh yeah, the windy times wants to an interview with me”\n“ That newspaper, that’s super dope “\n“ yeah I know right. It’s just the publicity we need”\n“ I wish you were my mom”\n“ Hadeon-“\n“ Carol’s not bad really. She just doesn’t always do the right thing.”\n“ No parent does. We’re just people just like you kids. Everything we do is for our kids”\n“ Every moms not like you Aunt Nicole”\n“ I know “\n“ Where’s the fuse box”\n“ Right over there”\n“ Here”\n“ Oh this is a simple one. You really didn’t need my help with th-“\nHe couldn’t finish his sentence. The pain removed the words from his mouth. \nIt felt more like stinging to him. A unbearable stinging. The back of his head felt warm as the blood dripped. He could hear ringing in his ears. The room began to spin.\nHadeon held his head as he groaned in pain. He wasn’t loud at all, The cry was weak and quiet. His own blood began to cover his hands. \nNicole stuck him again , using all her might to bash the hammer in the back of his head. He fell this time.\nHe panted softly as he curled up into a ball.\nNicole stood over him, holding the hammer.\nHe could barely see her. The room was spinning. \nHe thought to himself how funny it was, all the things they say happens before you die. The light was real at least. He could see it shining in the distance. He could feel himself fading. \n“ How did you know what color underwear he wore. He wore one piece sleepers” Nicole yelled.\nHe wanted to tell her so many things.\nBut sorry , a groaned and barely audible sorry was all that he could muster up. And it was the last thing he said before the hammer hit him the last time. \nNicole dropped the the hammer when his eyes closed. She put her hands on her face and sobbed. She had never done anything like this before. She had never murdered anyone. But no one is immune to rage.\n“ Mom” A voice called to her.\nNicole turned to face her son. They were all grown up now. But she could only see them as they were years ago, childlike and cherubic. They stared at her. As well as she knew them, she couldn’t decipher the look in their eyes. Perhaps it was the adrenaline or the shock from murdering a man. Those things could numb your senses, your intuition.\nLeo, the oldest , a 25 year old man now, was the first to speak.\n“ Mom, what did you do?!”\n“ It’s not what it looks like , LJ , you have to understand-“\n“ You killed our cousin, mom!”\n“Shut the hell up Lee” Lonnie said.\nHe was the second born, light skinned with brown curly hair. He was the tallest and largest of all the brothers. But he did not usually snap at his older brother. He was not the type to “ throw his height around”. Not until now at least.\n“ Don’t tell me to shut up? Do you see this-?”\n“Shut up before somebody upstairs hears you”\nLeo lowered his voice, but the irritation remained.\n“ You’re worried about someone hearing us when there’s a dead body on the floor.”\n“ How do you know if he’s dead” Luke asked. \nHe was the youngest at 16.\n“ I don’t know, maybe the blood leaking from his goddamn head”\n“ Listen Leo, mama needs you to calm down so she can think”\n“Tough ass can’t handle seeing a dead guy, imagine that” Luke snickered. \n“ Oh shut up, you fuckin mutt” Leo snapped. \n“You watch your damn mouth”\n“ Mom , you always take their side.”\n“ listen to me, there is a dead man on our floor. So all this sibling rivalry bullshit that fuels your every step, ends now. You need to grow up your ass up now”\nLeo froze as he listened to his mothers words. \n“ Do you understand “ she repeated.\nHe nodded.\n“ Louie, stop” Lawrence, the third born called.\nHe ran over, trying to grab Louie from the back.\nBut Louie was older and more muscular.\n“ Let me go” he said forcefully. \nHe pushed against Lawrence.\nLawrence fell to the ground. \nLouie gave the body a hard kick in the stomach. And another. And another. He kicked the body a total of four times before Nicole and Lonnie and Luke was able to restrain him.\nThe brothers stepped back.\n“ I know, baby. I know. Mama’s right here. “\nHe covered his face as he cried quietly.\n“It’s all my fault mom. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault “\n“ No it isn’t. It’s mine.”\nLonnie kneeled down and examined Hadeon. He was lying in a pool of blood. His face was battered from the kicking. \n“ We should cut his body into pieces” Lonnie said quietly.\nLeo covered his mouth to stop himself from gagging.\n“ Oh my god, I think I’m going to be sick”\n“ What would we use?” Nicole asked her son.\n“Mom you aren’t seriously thinking about this, are you? No, we need to call the police” Leo Jr replied.\n“ No one is calling the police” Nicole said.\n“ Then we need to do something quick mom” Lonnie insisted.\n“ I know “ \n“ We gotta get him out of here”\n“ And we need something to tell them”\n“ don’t worry about them” \n“ there’s a saw down here somewhere, it’s my dads “ Luke added. \n“ I know where the saw is” said Lawrence.\n“ And we’ll need gloves” Lonnie replied.\nHe looked up at his mother.\n“ There’s some in the back “\n“ So what do we do first”\n“ Leo, where’s your suitcase ?”\n“ Um , i don’t know, it’s upstairs”\n“ Can you get it down here without anyone seeing you?\n“ I don’t know, maybe.” \nThe door creaked open.\n“ Who’s that”\nThey could hear footsteps now. \n“ I don’t know “\n“ You didn’t close the door”\n“ neither did you” \nLiam , Luke’s father stopped in his track when he saw the body. He looked confused, but not afraid. \n“ Well now” he said, after the moment of silence.\n“ This is interesting “\nThe door creaked open again. But no footsteps this time. \n“ Leo wanted to know if you wanted to smoke a cigar with us. Is the party down there now” Jupiter called down to them.\n“ Nope. We’re just finishing up Everything’s fine”\nThe lights flickered one last time as they looked down at Hadeon’s bloody corpse." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Penn's Landing\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1963\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against a character's skin." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A breeze brushes against my face and it’s not until now that I realize my cheek is wet. Strands of hair stick to my hand as I wipe the tears away. Now my fingertips are cold. I predicted the meeting would be filled with emotion but hadn’t thought I’d actually cry. Especially not at this point. I wasn’t even at Penn’s Landing yet.\nThe toe of my shoe catches on a loose Belgian block in the street and a young man rushes to hold my elbow.\n“Are you okay?” His expression is kind and I try not to be distracted by his pierced cheeks. “Yes, thanks, just not paying attention.”\nAfter waiting more than two decades for this, how could I shift my focus elsewhere? Of course I wasn’t paying attention to the Belgian blocks in front of Independence Hall. There were bigger thoughts – much bigger – that were spinning in my mind.\nPaul had been a great father and I loved him. He cheered for me when I was a spelling bee contender. He shouted every time I scored a goal at a soccer match. And he glowed with pride at my college graduation from the University of Pennsylvania. But I never knew until Mom died that he’d been my step-father. I’m not even sure why he told me, but he did. Tearfully, about a week after Mom’s funeral. Initially, I didn’t believe him. It was absurd. How could Dad not be my father? It didn’t make sense. But there was something in his expression, in his words, and in his shaking hands that told me he was telling the truth.\nPaul’s truth held few details, though. He didn’t know my father’s name, only that Mom had dated him before Paul met her. Against his parents wishes, he married her when she was five months pregnant on a sunny day at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church on South 10th Street.. Her bridal bouquet had been filled with white roses and blue delphinium, he’d remembered. When I learned that my birth father was someone other than Paul, I silently gave my grandparents credit for never having treated me any differently than they did my cousins. At some point, they must have decided to embrace me in the family, like a baby bird being protected in stronger wings.\nFrom Paul’s revelation until now, it was a blur of late-night online research and sending in DNA samples to perhaps not always legitimate sites. But what was someone shady going to do with my DNA? Make a clone? I would be flattered. The pressing and inexplicable need to connect with my birth father went far deeper. As years with no leads passed, I felt increasingly desperate to find him, to meet with him, to look at his face. And that was going to happen in about 10 minutes.\nI pressed my red Kate Spade cross-body against my hip as I quickly crossed Walnut Street. I would be seeing him any minute now. He knew I’d have a red pocketbook. I knew he’d be wearing a red scarf on this blustery October afternoon. My feet moved more quickly than I wanted them to… past the Seaport Museum and towards the Viewing Deck. A long and hard gust\nof wind blew in from the Delaware River and I pulled my gray peacoat tighter. How odd it was that I didn’t feel ready to meet the one person I’d waited almost half my life to meet.\nIt had been a slightly awkward email, but I’d hit Send before I had a chance to edit it: To: James Collingwood\nFrom: Sarah Woodword\nSubject: DNA Test Match\nHello James! I’m sure you realized, as I did, that we’re an almost exact match on FamilyDNATree! Looking at their report, you will see as I did, that all the science indicates that you are my biological father. I have been looking for you for over two decades and it would mean so much to meet you in person. I only want to know who you are as a person and to hear what family stories you’d be willing to share. I was born, raised, and currently live in Philadelphia. Are you still in the area? Would you be interested in meeting me? I’ve been searching for you for over twenty years, since my mother (Kimberly Hart Woodward) passed. It would mean the world to me.\nBest regards, Sarah\nHad it been too emotional? Too filled with expectations? Those questions, and more, haunted me for a year. And then James Collingwood replied to my email.\nTo: Sarah Woodword\nFrom: James Collingwood\nSubject: Meeting\nWould you like to meet at the Viewing Deck at Penn’s Landing at 2pm on Friday, October 8th? To make things simple, I’ll be wearing a red scarf. James\nTo: James Collingwood\nFrom: Sarah Woodward\nSubject: Meeting\nThat would be wonderful! To keep things consistent, I’ll be carrying a small red pocketbook.\nI can’t wait to actually meet you! Warm regards, Sarah\nI never heard back from him. But did I need to? He had set the meeting in place. I only needed to show up. I am now at the Viewing Deck. It feels like my heart is pounding at an unsafe rate as I quickly scan the few people looking out at the Delaware River. There is a small family with unruly children. To their right, a young couple look flirtatiously at each other. An elderly man sits in a wheelchair by himself. Could that be…? I tentatively make my way over to the old man and glance sideways at him. No red scarf. I glance at my Apple watch. 2:05. Okay, it’s not considered “late” until fifteen minutes, right? I take deep breaths, hoping to quell the rising panic inside. Is he not going to even show up? Is he going to actually stand me up? My anger rises to unwarranted levels. I turn and look in every direction. Not one red scarf. I turn back around and stare at the river. The flow rises and falls, the white sky illuminates the ripples that travel away from me.\nSuddenly, I feel like everything is flowing away from me. I’m 44 and never married. Something always went wrong with each relationship, and it was never the same thing. The water running past me now reminds me that I will never be a mother. Which makes me think of my mother. In my mind, I see her in all the black and white photos I’ve seen of her: The small baby, the mischievous toddler, the 3rd grade student in the class photo, her hands folded on her lap, the photos of her in her high school yearbook… laughing, vivacious, alive. The next photos I saw were of her and Paul at their first home. She was visibly pregnant. Her smile didn’t look joyful, as it once had, it was now a smile of gratitude. The photos were in color when I was born and Mom and Paul held me in both their arms, holding me up in my pink blanket with expressions of such expectation and pride. My eyes water again and –\n“Sarah?”\nA hand softly touches my shoulder. I spin around. A tall, older man stands in front of me. He wears a black beret and a gray cashmere coat. The coat matches his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He’s wearing sunglasses – or maybe they’re those prescription glasses that turn dark outside? He’s wearing a red scarf. I nod.\n“Yes, yes, I’m Sarah. And you must be James?” He nods. “Jamie. Everyone calls me Jamie.” “Oh! Okay. Jamie, then.” There’s a paralyzing silence, but it lasts less than a minute.\nJamie rubs his gloved hands together. “ It’s chillier than it looks. Would you like to head to Cherry Street Pier and grab a cup of coffee?”\n“That sounds perfect.” We walk side by side in silence. I glance at Jamie, but he stares straight ahead.\nWe get to Cherry Street Pier and wander past the art exhibits to the concessions. Jamie gestures for me to order. “Uh, I’ll have an Americano with light cream and that’s it.” Jamie grins beneath his sunglasses (are they sunglasses?) and turns back to the barista. “I’ll have the same.”\nWe sit at a small round table for two and look at each other. I can’t quite tell if there’s a physical resemblance or not because of his damn (possibly) sunglasses.\nI smile nervously. “I’m not really sure where to begin or where to stop.” He nods. “Well, I’ll start. Yes, I dated Kimmie Hart for about 7 months in 1979. But I never, ever knew she’d gotten pregnant.” I stare at him, but in my mind all I can think is Kimmie? You called her Kimmie? My entire life, I’ve only heard her called Kimberly. “Right. And I was born in 1980. I wonder why she never told you.” He shrugs. “I guess – after a relationship ends, would you tell someone something like that?” I’d never asked myself that question. I didn’t have a ready answer.\nThe barista calls Jamie’s name and he comes back with our coffees. I begin shaking a bit and I don’t know why, which makes me more nervous. Jamie takes a sip of his coffee. “May I ask what Kimmie died of? In my mind, she was always fit and healthy.” I nod. “Yes, she was. She died in a car accident. She was blindsided by a drunk driver twenty years ago.” Jamie is silent, then takes another sip of his coffee. “That’s a shame. Tragic.”\nI drink some of my coffee. “So, other than your name, I really don’t know much about you. I mean, what career path did you follow?” He raises his eyebrows and looks relieved I threw him a softball. “Architecture. It was always architecture. “Huh.” I shrug. “And my degree is in Environmental Design.” Jamie lifts his coffee cup. “Well done!”\nHe puts his coffee cup back on the table and looks at me. “Did – did your mother ever tell you about me?” I shake my head. “No. No, she never did. I always thought Paul – my step-father – was my real father. It was shortly after Mom died that he told me. I don’t know why, so don’t ask.” “So –“ Jamie speaks slowly. “She never once mentioned Jamie Collingwood?” I look at him. I feel that he so much wants me to say yes. I can’t want to lie.\n“She may have, and I just don’t remember.” He nods. He knows. “That’s okay. No doubt she didn’t know what to do about the – situation.” Jamie gives a deep sigh and leans back in his chair.\n“I want you to know that I loved Kimmie. I really did. Well, as much as anyone that age knows what love is. And I always remembered her and wondered what path she’d walked on in life. It sounds silly, but I’d look up at the moon some nights and think, ‘Maybe Kimmie is looking at the same moon at this same second. Maybe she’s wondering if I am, too. I really did love her.” Suddenly, Jamie’s face drops, and his shoulders begin to shake. One of his hands is still on the table. I place my hand over his. He pulls off his glasses and looks up at me. His hazel-green eyes are a perfect match with mine. We both see it. We both know it. And we both tear up. Jamie pushes his chair away from the table and steps over to me. I stand up and he embraces me in his strong arms. As if I’m a baby bird he never had the chance to nurture." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: YET ANOTHER CHRISTMAS STORY\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1728\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a cynical character realizing they do have something to celebrate after all." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(With apologies to sensitive readers: COVID referred to in a humorous manner. Derisive comment regarding overeating.)\n\n\nIn New York, they said that introverts had been practicing all of their lives for the lockdown. How had they guessed? It was as if they knew her personally.\n\nIn these recent times, for Lynette, even Christmas meant solitude; for two years out of necessity; now, maybe out of habit. So, no cacophony of loud gift bags coughing red tissue paper set clustered on the floor, holding presents for friends. No sparkly holiday cards, past and current, glittered from the mantle. And no angel lights, appearing to hang in magical suspension, beaded the windows today.\n\nOne tradition hung on. Last night as every December 24th, she cracked open her wide children’s–edition of A Christmas Carol. And she did not scoot it back onto the shelf until she read the final line: “And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!” The happy survival of Bob Cratchit’s little boy always heartened her. She was a fan of the socialist Dickens but more and more, she identified with his capitalist protagonist. Scrooge’s only problem was that he hated poor people when he should have hated everybody.\n\nAn old boyfriend from the 90s had called her “detached,” and winced as he’d said it. She’d been flattered. And soon after that, she completely unattached herself from that clown.\n\nObserving CDC guidelines came naturally to her—respecting personal space, automatic; avoiding muddled crowds, innate; and washing her small hands, reflexive. She’d rather kill herself than tolerate a dot of dirt beneath a thumbnail.\n\nAll of her life, she’d been sliding her chestnut-colored fingers and pink palms beneath any sink’s hottest water as soon as she stepped in from the outdoors mingling with the microbes of sundry non-handwashing others. Decades ago, after reading the stats, she’d sent a “letter to the editor” about this public hygiene matter. It appeared in the local paper in the era before Internet platforms exalted the unsubstantiated lollygagging of anybody with access to a keyboard, but of course, probably influenced no one.\n\nMen were the worst. Back then, the vast majority didn’t wash their hands after using the bathroom. So, among the other countless flaws of humanity, people—even in the United States of America—were literally the unwashed masses.\n\nWhen Lynette was young, she told a friend she wanted to marry a doctor. “At least they have to wash their hands,” she’d said. “Not at home,” the other girl countered. Lynette had cringed. Who knows? Maybe that’s why she never married.\n\nOr possibly her work syphoned her energy. Plus, so much time flowed into travel; every summer except the last two, ended with her checking off another destination.\n\n“You’re a vagabond spinster like me,” her Great Aunt Anna had said. Lynette remembered her aunt’s voice frequently so that she would never forget it as long as she lived. High pitched, it hit the ear as a sort of lively, cheerful song.\n\nShe swore her niece hung the moon. She’d said, “The way I talk about you, folks probably think you’re going to be the next president.”\n\nLynette had laughed. “So, you’ve made me famous there in Chicago.”\n\n“Haha. Could be. Anyway, everybody’s famous to the people who love them.”\n\nIn April of 2020, hoarseness replaced musicality in that voice. Aunt Anna wanted to say as much as she could—while she could—but it became a choice between talking and breathing. The next day, a cousin called with the news. She’d said, “At least it wasn’t prolonged. I think it’s because she told them no ventilator.”\n\n\nThe world’s uncontained geyser of evil had washed away yet another innocent. Nightly Lynette began sitting with her arms tightly crossed, eyes narrowed, witnessing on public TV what she thought of as “The COVID Death Show.” Maybe now the damn fools will wash their damn hands, she thought. And stop eating so damn much.\n\nCOVID had legitimized solitude. But as with any other season in life, it could not give without taking.\n\nShe was grateful that she could do her job remotely. Two weeks ago, her history 102 students’ squared faces appeared online for the last class. One young Asian woman in a second-row tile said what a good experience it had been. Then they lifted their hands to their chins and all applauded. Hell, back in her school days, Lynette would have applauded too if college had been this easy.\n\nA generation ago, she’d dashed across the paper-chase finish line and grabbed a terminal degree in poli sci from a first-tier Midwestern university but stumbled into a hobbling career at a state college here that accepted 93 percent of freshman applicants. She’d always wondered who did they reject—the ones who typed “prolific school shooter” in response to the question about their plans for the future?\n\nShe could not make the work rigorous nor at all challenging. They’d give her low evaluations and she’d get fired. Most enrolled only to get the two duhs—“duh diploma and duh job.”\n\nBut occasionally an outlier popped up—a student who did actual college-level work or at least aspired to. One South African kid had told her he grew up speaking isiZulu and struggled writing in English. A few days before it was due, he turned in his paper on the schism between the abolition and suffragette movements, asked for feedback. She sent it back feverish with red corrections.\n\nHe shot over his work this way throughout the semester. He’d always incorporate her changes and send notes of profuse thanks.\n\nHe asked her to recommend novels for he found those more accessible than nonfiction. Morrison’s The Bluest Eye became the first of several. It was an easy read but harbored deep meaning, little Pecola, more put-upon than Tiny Tim and forever unspared. The more Thato read, the better he wrote.\n\nAt semester’s end, he’d sat in her office, his shiny near-black face lit with pride and close to tears. It was his first “A.” He confessed that though he knew she was “the greatest of professors,” he thought of her as “Auntie.” He lowered his eyes, looking down at the floor and then up at her. “Where I come from that is a title of respect.”\n\nHer friends teased her, saying her students were her substitute children and her job, a kind of husband. She said she sought to fill the vacancies in neither category.\n\nShe’d guarded the respite of space in her life, weaving a mosquito net of excuses to would-be suitors. Back around 2005, she told a man she was too upset about the results of the presidential elections to have dinner with him. “But that was a year ago,” he’d said. “You see what I mean?” she’d said. \n\nAnd how many times had she said she was married? One nitwit asked whether she was in an “open marriage.” She replied yes, if he caught her cheating, her “husband” would open it up and kick her out. As she snatched up her knapsack, she’d once told an idiot, harassing her in the library, that she needed to rush home to feed her six kids. \n\nWhile she didn’t particularly wish for stomachs to fill, on this third empty Christmas, it would be nice to have someplace to rush to. She looked out the window. Rain drops lightly pelted the snow, slowly graying the winter wonderland produced by a soft blizzard the previous day. She could see the complex’s playground where a woman took smartphone-pictures of a man and a hooded child flanking a slush-marred snowman.\n\nAt her office desk, she flipped her laptop open. Only one cineplex still ran The Woman King. If she hurried, she could make the next screening. She tugged on her boots, wrestled on her long puffer and remembered the umbrella.\n\nShe opened it outside though the rain had grown light. On its big canopy, a rendering of Caillebotte’s “Paris Street; Rainy Day” ballooned out with its imposing Parisians moving down pinkish cobblestone walks under blue gray umbrellas.\n\nHoliday visitors made conveniently close spaces impossible to find in the parking lot of the vast building complex she lived in. She mumbled curses and stamped through the graying snow toward the end of the property where her car was parked.\n\nSuddenly a little red mitten grabbed the hand with which Lynette held the umbrella stem, squeezing it in a death grip. And she saw the outstretched arm of a tiny girl, her butterscotch face illuminated with delight and amazement. A man’s voice said, “Yes, it’s pretty but that belongs to the lady. You can’t have it.” A woman, her damp sheath of dark hair plastered to the sides of her cheeks, gently tugged the child’s arm until the grasp relented.\n\nThis was the family she’d seen at the window. Her eyes stayed on the child, who didn’t appear at all upset. “It looks like we have the same taste in art.” The little girl stood grinning as if she’d somehow staked a claim, captured the umbrella and its owner no matter what.\n\nLynette was about to tell the parents that they could probably order a miniature version over the Internet when she looked up. “Auntie! Professor!” the man shouted.\n\nIt had been ten years. Time had a way of making her feel so outdated. Thato introduced his wife and four-year-old.\n\nHe asked her where she was headed. “Are you going to see friends there?” he said. When she told him of her plans for a simple solo trip to the movies, he said, “No, no, you mustn’t.”\n\nShe should come with them, he said, pointing to a specific structure ahead among the complex’s identical buildings. He explained that his parents had flown in from Cape Town and there was plenty of food to share. “I have told them about you. They will really like this. It will be as if they’re meeting a celebrity.”\n\nHe said, “Come. We must get out of this weather.” His wife was from Mexico and, like him, not fond of winter here, he told her. They all walked forward wedged under the umbrella, the African, the Mexican, the American and the child, sheltered by the Parisians. Thato soon knocked on a door, called, “it’s us,” and the family stepped to the side, so that Auntie could be the first to come in from the cold." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Lighthouse\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1115\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a lighthouse surrounded by powerful gale-force winds." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Note: There is a mention of an AK-47 in the story, and a rocket launcher)\nIt was a hot summer’s day at the Meringo Lighthouse in downtown Chicago. This had been hailed as the world’s first landlocked lighthouse. Built right in the center of State and Madison over the Red Line Subway station, this was an accomplishment that was both useless and vital simultaneously.\nChicago’s mayor, Brandon Lightfoot, had hailed it as a new step forward in technological progress. “You can’t think of any reason to have a landlocked lighthouse? I can think of a million reasons. It can direct traffic. We can do light shows for the big game. We can provide free lighting for people who can’t afford it. The possibilities are endless.”\nThe people lambasted him. How was the lighthouse supposed to direct traffic when it was blocking traffic in all directions? There were so many questions to be had. It was, of course, plumb idiotic to build a lighthouse on a landlocked street. Much less with the money earmarked for building new schools.\nOne night, Lightfoot made a visit to the lighthouse. He had never seen the lighthouse at night and just wanted to see what it looked like. As he approached, he saw it. A gigantic building with a large, powerful light.\nAs he approached the building, he looked for an intercom or some sort of way to communicate with the occupant. As he turned the corner, he saw that the door the lighthouse was completely open.\n“What the?” said Lightfoot as he approached the open doorway on the south side of the building.\nThis was an unprecedented event, and he didn’t want to miss it due to his own squeamishness. As he walked into the lighthouse at State and Madison, he looked around. There was no one. No attendants. No security. Not even a tourist. Nobody.\n“Hello! Hello!”\nHe proceeded to take the stairs all the way up to the light tower, not knowing what to expect. There was a feeling of high expectations as he proceeded to climb the tower. When he got to the light room at the top, he was bathed in a strong beam of light which had reflected from the bulb. He walked up to the opening and looked down.\nThe streets were empty. He turned the light to look directly down Madison Avenue. Nothing. Simple enough. But suddenly, things weren’t so simple. In looking, he saw a group of men running down State Street, going north. A few were carrying AK47s. One was carrying a rocket launcher. They each had an insignia on their shoulders, an insignia that Lightfoot would know anywhere.\n“Oh my God! Houthi rebels! Oh my God! What do I do? How do I…?”\nLightfoot looked around. There had to be something that he could use to alert the authorities about what had happened. But wait. Wasn’t he an authority? Lightfoot found a phone and proceeded to dial the Chicago FBI headquarters on the south side. Hopefully, they were still open.\n“Come on. Come on. Pick up. I pay your taxes.”\nAfter a few rings went by, then some festive music, followed by a singing voicemail message.\n“It’s the FBI, but I’m not at the phone. Please call again when I’m back at home. If it’s an emergency, call 9-1-1. I’ll be back soon. I’m not at the phone!”\n“Oh, for the love of Chitown!” said Lightfoot. “Where are the Men in Black when you need them?”\nMayor Lightfoot then proceeded to leave a message. He wasn’t sure if his intended audience would find it well, but he wanted to warn somebody. After all, maybe if the Houthi rebels saw him on the phone, they wouldn’t disturb him.\n“Jeeper creepers, Batman! We’ve got one huge problem in Chitown, and it’s about to get even bigger. Houthi rebels have taken over the streets of our beloved city. Right in the heartland of the good old US-of-A. Can you believe it? I can’t. Come to the lighthouse at State and Madison if you dare.”\nJust then, a hand reached over and pulled the phone from Lightfoot’s hands. Looking up, Lightfoot saw a man covered in a shawl with a rag wrapped around his head and face. A Houthi Rebel insignia planted on both of his shoulders.\n“What?” said Lightfoot.\n“What do you mean what?”\n“What? What did I do?”\n“What did you do? Were you cheesing on us?”\n“On you? I would never tell on you.”\n“Good. Who were you calling? Your mother?”\n“It could have been my girlfriend.”\n“Pfft. Yeah, right.”\n“Was that sarcasm?”\n“Look, we run this country now. You might as well tell me where your nation’s capital is.”\n“You got all the way to State Street Chicago and you don’t know where the nation’s capital is?”\n“I was raised in a terror camp, okay? It’s not Julliard.”\n“Well, look who needs who now. Little old Brandon Lightfoot’s finally useful to somebody. Who would’ve thought?”\n“You’d better spill the beans. I’ve got a cat-and-nine tails in the garage.”\n“Uh-huh, and where would this garage be?”\n“Somewhere in Yemen. You’d better be careful. I have frequent flier miles and I know how to use them.”\n“So, Mr. Bond, how would you like to proceed?”\n“I’d like to proceed by finding your nation’s capital.”\n“Are you sure that’s what you want?”\n“As sure as a heartbeat.”\n“Don’t you mean ‘serious as a heart attack?’”\n“Again. Terror camp. Not MIT.”\n“Okay, okay, okay, let’s backtrack here…”\nJust then, the lighthouse phone started ringing. Lightfoot and the Houthi rebel exchanged a knowing glance.\n“What?”\n“You can pick up the phone. Just be very careful of what you say.”\nJust then, Lightfoot picked up the phone. He didn’t know what he’d say or how it would be received. How was he even still alive?\n“Hello?”\n“You know, it’s a felony to leave a voicemail with the FBI. Especially sounding like Jiminy Cricket.”\n“This is an emergency.”\n“Yeah, we heard. Houthi rebels. Look, we’re kind of far away from Madison Avenue, so could you, like take care of it for us?”\n“What?”\n“Well, I mean, you’re already there. We’ll back you up if you need to give anyone a swollen lip. Just go ahead and be a man or a woman…”\n“I’m a man.”\n“Okay, then. Be a man and take care of the rebels.”\n“Sure, I’ll take care of them.”\nAnd that he did. Mayor Lightfoot spent the next 13 hours running a day/night spa for the Houthi rebels out of the lighthouse at State and Madison. He specialized in manicures, pedicures, massages, and a little bit of joint cracking.\nThe rebels were happy." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Roy's Monster Buck\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1082\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against a character's skin." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Roy’s Monster Buck\n The soft breeze on the back of Roy’s neck sent a chill through his entire body. It signaled the end of his hunt and an opportunity to harvest the whitetail buck of a lifetime.\n Roy was an avid hunter; his weapon of choice was a compound bow and arrow. He hunted the annual Wisconsin gun deer season since he was old enough to purchase a hunting license with his dad. Roy and his dad hunted with a group of local farmers known as the Brown gang, who were famous for filling all their tags. \n When he moved away from his hometown, Roy started hunting in central Wisconsin with his brother-in-law and his friends. That group comprised six men who formed a hunting club and hunted in the Chequamegon National Forest. Eventually, they purchased twenty acres adjacent to the forest and built a cabin with all the modern facilities. Each of the club members was free to use the cabin as often as they chose, so it was occupied most weekends throughout the year.\n Roy’s brother-in-law introduced him to archery hunting, and after their first time out, Roy was hooked. He loved hunting in warmer weather, seeing many different animals while in his tree stand, and the quiet solitude he experienced. He also had excellent success over the several years, harvesting several decent bucks, but never had the opportunity to take a massive, racked buck he dreamed about. \n This day was different. Earlier in the season, Roy had spotted a large buck carrying a rack of widespread antlers with at least ten points and two drop tines. The monster buck crossed the top of the ridge Roy could see from his creekside stand, much too far away for a shot with his bow. He knew the buck would eventually pass close enough for Roy to get a shot.\n Throughout the season, Roy had several opportunities to shoot smaller bucks but was holding out for what would be his biggest-ever prize. He had the feeling it would be that day.\n Friday morning, sales meetings were mandatory at Schultz Concrete Construction Co., where Roy had to report his sales activities in the top-tier Wisconsin counties of Douglas, Bayfield, and Iron. Lunch was catered and always something special, so Roy did not want to miss it. He left for the cabin not long after he had his fill of grilled shrimp and crab legs served with red potatoes, asparagus, and lots of drawn butter. He had planned to meet his mistress, Mia, at the cabin, but as he was driving north on I-39, she called and said she would have to work a double shift at the nursing home in Hayward. One of the other nurses called in sick, and management could not get anyone else to fill in. He and Mia would stay the night in the cabin and hunt together for the next two days, but that would not happen. Mia asked him to drive to her house when Roy was finished hunting. She said she would have a late dinner waiting when he got there. Mia then hinted at a special dessert served in bed after the supper dishes were washed. Roy knew exactly what she meant and, without hesitating, agreed to her proposal.\n Although disappointed, Roy felt it would be a successful afternoon and evening. He arrived at the cabin, changed into his camo hunting clothes, and drove to the trail that led to his stand. When Roy finally parked his vehicle, he unpacked his archery equipment and walked as quietly and swiftly as possible. He had about an hour of daylight to hunt when he settled into his tree stand. With so little time left, he decided to pull the buck grunt call from his backpack to see if the big deer was nearby and take the grunts as a challenge. Within minutes, he heard a twig crack to his right. Roy’s heart began to pound but quieted when he saw a small six-point buck approach his tree. The little guy walked up to Roy’s tree, sniffed it, looked up at Roy, and curled his upper lip, trying to identify the creature high up in the stand. Not wanting to spook the deer, he held perfectly still until it turned and slowly walked into a thicket of cedar trees behind Roy. \n With only a half hour of daylight, Roy was beginning to think his monster buck would not show. Just then, he heard footfalls from behind a stand of small hemlocks. He couldn’t see what it was but was convinced it was his trophy. Roy had cleared two shooting lanes earlier in the season, one to the hemlocks’ right and the other to the left. Roy would only have fifteen yards to his target if the buck stepped out into either lane. When the deer reached the opposite side of the trees from Roy, he began raking the smaller trees with his antlers, challenging any other buck in the area to a dual. Roy still could not see the big deer, but he could see small branches being thrown out to both lanes by the trashing the small trees had to endure. \n It would only be a matter of moments before he would appear in Roy’s sites. His bow drawn, Roy was ready.\n Then it happened. Roy felt the soft breeze on the back of his neck. That breeze would carry even the slightest amount of Roy’s scent and was headed straight for the hemlocks. The thrashing suddenly stopped, and there was total stillness for a full minute. Roy remained ready to pull the release, but it would not be used that evening. He could hear the deer turn and walk slowly in the direction he came until he was well beyond shooting distance. Roy got one final glimpse of his query as he bounded to the other side of the ridge. \n Dejected, Roy sat in his tree stand until it was well past shooting time, replaying what had passed in his mind. What could he have done? Will he ever get another chance to harvest that deer? When he finally descended from his perch, he could walk out of the woods by the light of the full moon without using his flashlight. As he approached his truck, he could feel the relatively warm October day begin to cool. There would be frost by morning. It is a perfect morning to hunt, but he would not be 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: Room for Me\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1871\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who struggles to translate their thoughts and feelings into words and action." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The frayed cuff of Lanelle Vidal’s gray cotton hoodie slid behind her, rustling up leaves as she paced in front of the local cinema. Car horns from across the street echoed through the parking lot, like the piercing flaps of a bat’s wings in a cave.\n “Are you almost here?” Lanelle asked into her mobile phone.\n “Yeah, but please go ahead and buy the ticket.”\n\nLanelle refrained from stating the obvious: Charlie was supposed to have already reserved their seats. He had assured her of as much several times.\n\n“Okay,” she said in little more than a whisper.\n\n“Good, see you soon.”\n\nThe movie theater was nearly at capacity. Lanelle managed to secure a spot with a spare beside it. Payday was just around the corner, not that anyone told her bank account, and she could not afford the price of admission for two. She hoped that Charlie would arrive soon to claim the space next to her.\n\nAn unpleasant musk rose as she sat, mingling with the artificial butter and the sour, sweet scent of spilled soda in the air. Lanelle folded her arms and crossed her legs to avoid accidental contact with the sizable man to her right. Charlie would be most content and less likely to complain in the nylon recliner between her and the wall.\n\nThe opening credits petered out along with polite, but firm, requests for all mobile devices to be silenced. Her phone buzzed, loud enough to startle the man beside her. Another person was walking towards them, and she took note of the lack of other spots available in the isle. She wondered if he was an employee sent to complete a routine check. This idea was dashed as he drew near, a bag of Doritos and a box of whoppers in hand. As a bonus, he brought with him the pungent odor of marijuana.\n\nLanelle felt her chest rise and contract in rapid succession as she tried to force herself to explain that this seat, although empty, was indeed taken. When she opened her mouth, no words came to her aid, but vivid images of headlines on the news of shootings in movie theaters started to fill her mind. You’re being ridiculous. Just nicely tell him to beat it, Charlie will be here any minute.\n\nShe took a deep breath and readied herself to run in the event that the stoner responded poorly to a request of his removal. Before she could utter anything, her phone buzzed again.\n\n“Ma’am,” the large man said with a thick southern accent and a pointed look.\n\n“Oh, right. Sorry,” Lanelle said, quick to retrieve her phone. Her screen was alight with a preview of a message from Charlie: “I’m buying the ticket now.”\n\n“Excuse me ma’am, you're going to need to put that away now.” The man interjected again, impatient. He stared down at the phone, the underside of his face lit as though he were about to recite a sinister story around a bonfire. She darkened the screen and chucked it under her legs.\n\nTrapped between two strangers, one of which seemed capable of violence if she were to attempt an exit, Lanelle’s eyes reddened. She was there at the behest of a man who could not be bothered to show up on time for a film she had no desire to see\n\n***\n\nLanelle stared absently ahead as she fought the urge to cry. A moon-faced character with large eyes filled the screen and the subtitles she had been ignoring grew larger.\n“You have got to start sticking up for yourself,” the pale-yellow creature implored a juvenile in rumpled clothing. “If you don't, people will walk all over you forever. Do you know whose fault that would be? It would be yours. Because you let it happen.”\n\n***\n\nRideshare services had become just as unreliable as traditional taxis, and prices had skyrocketed to similarly obscene heights. Charlie had not done as his message suggested. He did not buy a movie ticket. He was not there to take her home. Lanelle would have to walk.\n\nShe had waited as scores of people flooded the halls, lingered by as fresh faces bumbled into various auditoriums, and stalked the bathroom for any sign of her boyfriend. Every six-foot look alike - of which there were many - egged her fidgety hands on more. Tense to the point of aching, she wrung them red. Her phone remained shoved in her back pocket, still on vibrate, unagitated.\n\nNot only had he stood her up, but he had failed to call. Something must have happened, she reasoned.\n\n***\n\nLanelle stepped onto the jigsaw pattern of bricks lining their driveway. A crick in her neck protested when she looked up, taking in Charlie's pressed khakis and blue button down as he stood in the doorway, ready for her arrival.\n\n“I am so sorry, really. I got a last-minute call from my boss. I told him about the movie and our plans. He gave me an ultimatum.”\n\nLanelle was unsure of how to respond. His apology was unsatisfactory. It sounded much like the others. She wanted to ask him why he had lied about buying the movie tickets in the first place or if he even remembered that she was strapped for cash and didn’t have a way home without walking. These thoughts left her tired and with, randomly, an urgent need to urinate. The intense desire to relieve herself took hold and she pushed past Charlie without a word.\n\nThe toilet paper holder beside her was empty, save for a brown cardboard roll left in its place. It took Charlie several minutes to deliver a knock, a roll, and a plea for her to be ready in no more than fifteen minutes.\n\n“My colleagues are all there. At the Spot on Brown.”\n\nOf course, they are. “I was hoping I’d have a moment to eat and get showered. The walk was pretty grueling.”\n\n“Yeah, I grabbed you a protein bar and here’s a hand towel for you to wash up.”\n\n***\n\nThey were in the middle of the downtown district, surrounded by plants and modern hippies. Lanelle thought it an unexpected change of pace for Charlie and his colleagues.\n\n“Ah, you guys are here,” said a pretty brunette that always left Lanelle feeling a little insecure. Charlie greeted her and the rest of the predominantly male lot. They dove into conversation right away, leaving Lanelle to entertain herself at the empty end of the table. When a sign in sheet fell into her lap, she put ink to paper, all too happy to have someone, even the barista, acknowledge her presence.\n\nAn hour passed by before a man with long dark locks appeared, a microphone and a clipboard in either of his hands.\n\n“Welcome to Voices with No End, the longest running open mic night in the city. I am so glad you all chose to join us this evening. Y’all know me, KT, I like to switch it up each week so,” he lifts the clipboard, “I think we are going to do it like this tonight. Someone, anyone, pick a number.”\n\n“Eight!” a blonde woman with purple streaks in the back shouts.\n\n“Seven,” a man in a skirt adds.\n\n“Well, I heard eight first so, eight it is.” the host says and looks down and rummages through lined pages.\n\n“Everyone, we got a new name on the list so please, let’s give a warm welcome to Lanelle!”\n\nAt once, everyone at her table is reminded that she is in attendance. “No way, can you believe it, someone has your name.” The smug look in Charlie's eyes is worsened by the laughs of his company. She looks around in disbelief, unsure if someone in the crowd is also called Lanelle. When the applause starts to die down and the host laughs out an awkward, “Don’t be shy, you got this whoever you are,” she is reminded of sitting on the smelly nylon seat in the theater, reading: “You have got to start sticking up for yourself. If you don't, people will walk all over you forever.”\n\n It's all she could do to take in the mixture of hesitant claps from her table when she stood to greet the host and receive the mic.\n\nHow did I get here? The host gave her a wink of encouragement. He put his hands up in the sign of a ‘three’ and she correctly took this as her time limit, not that she would use it all. She found herself staring out into a group of unrecognizable faces who politely smiled and eagerly offer sporadic claps, foot stomps, and snaps.\n\n“Um, hi everyone. I’m, um. I am Lanelle and I have never done anything like this before.”\n\n“HEY THERE VIRGIN!” The crowd erupted in unison. Startled, she stepped back. “I guess, if it's okay, I’d like to just say a few words.” God, what am I doing?\n\n“You got this,” someone shouted.\n\n“I think something important occurred to me today. I was sitting alone in a theater, a place I greatly fear because of the upswing in shootings. I felt a loneliness that I hadn’t felt in a while. I sat between two grown men that did not make me feel warm or fuzzy inside. I kept wondering how I ended up there, and frankly feeling sorry for myself. I was barely watching this movie that I can’t even tell you the name of now, and this character started saying something in a language I can’t speak with a passion I can’t match so I broke down and read the subtitles.\n\nThis cat looking thing was saying something about how, if you don't stop people from walking all over you, then you're complicit in their abuse. I think that’s exactly what I have been. I have been holding on to these thoughts of politeness and gentility hoping that they would save me . . . hoping that if I'm nicer or kinder or less threatening, I don't know - maybe people would want to be around me and not harm me?\n\nGod, I must sound like a paranoid freak. I don't even know what I'm trying to say, I just thought if I could be a socially acceptable, digestible, version of myself, then I would be loved, and people would show up for me. But it turns out, nobody's going to show up for me if I don't show up for myself.”\n\nLanelle paused as people, much to her surprise, began to snap.\n\n“In sticking to this role that I have always played, I don't make room for the person I was meant to be or that I want to become. I'm constantly trying to save people's feelings and that is not the same thing as saving those people or myself even.” More snaps and claps and suddenly she's not looking down at the floor, something she hadn’t realized she was doing.\n\n“I think it's time that I stop following whatever script I gave myself - relieve myself of whatever part I thought I needed to play. I think it's time,” she looked at Charlie, “I think it's time that I make room for 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: Robincloud\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2382\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with it raining… anything but rain (e.g. flowers, cutlery, seashells, running shoes)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The President is always the last to enter. The rest of the Council of Economic Advisers wait for him in mesh office chairs inherited from the Clinton era. Jeremy Evans can’t help but swivel back and forth- he is the only one not in a suit, and his chambray shirt has a ketchup stain near the front right pocket. He hopes nobody notices.\n“Who’s the guy with the ketchup stain?” a man across the round table asks. He’s wearing tortoise horned glasses and a small white hanky in his blazer.\nThe accountant neighboring Jeremy speaks up. “Mr. Frasier, that is Jeremy Evans, sir. Beat reporter out of Mississippi.” The man gestures as if inviting a handshake between the two of them. “He’s the one who kickstarted the investigation.”\nFrasier nods and leans closer to the table. “What’s your daily called?”\n“The Bolivar Bullet.” Jeremy drapes an arm over his neck, covering the stain. “It’s only a few counties wide. Most nobody reads it- the homeless tend to use it as oil drum tinder.”\nFrasier runs a hand through his white hair. It’s both light and thick, as if the lack of color has made the fibers bone-heavy. Then he speaks.\n“I used to write for the Financial Times. Short stint, back in the 90’s. It’s a dead medium, but it’s a good one.”\n“Yes, sir.” Jeremy says.\n“Still has some power, though. I mean, surely you know, if one story got you wrapped up in all of this.” Frasier gestures to the beige war room, where three senators clamor about the debt ceiling, and four Secret Service members pack an assault weapon in every corner.\n“Yes, sir.” Jeremy gulps, a bit excited by the topic. “What happened was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. When that first storm-”\n“Hey,” Frasier says, putting a hand up. “Save it for the big man.”\nJeremy nods and begins to squirm again. He forgot who he was waiting on. He wishes he ate his burger more cautiously.\nSeven minutes later, the door opens, and a stampede works themselves into the door. There are more Secret Service men, with long droopy earpieces and heavy padded armor that must make them sweat in the small office space. Some interns and secretaries fill in the standing room, arming clipboards just as aggressively as the soldiers. Finally, the Chief of Staff leads the President to the open chair eight seats from Jeremy. He is sturdy until he slips in his seat, which seems closer to a collapse. His brown hair has faded gray near the ears, and his red tie fails at providing authority. He never looks this exhausted on television.\n“Let’s hear it, men. I’ve got ten minutes before I board a flight to Morocco.”\nThe Chief of Staff clears her voice and sets the agenda. “The Council of Economic Advisers meets today to discuss a potential minting issue coming out of a southern community in Mississippi.” She squints her eyes as she gets to the note. “Jeremy Evans, a reporter and witness of the event, is here to speak.”\nJeremy hears every head in the room turn, the way that satin swishes against the wind. Their eyes are more uncomfortable than the fluorescents, and with all this focus, Jeremy knows his ketchup stain must be glowing by now. He drapes his arm over his shoulder again and looks over at the President, who is the only one not looking. His head is hanging back, and he may have fallen asleep. Jeremy turns his gaze and, two seats away, catches Frasier. The man has tilted his glasses and gives Jeremy a thumbs up.\nJeremy nods and pulls some papers to his chest. “Ok,” he murmurs, “here we go.”\n“My name is Jeremy Evans. I cover the financial beat for the Bolivar Bullet, across the counties of Bolivar, Coahoma, Sunflower and Washington. My job…” Jeremy pauses, “is very dull. These are the poorest counties of the poorest state in America. So, suffice to say, it is rare that there is any good news to be written about.”\n“Things changed two days ago.” Jeremy feels a little surge in his voice. “Our in house meteorologist, Dan Quail, forecasted a summer storm to occur across the four counties we cover. Nothing crazy, he mentioned- some showers and maybe a little heat lightning was all that was planned for. So we wrote it up and sent it out to the commons.”\n“On the night of the forecast, the sky looked bullheaded. Thick, ugly storm clouds boiled over the river. They looked very heavy, as if weighed down by ice. They were so low to the ground, I remember noticing, that they were tinted green, as if reflecting off the farmland. That’s what I thought at the time, at least.”\nThe President sinks deeper in his chair.\n“I stayed the night in my apartment- my dog gets thunder shy, so we went to bed early. The wind was stronger than I’d expected, and it beat against my window in loud, open-palmed slaps. But there was no rain, which was strange, because there’s always rain in Mississippi. At around midnight, I decided to check why, so I rolled out of bed and threw open my window curtains.”\nJeremy’s arm drops from his shoulder, his eyes wide and gone from the office space. “It was money. Wet, green wads of money. Hundred dollar bills, I ended up discovering. They were falling like balls of hail, splattering in the dirt and on car hoods and the roofs of abandoned buildings. As I watched, one of them was tossed against my windowpane, and I got a good look at the design. A little torn from the elements, but it was real. Had the serial number and everything.”\nJeremy doesn’t notice, but the President lifts his head from his chair. He is both sleepy and angry.\n“The storm was too strong to go collecting in, but once early morning rolled around, most of the residents were out hunting. There were no fistfights, which is what you’d expect from charity of this nature. Instead, it was all excitement, like some cosmic easter egg hunt. We had people searching through the corn rows and under every car. Some of the stronger guys climbed the buildings and sifted the gutters. There was plenty to go around- everyone came out of it with five or ten grand.”\nThe entire office is leaning towards Jeremy now, and his focus is suddenly broken by the intensity of his listeners. Jeremy coughs, then melts back into his seat.\n“And yeah. I wrote an article about it the next day, and that’s what happened.”\nThe room is quiet. Frasier is wiping his glasses with his hanky, and he smiles, showing no teeth. The President has a quivering vein above his right cheek. He rubs his temples and whispers something to an associate. Then he speaks to the rest of them.\n“How confident are we in…” The President searches for a name, then gives up. “… this reporter’s account?”\nThe accountant next to Jeremy pulls a clear plastic file from under the table. Inside are two dollar bills. His voice is like a mouse stuck in a door jam.\n“Jeremy was kind enough to provide a sample for us. One of these is from the storm, and another was printed this morning at our D.C. location. As you can see, one’s more beaten up than the other, but they’d both be accepted at any financial institution across the United States.”\nA man with wide spectacles and a curled brown mustache follows the thought. “We’ve also seen an increase in spending across the four counties noted in Jeremy’s anecdote.”\n“What are they buying?” the President asks.\nThe spectacled man flips three pages, then squints. “Nothing extraordinary, sir. Groceries. Gasoline. Some have even applied for low-income housing loans.”\nThe President slams his fist on the table. “Damn Commie bastards!”\nFrasier narrows his eyes, tucking the hanky back in his shirt. “You think this is an external attack, sir?”\nAn associate comes back with a green bottle and a shot of liquor. She slides it to the President, who slams it, then rubs his eyebrows. “Yes? No? What am I supposed to make of this? You practically told me Robinhood knocked up a low pressure weather system.” He sips the bottle. “We need to get answers. I want intel from all of our embassies- tell them to keep their noses up on any currency talk. If it’s a foreign inflation attempt, I can deal with it.” He chuckles a bit, the buzz warming up his voice. “God damn helicopter money, man.”\nThe wide spectacled man raises his hand slowly. The President sees it. “This isn’t fucking science class. Just tell me what you know.”\nHe grunts, then flips to the fifth page. “Our meteorologists suspect another one of these… Robinclouds… is brewing over the Gulf of Mexico as we speak. They expect it to make landfall across Louisiana and Mississippi within the next day or so.” He turns another page and shows it to the table. It’s a hurricane symbol in green ink, showing a path across the bayou and up the Mississippi river. “They predict this storm will be three times as large.”\n“Christ,” the President says. “That’s half a year’s paycheck for each civilian. How can we afford this?”\nFrasier chimes in. “Well, sir, for one, we’re not actually minting anything, which means there’s no effect on our debt ceiling. So if you’re talking strictly budgeted change, we could take one-tenth of a percent out of the defensive spend and put it towards covering the impact of these Robinclouds.” He pauses, biting his lip, then speaks again. “Or we do nothing. It’s not enough money to cause any lasting damage, and quite frankly, their economies could use a cash injection.” His hair seems to have gained some color.\nThe President scowls at Frasier. “Do nothing? What kind of President would I be if I did nothing?”\nFrasier looks towards Jeremy.\nThe President continues. “We won’t cut defense. In fact, we’ll up it- Marjorie, I want fifty troops of National Guardsmen relocated to the storm’s impact zone. We’ll also need assistance from local police, and a lot of help from the labor union.”\nThe buzz becomes stronger in the room and on the President’s face as every assistant marks up their clipboard. The senators have begun chatting again, and it’s only then that Jeremy realizes the impact of the President’s words. Jeremy stares back at Frazier, who shrugs and begins wiping his glasses again.\n“Sorry, I’m new,” Jeremy mumbles. “So what does this mean for Bolivar?”\nThe President pulls himself out of the chair. He does a little stretch with his toes, as if he’s finishing off a catnap. “They’ll brief you on the ride home, Ketchup Boy. But listen-”\nJeremy notices the President’s face harden. It is dry and hollow, like a skull in a catacomb. The posse of soldiers and assistants have already begun to leave, and yet the President keeps that look focused on Jeremy for just a second longer.\nThen, with a white, Andy Griffith smile, the President says, “Write me something nice, won’t ya?”\n---------------------------------------------------------\nDISASTER AVERTED AS MILLIONS EVACUATE HURRICANE RICHARD\nBy Jeremy Evans\nA rapidly intensifying Category Five storm scared Mississippi natives this past Saturday. The National Hurricane Center in Miami forecasted Friday that the damage “could outshine Katrina in wind speeds,” and to “search for an evacuation zone immediately.” The President sprung into action, sending resources and removal plans to every county from Louisiana’s coastal Lafourche to upper Mississippi’s Tuneca.\nMany were aggrieved to be forced out of their homes. However, servicemen helped ease minds by conducting property searches and judging shelter strength based off of the National Hurricane Center’s recommendations. Bolivar County unsurprisingly failed most of these tests, and over 98% of civilians were shuttled to accommodations twenty five miles east. \nHurricane Richard made landfall on July 25th across the stretched-out islands of Plaquemines. Over the course of two days, Hurricane Richard marched up the Mississippi river, tearing down domiciles with an average wind speed of 85mph. Minimum flooding occurred, which bodes well for future infrastructure anxiety in the city hall of both states [SEE PAGE 7].\nEvacuation resisters paid dearly for their decision. Current reports suggest over three thousand fatalities have occurred since Hurricane Richard touched down two days ago. Seventeen of these victims were residents of Bolivar County, including local legend and restaurant owner Bob Huckabee. The infamous penny-pincher was felled under the collapsed roof of the Red Star Diner. Strangely, relief workers found twenty thousand dollars cupped in his hands upon rescue. He was 57. [SEE OBITUARIES, PAGE 15].\nThe President has received praise for his emergency response. After returning from a diplomatic arrangement in Morocco, the President stated his appreciation for the swift rollout of aid to “our two most vulnerable Southern communities.” He congratulated his servicemen in keeping “both expenses and casualties to a minimum.” Pundits on both sides are confident that the President will point to this moment as a defining success during his term, and his administration will surely leverage the event during his reelection campaign next year. [SEE PAGE 5]\nHurricane Richard will leave a stain on the already stressed economies of Mississippi and Louisiana. However, Bolivar County isn’t the type to take it lying down. For a town that’s always hanging against the ropes, it’s clear the residents here carry an iron chin. This mentality inspires me to comment on my perspective of last week’s weather event. In my past article, I discussed [REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED]\n[REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED]\nEditor’s Note: Jeremy Evans is no longer a reporter for the Bolivar Bullet. Although we are surprised to see him go, we celebrate his hunger for the truth, his knack for power-filled wordplay, and of course, his obsession with the McDonald’s dollar menu." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Page Turner\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2514\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a magical bookshop." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Abagail sat in her car outside the nondescript structure, looking back and forth between it and the card in her hand. The invitation was as unremarkable as the building. A matte black postcard with just coordinates, a time, and a date on the back in small white letters. The postcard didn’t even have Abagail’s address or postage on it, so she was not sure how it got to her.\nEarlier today, she came home from a particularly difficult day of work and school. She had gotten a D on a biology quiz that she had studied hard for. At work, she spilled a cup of soup on a customer. Usually an instantly fire-able offense, her manager only gave her a warning and a three-day suspension because he liked her. Abagail could not afford a three-day suspension. She had bills to pay, including college tuition. As an orphan who aged out of the system, she had no family or friends to fall back on when things were rough. She was all alone. \nAt age 18, she had the bright idea to go to school and become a doctor. She had no clue where she got the idea that such a lofty and lucrative goal was possible, but after she graduated high school, she started her climb. She attended community college for two years, then transferred to a four-year university. Now, only two years into her plan, Abagail was 20 and tired of doing it all alone. Days like today caused her depression to get the best of her. The depression would lie to her and make her feel like the only way out was…out. Lately, with nonstop school and work, she had more and more days like that.\nShe looked at the black card again. Coordinates, date, and time. She sat in her older black Subaru, looking at the building. “Well, I’d say that I hope I don’t die today, but I don’t really care,” she said to herself, getting out of the car. Like a seasoned boxer, the wind whipped around the car door and punched her in the face. She pulled the hat down on her head as it fought in vain to stay on top of her big afro. She quickly exited the car and zipped her jacket as far up as it would go. The sun had gone down an hour ago, and Abagail found herself standing on the empty street in the dark alone. “Yup, I’m going to die today,” she said out loud, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head.\nThe block was full of single-story storefronts. Many of them had for rent signs in the window. Abagail had never been on this side of town, so she had no idea how deserted it would be at this time of day. She followed her phone’s GPS until it said she had arrived. It was a windowless brick building with overgrown trees in front of it. There was no easily discoverable door, so Abagail reached out and felt around the brick. She found a door handle and pulled, ducking under the ivy that was growing over it. She pulled the door open and stepped into a dark hallway. I’m stupid for coming to a random building. \n“Hello,” she said, drawing out the syllables a little, her voice revealing her uncertainty. \n“Hello,” her echo came back, sounding as if it wasn’t sure if she should be here either.\n“Anybody here?” said into the void. \n“Yes,” came back an answer in her echo. \nI came this far. She stepped into the hallway, and the door heavily closed behind her. Almost instantly, lights on the floor lit up, helping her navigate her way down the hall. She reached the end, and another door blocked her way. “Enter Only Upon Invitation,” it read in big red letters. “I have an invitation,” she said to herself. She pushed the door, and it felt like she was trying to move a boulder. It didn’t budge an inch. She looked around for other doors or entrances and saw none. She looked at the door again and noticed a slit underneath the word “Invitation.” It looked small enough to insert a piece of paper. She took the invite out of her pocket and slowly slid it in. The door rumbled, pushed back, and slid to the right. \nAbagail entered the room with her mouth wide open, eyes not blinking, and bated breath. She could not believe what she was seeing. Rows upon rows of books were sitting in the sky. They were arranged as if they were on bookshelves, but there were no shelves there. The books were literally suspended in the air, floating on their own. Everywhere she looked, she saw rows of them. \n“Welcome to Books of Wonder,” came a voice from her left. Abagail gasped and jumped at the realization that someone was close to her. She turned and saw an exceptionally small Black woman, no taller than five feet. The woman had long coarse silver hair that cascaded down to her feet. She wore black-rim framed glasses, blue jean overalls, a white smock, and no shoes. The woman was not moved by Abagail’s shock, yell, or jump. “I’m Thelma, the bookkeeper,” she said, stretching her hand out.\nAbagail looked at the small woman’s hand for a second before reaching her own out. When they touched, Abagail felt a connection. It felt like a lite electrical shock and deja vu combined in one. “I’ll be your guide for the night. We don’t have much time, so let’s get you started,” Thelma said.\n “Started with what?”\n“Reading, of course, my dear,” Thelma said. She pulled a small crown royal bag out of her smock and threw what looked like glitter at Abagail’s chest. \n“What’s that,” Abagail asked, her eyes wide and head rearing backward. She put her hands to her chest, trying to wipe it off.\n “Just a little magic,” Thelma said nonchalantly. Abagail felt warm all over as she looked up at the books floating all around the room. She suddenly felt her feet slowly lift off the floor. She looked down and saw that she had started to float into the air.\n“What the hell is happening,” she yelled to Thelma, who was floating next to her, her voice sounding strained, body shaking from fear. \n“We have to be able to get to the books,” Thelma said, grabbing Abagail’s hand and steering her to a collection of books.\n“Are those drugs? Were those drugs you just sprinkled on me? Am I high?” Abagail said, trying to hold back tears. That made Thelma giggle. “No, dear, you’re not on drugs. It was a magic powder that made you fly. I promise you’re perfectly safe.” Thelma said, then removed her hand from Abagail’s tight grip. Once freed, she started doing flips in the air. After a few twirls and swirls, she looked at Abagail. “Okay, now you try it.” \nDespite being wary of the ominous invitation, nondescript building, and haunting hallway, she suddenly felt at peace. She trusted Thelma, so she placed her hands in front of her and bent over to do the world’s slowest air flip. Thelma clapped for her. Abagail did a few twirls and laughed as she threw her head back. \n“Now that we have the jitters out of the way.” Thelma hooked her finger in a “come here motion,” and floated toward a section on the right that said, “Children's Books.” Abagail, \ncould not process that somehow, even though the building only looked one story high on the outside, inside, they were easily floating three stories above the ground. “What is this place,” Abagail asked with wonder in her voice. \n“I told you, dear, this is Books of Wonder. You must keep up if you want to see all the important books tonight.” Thelma smiled at her, a warm smile that Abagail imagined a grandmother would give her granddaughter. Being an orphan, she had no context for those types of interaction. Having a family member who loved and cared for her sounded as unimaginable to her as the idea of a floating library.\n“This is our children’s section. What was your favorite book as a child?”\nAbagail thought about it for a minute. “Go Dog Go. It was the first book I learned how to read.” Suddenly the book Go Dog Go started floating toward them on its own like it had been summoned. Thelma floated next to her and waited patiently as the book made its way over. “Good choice,” she said once the book floated in front of them. “Go ahead, flip it open,” Thelma encouraged. Abagail grabbed the book, and instead of opening it to the first page, she opened it to the last. Out of the book grew a large tree. At the top of the tree was what Abagail could only describe as a dog party. A big dog party! Dogs of all sizes and colors were hanging out on the treetop. Some were jumping rope. Some eating ice cream. Some jumping on a trampoline. But they were very clearly having a party.\nAbagail remembered the scene from the book but found it hard to believe. It had come to life right before her eyes. One blue dog with black spots and a yellow party hat was climbing up a ladder on the side of the tree. As the dog passed, it dipped its hat at Abagail, wagged its tail, and bent its head like it was waiting for something. \n“Go ahead, pet him,” Thelma said encouragingly. Abagail’s eyes went big for a second, and then she sprang into action, bending down and rubbing the dog on its head. That made his tail wag even more. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” Abagail asked in a low sing-song voice. After a few seconds, Abagail stopped petting him. He tipped his yellow hat at her and continued his climb up the tree to the dog party. Abagail sat there with her mouth open, eyes wide, looking back and forth between Thelma and the dog tree. Then Abagail let out a hearty laugh.\n“Is this real,” Abagail asked, uncertainty dripping from her words.\n“Yes, dear.” Thelma reached over and started closing the book. The tree and all the party dogs slowly disappeared into it. After it was closed, the book floated back to its spot. Abagail giggled. No longer focused on whether what she was seeing was real. Now just focused on experiencing it all. \n“Come on dear, we have more to see.” Thelma floated a little higher and they floated towards a door off the ceiling. It opened as Thelma approached it, and they went through into another room with even more books. To the left were books titled “Rare Breeds” and to the right were ones titled “Nonfiction.” Abagail noticed that the “Rare Breeds” books were not only floating, but they also appeared to be shaking, growling, and emitting from the pages lots of screaming.\n“What’s going on with those books,” asked Abagail. She looked closer at them. And why are they under lock and key, she said, pointing at them but looking at Thelma. Thelma hurriedly floated towards Abagail and grabbed her by the arm and moved her away before she could start reading the titles. “We mustn’t read those books,” she said, Abagail, noticing for the first time that Thelma had an ever so slight English accent. “Those are horrible stories where horrible things happen. We can’t allow those characters to just freely float out because they never want to go back in.” \nAbagail got a chill down her spine and allowed herself to be led away from the books. A book on the end growled at her as she passed. \n“This is the Nonfiction” side dear. The most prized collection of books we own. Abagail looked at the books and they appeared to go on for miles and reach further up than she could see. “Okay,” Abagail said, rolling her eyes around and drawing the words out. \nThelma smiled like she had a secret. “What’s your name and birthday dear? Abagail looked at her with furrowed brows and puckered lips. “Abagail Elise Johnson, October 28, 2002.” Before Abagail could ask why she wanted that information, a book started floating toward them. It was a thick book with leather binding. The front of it read, “Abagail Elise Johnson, October 28, 2022.” \n“What’s this?” Abagail said, pointing to the book floating in front of her face, with her name and birthday on it.\n“It’s the story of you,” Thelma said softly, putting her hand on Abagail’s shoulder. “Go ahead, open it.”\nUnlike before, Abagail didn’t choose to open the book to the last page. She opened it about an eighth of the way. Out popped her standing in a white coat taking pictures at graduation.\n“That’s me,” Abagail said looking at herself at her white coat ceremony. \n“Yeah, you’re a doctor,” Thelma said with amusement in her voice. “Go ahead, pick another page.” \nNow excited, Abagail went a few pages further in the future and saw herself and a man playing with two small children in a beautiful home. Abagail couldn’t do anything to stop the tears that fell from her eyes. “I have…a family?” she says, getting choked up.\n“Yes Abagail, you have your own family.”\n“Why are you showing me this?” Abagail asked teary-eyed and snotty-nosed. \n“To show you that your story isn’t close to being finished. You have so much more to live for. You’re not a failure or anything of the other negative things you say to yourself.” Abagail continued to cry. Thelma reached up and brought Abagail’s head to her shoulder. They stood like that for a long time. The entire time they had been slowly descending to the ground. Before Abagail knew what had happened, she stood back on the floor. She straightened up and turned away from Thelma.\n“I’m so sorry, I’m not usually that emotional around strangers,” Abagail said while wiping tears away with the back of her hand. She turned around and said “Thank…” but her thought was interrupted when she realized she was talking to herself. Thelma was no longer standing there. Abagail turned around in a circle looking for Thelma but saw no trace of her. Suddenly she heard heavy metal moving. She looked behind her, and the heavy door she walked in was again opened. She could see the hallway illuminating a path back to the outside exit. She looked up one more time, just to make sure she had seen what she thought she saw. And there the books were, floating in the sky. She walked out the door, down the hallway, and back out the front door. \nWhen she got in her car, she sat there for a few minutes processing and crying. After about five minutes, she used a fast-food napkin to wipe her face, then she looked in the mirror. She smiled at herself, started her car, and drove off, more determined than before to keep going." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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: american\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: Brush With Life\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2022\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an artist whose work has magical properties." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Content Warning for grief about the death of a pet.)\nIt was a few days after my dog died that I learned I could create life.\nSamson was a good boy, and losing him hit me hard. I took the day off work and buried him in the backyard. Once I had the last bit of soil stamped back down, I went inside, cleaned up, and eventually found my way to my studio in the garage. The easel already waited for me, a fresh canvas set up weeks ago that I hadn’t the time to touch until now.\nI painted a portrait of Samson, letting every emotion, both good and bad, flow into my brush strokes. Since I picked up the hobby in high school, I found it a great method of catharsis. My best friend moved far away, so I painted. My boyfriend dumped me, so I painted. It was my way of telling myself if I could turn my pain into something so beautiful, then I didn’t need to fear it so much.\nI hadn’t touched it during the many vet visits over the past weeks because I knew I would need it for this moment. My dog died, so I painted. Normally the result would be whatever raw expression I could get out on the canvas, but today I had an image in my head barking to be let out.\nWith so many years shared between us, recreating him in a painting came naturally to me. I already knew what shade of brown to use for his fur, and which to use for the shadows and highlights. Then I dipped into black for the spots that ran along his side. They came out darker than they actually were in reality, but the contrast looked nice on the canvas. For the finishing touches, I painted his collar a shade of pastel pink, and carefully wrote his name on his silvery tag.\nBy the end, I had a nearly perfect recreation watching me with watery eyes. The emotions did not disappear, but they felt manageable.\nI left the canvas to dry in the garage and went upstairs to bed. Honestly, I didn’t think anything more of it.\nIn the morning, I opened the sliding back door to let Samson out while I got his bowl and filled it with kibble. When I put it down in its usual spot on the porch to call him back, it occurred to me that I didn’t have to do this anymore. This little part of my morning routine was not necessary. I could call for him all day but he wouldn’t appear again.\nThe pain settled in me as a dull ache in my heart. It hurt but it didn’t stop me in my tracks, meaning the painting had helped. I cleaned up the bowl, shut off the porch, and had just started up the stairs when I heard a whining at the back door. Then an urgent tapping of paws on glass.\nWhen I turned to look, I thought I had caught myself in a dream. This scene before me was a step too far to be believed. After watching Samson pass on, after burying him with my own hands, after painting his portrait in my grief, I knew this couldn’t be reality.\nPerhaps this was really him scratching to be let in for breakfast, perhaps this was where his soul resided in a world of dreams. But this wasn’t my world, it couldn’t be.\nThe steps felt solid under me. The handle of the door felt slightly cold. It slid open with that familiar screech, and there he was. Bounding through the opening, jumping up to place his paws on my legs and yapping at me to be fed. His tag declared his name to be Samson, his collar was the same pastel pink one I bought for him years ago.\nI played with him and fed him, expecting at any moment to awaken. When I didn’t, and when he settled into his dog bed by the fireplace, I grabbed the shovel. If he had come back as a zombie, a very friendly zombie, that would be fine with me, but I had to know.\nThe original Samson was buried right where I laid him to rest. In a way, it felt good to know his sleep hadn’t been disturbed, but in many more ways, this seemed worse. What was this strange copy of the dog I knew and loved? Where did he come from? Why was he here?\nAfter reburying my dog and cleaning up, I settled in on the sofa and watched his copy sleep. When he awoke, he jumped up onto the cushion beside me and laid his head on my lap. I scratched him behind the collar and his back leg began to kick. Maybe it didn’t matter what he was. I had him back, couldn’t I be happy with that?\nI was, but the how of it continued to worry me. It went around and around in my mind with nowhere else to go, all the while I kept petting Samson, throwing away any concerns about copies or zombies.\n“Don’t suppose you can tell me where you came from?” I asked. He looked up at me with big dog eyes. No, I suppose he wouldn’t know either.\nIt boggled my mind how exactly he looked like my dog, even now I knew he technically wasn’t. His fur, his collar, his… spots. His spots were not exactly right, I realized as I took a closer look. Samson’s were dark brown bordering, but these were entirely black like little pools of ink sitting atop his back.\nThe painting. Of course. But how? I had painted many things and none of them had appeared in this way.\nI hurried out to the garage to check, the dog trailing at my heels. The portrait was where I left it on the easel, at a glance unchanged from before. The mirror image of this new Samson watched me from the white cloth.\nThe longer I stared back at it, the more I felt something had changed. Nothing physical, but my emotions in response to it. The painting seemed flat and empty to me when it looked so vibrant and full of life upon its completion. Had those feelings transferred into this new life wagging its tail behind me now?\nNow I knew, I decided it didn’t matter. I would accept this opportunity for the gift it was and love this dog same as I had Samson. I also vowed to myself that I would never paint again. Perhaps this was a fluke, but I feared more that it wasn’t, and that I might accidentally create something I was not prepared to deal with.\n“Come on boy,” I said to Samson, calling him back into the house. He bounded past. With one final look at the portrait, I turned off the light and closed the door.\n#\nA decade passed and I didn’t touch a paintbrush once in that time. I found a different hobby in knitting, which I enjoyed doing without fear I might accidentally create life again. Samson also appreciated having the extra time with me on the couch, and I didn’t mind being buried beneath a pile of yarn and a dog.\nAside from my getting older, not much else changed. Certainly not Samson. The one other aspect he differed from the original was that. Whatever magic had brought him to life from my painting also kept him in his prime. His energy did not abate from year to year, though my own waned. An immortal dog, would you look at that?\nAs I found out, he was only immortal to a point. He was immortal until the fire happened.\nAccording to the fire department, it was caused by faulty wiring. I woke to the blaring screech of the fire alarm sometime past midnight. I spent a few moments thinking it was a faulty alarm going off, probably a battery that needed replacing, until I smelled smoke. I jumped out of bed and grabbed Samson. We were both outside before I saw a lick of fire.\nThe fire started in the laundry room which was adjacent to the garage. It spread fast. I was still on the phone with the fire department when the flames reached the garage.\nI had left all my old supplies in there. Tubs of paint, brushes, tarps, and canvases, both blank and not. I guess that’s what happened. The fire got to it. So one moment I’m on the phone, speaking frantically to an operator while Samson is whining beside me, and the next all I can hear is the sound of the man on the line asking me my address.\nSmoke rose beside me. Samson’s portrait must have burned at that exact moment. The magic that brought him back went with it. When my neighbors came out to check on me, they found me alone on my lawn, staring down at the place where he stood.\nThe fire was put out before it could burn through the rest of my home. The damage it already did could be repaired, and insurance would take care of most of that. They couldn’t replace the portrait, though, and that was all I cared about.\nI said I wouldn’t paint again because I didn’t want to accidentally create something else. So, I wouldn’t do it accidentally.\n#\nI could not get him right.\n“Dammit!” I grabbed the easel and knocked it over, portrait and all. It did nothing to soothe my frustration.\nI had been trying for weeks to capture his likeness as I had that one night, but a decade without practice couldn’t be easily ignored. The brushstrokes did not sit right like they used to, and the colors looked too faded. The hardest part became admitting to myself I lacked the skill I once polished to a gleaming edge.\nThat wasn’t only it, though. Something else was missing, some spark I found when I brought Samson back. For all I knew I lacked the ability to grab it now, I also felt it wasn’t there anymore for me to take. That even if I could get this portrait just right, nothing would come of it.\nI picked up the easel and threw the half-finished portrait into the pile to be burned later. I set a fresh canvas up. But this time I hesitated, my brush hovering over the blank surface. Instead of seeing the image I wanted to paint in my mind’s eye, I had only a question rattling around in there.\nWhy was I doing this?\nIt didn’t feel like the right question, but I thought it was close. Instead of why, I had to wonder who. Who was I painting this for? The dog I had lost twice now? He had a lifetime and then some.\nIt was for me. I was painting it for me, but this wasn’t what I wanted to paint. It wasn’t what I needed to get out of me.\nAs soon as I realized that, I felt stupid for not figuring it out sooner. My skill had atrophied but that shouldn’t stop me so fully in my tracks. The real block came from elsewhere. I had to let go, and I only knew one way to do that.\nI wiped away the brown paint from my brush and dipped it in black instead. I cannot describe the painting I made next, only that it came from my grief, my pain, my fear. Each horrible thing I could wring from myself and get on that canvas.\nThe feeling that came over me once I finished wasn’t entirely pleasant, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant either. Mostly, I just felt tired.\nI set this new portrait atop the rest and took the stack into the backyard to burn. Maybe that spark was still there, maybe not. I didn’t need to find out anymore. And these things? Well, if the fire could take something good from me, it could have the bad too." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 seed of grief, and a seed of hope\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1973\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with two people planting a tree together." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Trigger Warning: Story contains topics of death, abandonment, and drug use, as well as some cuss words.)\n\nI dug my fingers into the dirt, its moist crumble mocking my focus and distracting me from the task at hand. \nMy pops had his hands cupped, a tiny white seed resting in his palms, still and serene. I told him he didn’t have to hold it, but he wanted to help me out, so here he sat, his beige khakis painted with mud. \nIt was nearly triple digits outside, but his brown cheeks didn’t reveal how warm it was outside. The only indicator was the tiny pools of sweat forming beneath his arms. \n“You don't have to hold it with two hands. It’s smaller than a pea.” \nHe shook his head. If he thought it best, he’d stand on his head with his arms spread out, his stubborn personality refusing to admit there was ever an easier way to do anything. “That’s exactly why I’m usin’ both hands, it’s so damn small it’d be the death of me if I dropped the damn thing.” \nI sighed, but let it go and kept digging. We were placing it in front of our window, so we could see it from the family room and the kitchen. \nThe dirt got colder as I dug and formed a growing pile next to me the further down I went. I glanced at my phone, re-reading the instructions I found online on how far down to plant a tree. \n“I think that’s good. What d’you think Pops?” \n“Give it a little more room.” \n“TreeGenius.com says this should be fine.”\n“It’s up to you baby.\" He paused for dramatic effect. \"It's just sixty years I've got on ya, that's all. I lived through the second world war, but I’m sure some damn hippie website created by-”\n“I’ll keep digging.” \nI dug for two more minutes before Pops gave the okay. I let him release the small seed into the hole, but before I piled the dirt back on I kissed my finger and touched the seed. \n“Grow for us Momma,” I whispered, then buried her all over again. \nThat summer I walked outside every day. Watching - waiting - watering. But nothing happened. Three months later, not even a sprout. \nPops pretended like he didn’t care. “I told you to dig deeper,” he snorted anytime he saw me looking, then he’d shake his head and murmur something about how ignorant people are nowadays. \nBut I saw his stretch every time he sat on the couch, just enough to glance out the window. I noticed when he sat at the dinner table, looking just past me, squinting his eyes in the way he does when he has feelings he doesn’t want to share. \nToday was the first day of winter, and I'd made my momma's famous pasta. I made it weekly now, enough that I didn’t need to read the instructions anymore, but I still looked at the yellow note card Momma used for all her recipes, her messy handwriting crossing off stuff and adding ingredients. \nMy older sister Tanya and I were always her test subjects. Sometimes we pretended to be food critics, ripping notebook paper out of our binders and writing notes. \nTanya’s were always polite, even if Momma used salt instead of sugar, or made a solid dish into a liquid. “Good try, I like how unique it was.” \nBut I took my job seriously. You wouldn’t lie to a professional chef, I told Tanya, and if Momma wants to sell her food she’s gonna need constructive feedback. \nMomma didn’t like that too much. After I told her that her Cape Malay Curry tasted like it had been to war and back, she ended food critiques. \n“You either like my food or you like goin’ hungry. You choose baby,” she’d said, slathering my hair with gel and pulling it every which way, braiding it for picture day. \nPops chomped each bite, his chewing nearly louder than his wobbly chair. He sat in it every day, despite the two empty seats at the table. Neither of which wobbled. \nI played with my pasta, watching the noodles slide through my plastic fork, over and over again. I was hungry, but I couldn’t eat, instead listening to the distant howl of the wind, and the not-so-distant creak of Pops’ chair. \nBack and forth, back and forth, back and forth. \nHe chewed louder. Then he rocked more, until I couldn’t take it. \n“Move over Pops!” I blurted out. \nPops raised his brow. His mouth twisted as he finished his bite, ready to scold me for raising my voice. \n“What’d you say, little girl?” \n“Your chair, Pops. It wobbles every time you breathe. There are two perfectly good chairs right next to you. Just move over, please.” \n“One of those seats is your momma’s,” he said, leaning forward so his navy jacket nearly dipped into his food. “And the other is your sisters. This seat has been good enough for me up till now and it’ll be good enough for me until I’m sittin’ underground.” \nHis words tear at me, opening a wound that never closed in the first place. Raw and aching, I take my words to war. “Momma’s dead. Tanya’s forgotten our names by now. She left, she didn’t want our family, and she's not coming back. So move fucking chairs.” \nPops paused. His head dipped, lowering as if in prayer. He mumbled and grunted, then raised his head, eyes distant. He jammed his fork into his pasta, twirling the silver cutlery. \nIt'd been three years since Tanya got into Stanford and decided to leave the South Side. Two years and eleven months since she decided to leave us. Not a text, much less a call. \nTanya was always too good for our family. A born genius. \n“You’re our angel baby,” Momma'd told her, kissing her face and rubbing her back. I liked to watch, from the chair across the couch, imagining I was Tanya. Second born, first choice. \nMomma’d nearly died havin’ her. Forty-eight hours in labor, two weeks in the hospital, a lifetime of debt. It was before Pops came back into our lives, before he got clean. After Dad left. For the first year of her life, I truly thought Momma’d drop her off at the fire station and leave her there. She always acted like she hated her. \nBut as soon as Tanya started talkin’, she was a star. Fluent before all her classmates, skippin’ two grades and graduating just three years after me. \nI should’ve stopped with Pops. Should’ve let him sulk and sit in the chair till it broke. He was grieving too, I knew. But it wasn’t fair. He could’ve known Momma for thirty-nine years. He chose to know her for fifteen. But he acted like he had every right. \n“Move chairs or get out.” \nPops chuckled, a shallow empty sound that shook the pained silence. \n“You think I’m kiddin’, Pops? She left the house to me, it’s mine. So get out of the creaky-ass chair or get out of my house.” \n“She didn’t leave shit to you. Your momma left it to Tanya, and then she signed it over to you.” His words were messy and polarized and they cut through whatever I was trying to do. \n“You think 'cause your momma died your grown? You think you can talk to me like you're my momma?” He spat, slamming his fist on the cedar, causing the table to shake with courage. His lips quivered, mine were in a tight line. \n“In case you don’t remember,” I implored, tapping my foot to the floor and scratching my thigh, “You left. Then you came back, then you left again. So apparently that chair hasn’t always been good enough for you Pops.” \nMy curls tickled my neck, and I scratched the spot it teased, digging my nails into my skin as Pops opened his mouth then closed it. His fork was still now, his hands dry and lonely. \nWe sat there, waiting for the air to reconcile our words. Hoping they would fizzle to extinction and we could forget them right then and there. When it didn’t Pops got up and went outside. It was dark now, but the new season was fresh and warmth still protected the weather. \nHe knelt near our window, near the non-existent tree. Near Momma. \nPops made no sounds, but aching tears pushed down his cheeks, carving a pained path of regret. \nI dropped down next to him, slipping my hand into his and staring at the ground. The moon lit the grass, illuminating the spot where our tree should've been. \n“Drugs took me from your momma.” His breath curled around him - around us. He elongated his words, fighting the shake from his voice. \n“And leavin’ her was the greatest mistake I ever made. Not seein’ her graduate, watchin’ her step-daddy walk her down the aisle. It hurt me, Alana.” His fight couldn’t hold any longer, and he choked out my name. \n“I know Pops. I’m sorry, I didn’t-”\n“No baby, don’t you dare apologize to me. You ain’t got nothin' to be sorry for. I know you don’t think I deserve to miss her. I struggle with that privilege every day. I miss your momma, I miss your sister, I miss you.” \n“I’m still here Pops,” I whispered, tightening my grasp on his hand. “I’m still here. You still have me.” \n“But you won’t be here forever. I won’t let ya.” \n“Maybe,” I countered, “but if I step a foot outside of Chicago, you’ll be right beside me. I promise you Pops, I won’t leave you.” \nHe smiled a knowing smile. It curved with despondency. “Perhaps. But if you don’t, I’ma still be rootin’ for you baby girl. I’ma watch you from the South Side, watchin' you become who you were meant to be.”\nI didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t leave him, he was all I had left. I missed Momma, and I missed Tanya. In a twisted way, I missed Tanya more, cause she chose to leave when Momma had no choice. \nI abandoned my words and leaned into him. Taking in the cigarette pine of his jacket, melting into his comforting hold. \nWe stayed like that for a while, letting our minds interweave and our agony untangle. \nWe stayed like that through the fall and winter and spring, until we planted another tree, one for Momma and one for Tanya. \nA seed of grief and a seed of hope. A wish to let go and calling to come back. \nThat summer, Momma’s tree grew into a slim stick, with tiny leaves and skinny branches. Tanya’s was resistant, and Pops said it was buried too deep, that’s all. \n“Hey Pops,” I whispered. It was the 22nd of September, the last day of summer. We were on separate sides of the couch, Pops watchin’ the news while I analyzed what the anchors wore. “You can see the top of Momma’s tree from the window.” \nHe glanced over. “Would’a grown faster if you’da listened to me.” \n“It’s 2022 Pops, I can’t take advice from the dark ages anymore.” \nHe grunted and mumbled an incoherent insult. \nA knock sounded at the door and I groaned, sliding off the couch and slinking across the room. \nI swung the door open, then sucked in my breath. Chocolate curls, white jeans, and a pressed pink jacket stood on the porch. \n“Hey.\" \nI didn't believe it, and my shock had me at a loss. \n“Your tree,” I breathed. \nHer brows furrowed. “What?” \nI shook my head, brushing off my words and making sure she was truly there. “You’re here.” \n“Yea,” she pushed out her hands, holding a small plant in a tiny vase. “I'm here.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Albumen Rain\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1189\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with it raining… anything but rain (e.g. flowers, cutlery, seashells, running shoes)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A little before one o’clock on a Sunday afternoon in 1993, it began to rain photographs in Newport. It was the last week in February, and many had been commenting that the winter had been colder than normal, but without any snow. This distinction made it difficult to complain, because while the cold was oppressive, it seemed neutered without the snow. Some said that they didn’t mind how cold it got as long as it didn’t snow. That’s why when the first photograph floated down, one of the old men sitting at the bar inside the Gaslamp Grille looked out and said “I knew it would snow eventually. This whole town is going to hell.”\nThat first photograph was of a young woman in a wedding dress sitting on the steps of a church looking to her left. If you saw the photograph, you would get the impression that the woman was looking for her groom, but that the person approaching her from the left was not the groom. It’s impossible to say how one could interpret this all from a photograph, but that’s what an image does sometimes. It gives you a story by tapping on parts of your mind you didn’t know were there. You see a woman in a wedding dress and you know she isn’t getting married. You know her groom is never showing up.\nCora Mission was the person to pick up the photograph. She had never seen a photograph lying on the street. When she saw the image of the young woman, something in her slipped a bit. It wasn’t a shift, but a stumble. Her breath doubled and sweat appeared on the back of her neck. She knew this woman, and she had never seen her before in her life. There was familiarity and foreignness. She ran up the hill to her house on Kay Street and called for her husband, James. They had been married for four years, and considered themselves to be fairly happy. When James ran down the stairs assuming Cora was hurt in some way, he found her standing in their front hallway holding a photograph like it was a smoking gun.\n“You never showed up,” said Cora, shaking her head, “Why didn’t you show up”\nJames didn’t know what she meant. He descended the rest of the stairs and took the photo from her. He looked at the photo. The young woman was looking to her left. James had never been more right. He wondered what kind of apology was needed here. How do you apologize to someone who doesn’t exist?\n“I couldn’t,” he said, “Not that time.”\nWithout meaning to, he looked beyond Cora out the window next to the door in the front hall. A photograph was falling. Then, another.\n“Cora,” he said, almost grateful for the subject change, “Why is it raining photographs?”\nBy the time Cora turned around to see for herself, the first inch of photos had already fallen. Before the precipitation was done, there would be two feet on the ground. Photographs are not like snow. They’re not easily shoveled away. Not just because of their density, but because there’s an urge to pick them up and inspect them. Nobody ever feels the need to inspect snow.\nCora’s brother Turner found himself holding two photos in his car as the heat was running outside the Red Parrot restaurant. In one, there was a man holding a baby. The man was smiling and the baby boy was smiling back at him without knowing what a smile was. Is it still happiness if the newly-born person hasn’t yet learned what happiness is yet? In the other photo, there was no baby. Just a man in a rocking chair reading a book. Turner couldn’t make out what book it was, but he suspected it was Sense and Sensibility. A part of him had always felt drawn to Austen, but never bothered to pursue that literary desire.\n“Isn’t that your dad sitting outside,” one of the waitresses asks.\nTurner’s son, Andy, has just visited his third table of the day. Business had been slow, because nobody was quite sure how to drive into photography. New Englanders like to boast that they can handle any kind of weather, but this one was throwing them. Andy’s manager went outside at one point, picked up a photo, and came back looking ashen. He told Andy that the photograph was of a man he didn’t recognize.\n“He never bought that house,” his manager said, “Why didn’t he buy the house?”\nAndy had no answer for him. He thought of that interaction as he was looking outside at his father sitting in the driver’s seat of his 1990 Pontiac with the engine still running. He thought about going out there and knocking on the window, but something told him to stay where he was. There was a veil of privacy around the car, and as the windows fogged up, Andy said a little prayer to himself that everything would be all right.\nThe waitress who asked after Andy’s father was named Sierra. She left her shift that night, and saw the emergency dispatch teams that had been sent out from the city to clean up all the photos. The trouble was, the members of the team kept stopping to look at what they were picking up. As soon as they did, they often became overwhelmed and began to walk home. That meant more people had to be called in, and all these staffing issues meant the photographs might still be on the ground for days to come.\nSierra had decided she would not pick up a photo. She was going to be the one who survived the horror movie. The character in the disaster flick who listened to the scientist. The heroine of a novel who could hear the narrator foretelling doom. It wasn’t until she entered her apartment that she realized a photo had gotten stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Without meaning to, she plucked it off and saw a much older woman standing behind the counter at a diner. Sierra didn’t recognize the woman or the diner, but her lips quivered all the same.\n“No,” she said, “You wouldn’t stay there. You would have left a long time ago.”\nAs if to answer her, the photograph began to dissolve in her hand. Sierra could swear that the woman was beginning to turn away as the photo evaporated.\nThe incident with the photos was never spoken of after the clean-up was done. People love to talk about unusual events, especially ones involving the weather, but for some reason, this one was tucked away in memory and never brought out again. It was not written about nor did anybody think to take photographs of the photographs.\n“Why take a photo of a photo,” the people in town asked each other, as if that was the only answer they needed to put the whole mess behind them.\nHad any of them ever seen a photo of a photo?\nNo.\nNot a single one of them could say they had." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lots Of Love-A True Story About A Magical Decade In The Crack Hood\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2308\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with two people planting a tree together." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They called it the gut; the waist pile spewed out of the bottoms. Cratered, crumbling sidewalks, and cracks full of clovers, the treacherous terrain banished pedestrians to the streets.\n\nI had only gone there once before that day. It did not go well. A child no older than ten years old pulled out a gun.\n\nThat was then, and this was now. Blight and decay's momentum altered magnificently on the cusp of the new millennium. The RNC brought hundreds to the hood, where they made puppets for the protests in the old trolly barn. That was the first time I saw the kids of the hood interacting instead of reacting. \n\nHe was there, Jamal, the child with the gun. All the kids from the hood were there helping to build giant puppets. So were the feds, in the guise of union construction workers volunteering their efforts. Yes, the cops made the puppets they would soon destroy.\n\nNestled in what everyone would agree was the transition from the colon to the rectum, Bodhi sat in his hermitage, guarding his treasure of twisted metal and rusting bike parts. He had a house, one of only four, with all walls intact and supporting a functional roof. Drunken blues belted out of the tarpaper cavern. Every stanza was punctuated with the exclamation, \"what a world!\"\n\nThis world became my world from 2000 through 2010. I lived across the street from Budd st. Budd is the root of Buddha - enlightenment. I would never have seen the light in the darkness without a coincidence. Fate guided everybody in Everybody's Kitchen to park the school bus/kitchen at the other end of the road to Buddhahood. \n\nThe transformation was rapid. Within a week, the 'hands-off' message had spread. Crime had shut down voluntarily. \n\nThe food was delicious; they could have cooked for kings. It was abundant. They fed two thousand people three meals a day. There was excess, a ton a day they sent out into the community. It was nutritious, almost all vegetarian, the best we had ever tasted, at an unbeatable price. Absolutely free.\n\nThe first year was transformative. Jamal, Lala, and dozens of other kids came by daily to help cook. They no longer wandered the streets aimlessly, throwing rocks at unbroken windows. Now they ran up to you with great big hugs. \n\nThe day of the puppets didn't go as planned. When loading them into a truck, a dozen police raided the warehouse, arresting everyone over eighteen. A dozen trash trucks crushed the puppets beneath their wheels as the children cried over all their hard work. \n\nThat was the day we built the oven. The lots in the hood were buildings collapsed into the basements and covered in a thin layer of clay. Clay and broken bricks were the perfect materials for a super-effective pizza oven. From the day it was built until it was destroyed late at night, we had fired up the oven that transformed into a fireplace around the clock for three years straight. At an estimated fifteen hundred degrees, pizzas were baked to perfection in seconds flat. \n\nEverybody's Kitchen belonged to everybody. For forty years, they had traveled the country sharing food wherever people were hungry. They would return three months out of every year except 2005, the year of Katrina, when eighteen other traveling kitchens would join them in the disaster zone. No matter how much the hood appreciated them, it came time for them to move on. \n\nThey left a hole.\n\nEvery day we were asked the same question \"when is the bus coming back?\" I had no answers.\n\nCandyman was the only one in the hood, smart enough to avoid the drug trap. Candyman had a profoundly low IQ. Mentally challenged, he struggled to communicate simple phrases. We attempted to continue providing food using only the oven for cooking. We failed. We lacked support vehicles. \n\nTony, aka Candyman, turned up his nose and exclaimed, \"blah, gross,\" tasting our first attempt at soup. \n\nThat day, the only other person was Reverend Hamdiya Mu (r.i.p.), who suggested, \"since we can't do a kitchen, what about a garden?\" We already had four raised beds full of mung bean sprouts.\n\nCandyman jumped to his feet excitedly, pointing. \"Lots of love, lots of love, mmhmm that, over there, mmhmm lots of love.\"\n\nHamdiya pretended to read the stack of papers Tony always had in hand. The circular alphabet belonged to no written language; it was just Candyman's way of documenting the world around him. \"Tony, I like lots of love. Did you just come up with that?\"\n\nNow that we had a name, we had a purpose. Over the next several months, we dug in the soil that was more brick than dirt. It was painful work, especially for me, being a quadriplegic. The constant jarring of tendons and joints was agonizing. By winter, we had transformed the entire block. \n\nWord spread, and people came. People from the other coast traveled to the hood to camp in its peaceful ambiance. \n\nThe walk from my Powelton Ave apartment to Lots Of Love is a mere three blocks. Those few short blocks took up to an hour to transverse. In the summer heat, most doors hung open, and half the residents sat on their porches—every last one wanting to talk. The neighbors gave us the neighborhood. \n\nLet us take a journey through time back to this magical place. I long to experience that peace once again.\n\nA police car approaches, and the window slides open. \"Have you seen John?\" The officer's white shirt denoted rank, like the Luitenant about whom he was inquiring. \n\n\"Who is that? Sam?\" I asked, shielding the blinding glare. \"Not today, late night last night. I had a date last night. We fell asleep in the garden. I just dropped her at her car, and on my way back now. Why? Haven't you seen him?\" They had radios, of course, yet different officers asked me the same question a few times a day. \"He was in an unmarked by the deli last night. After dinner, we drummed around the fire and saw John and another officer climb into the back of a van. We wanted to wake them after several hours but figured it might be a stakeout.\"\n\nThe officer leaned over; he had features hard like chiseled out of granite. He chuckled. \"Paperwork, nothing much left to stakeout this side of Lancaster Ave. John left you some tomatoes and a new oven door. He heard through the grapevine the old one got damaged?\"\n\nThe car door was scorching to lean on, but I stuck my head in the cruiser's window. \"Tell him thanks for the tomatoes. We'll send him a wheelbarrow full of radishes if he wants. We got more than we can give away. Where did he get an oven door?\" He was the kind of tough-as-nails officer that sent fear crawling down your spine if you saw him emerge beneath flashing lights. \n\n\"The doors from his oven, the tomatoes he grew, and he said he planted some heirlooms by the old man's shack.\" His radio cut the conversation off abruptly. I was relieved. Not because he's unpleasant, on the contrary. It was always a pleasant walk through the reformed crack hood. I was tired of the delays and wanted to get there.\n\nThe narrow street lined with tiny row houses opened onto Haverford Ave. To the left, the trolley barn, the neighborhood was the housing for the immigrants that built the horse-drawn trolly that moved the settlers out into the Deleware tribe's hunting lands. To the right was a megachurch that bussed in partitioners from a three-state region. Wealthy black businesspeople worshipped in the shadows of crushing poverty.\n\nAt the time, buildings all over the city had collapsed due to blight. The main full-block-sized lot was one step beyond the church's back wall. On two sides stood collapsing buildings. Two houses remained intact. The rest, one by one, the mayor scheduled to tear down.\n\nWaves of heat rose from the oven. It never put out smoke once it was hot. Candyman and Sunny were talking by the fire. Sunny was in uniform; he worked days at the armory. Michelle was already doing crafts with the kids of the hood. Lala, the youngest, was dancing and sprinkling glitter on the other kids' heads.\n\n\"Tony! Sunny! How are you, my friends?\" Indeed they had become more like family. Tony ran up and handed me a stack of religious pamphlets covered in his circular alphabet. He repeatedly pointed at the gibberish text, then at the corner deli. It was the common belief that the delicatessen was the hub of the crack distribution network. Tony was pointing out that all the dealers had moved to the other side of Lancaster Ave.\n\nA man with no name emerged from the darkness in Bodhi's tarpaper cave. Chief Whataworld. A man we referred to only by the two most common words/phrases he used. \"Chief, what a world, eh?\" He waved his arms, admiring the thriving garden that replaced the local garbage dump.\n\nWe all gathered around the massive slice of an old-growth oak that served as a table, balanced precariously on three stumps. Sunny sorted through the food that perpetually appeared on the table with no known source, selecting the items to compost. The children wanted to put on a play. Lala climbed onto my lap and once again pleaded for a stage. That would have to wait. The senior center wanted a garden opposite the children's flower garden on the next block.\n\nWe worked hard every day but also took time to enjoy the ambiance. The smiles, the waves, and the shouts of \"love you guys,\" \"keep up the good work,\" and \"it's so beautiful now.\" The appreciation was undeniable.\n\nA truck pulled up unexpectedly. The driver looked out the window at the piles of logs, mulch, and broken bricks and nervously inquired, \"I hope I have the right place. I'm supposed to drop off two hundred bikes at an address on this block, but there's nothing here.\" We never found out who sent him, but we built a hundred and fifty bikes out of the parts. That was just how things worked there. Nobody knew who arranged what, but somehow magic happened daily.\n\nThe Horticulture Society honored us in the first year with the Best New Community Garden award. We were far from the best in being fancy, well-equipped, or on any other measure except for feel. There was stiff competition, and even though we built ours out of crumbled brick and dug-up trash, the love vibe in the hood carried us to victory. \n\nNight fell over the gut. Lieutenant John sat on a stump by the fire in uniform. The children's mothers had called them home. (Their fathers were all in jail or dead, the hood was a rough hood only months ago) only Jamal remained; he passed out fresh strawberries, mint leaves, and dill. \n\nJohn was speaking. \"You know the mayor has a new operation to shut down over two hundred open-air drug markets. He targeted this neighborhood for enhanced enforcement. Starting tomorrow, you will see bike cops on patrol and an increased presence. The chief argued that it's a waste of time since the market moved to the bottoms when you arrived. Typical bureaucrats stated they could do nothing to change the plans.\" \n\nSeven cars rounded the corner by the church, driving the wrong way on the small one-way street. They parked on the impassable crumbling sidewalk. Pulling a heavy djimbe out of the back seat, Christian yelled to the officer, \"is it okay if we park here?\" John replied with just a thumbs up, ignoring the wrong-way traffic violation.\n\nLater that night, a minister leaped back and forth over the fire shirtless. Two cops used their car's lights to provide a light show. Twenty drummers put out a raging beat that echoed off the decaying structures. And the first of many troops of bike cops streamed by smiling and waving. They came in such numbers the first were crossing Haverford on the way toward Powelton Village, as the last exited the bottoms across Lancaster.\n\nSome police officers in the hood were surprisingly aware, 'woke,' and even spiritual. That was the last time I saw two of the officers. They had cooked on the bus before it left. The night we drummed till 3:00 AM, they confessed we inspired them to get out of the city and build a community in the mountains. \n\nFour of twenty drummers, including myself, had left their drums behind. Djimbes, authentic heavy wood african drums, worth $300-$600 each. Mine was still by the firepit. I didn't know others left theirs there, too, till a homeless man who lived in the basement of an abandoned shell pushed a rickety shopping cart along the brick-lined trail. He came through the grape-draped gateway and started piling drums up against the oven. Nobody ever stole anything; however, items were protected by those who had nothing.\n\nAfter unloading the drums, he drew our attention to the fences; someone in the pre-sunrise hours had hung dozens of paintings along the walkway. The garden was becoming an impromptu gallery. Suitable since Councilwoman Blackwell offered us the last few buildings for an artist's collective. Alas, the mayor had other ideas and bulldozed the neighborhood.\n\nThe day the bulldozers came, they left one thing standing. The grape-covered archway, with a fortune cookie fortune, glued above the entranceway.\n\n\"Love is so close you can taste it.\"\n\nToday there are dozens of brand-new low-income houses, and the garden returned to a shooting gallery. Now only the piles of used needles grow there.\n\nFor a decade, however, it was home. The safest place I have ever been. Made safe by simply planting seeds." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: From Seeds of the Great Oak\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1026\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with two people planting a tree together." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "From seeds of the Great Oak\nWith every grade advancement, my daughter’s homework challenges me as much as her. Now in Science class, they are learning about plants; we will research the oak tree for her project. Wow, in Virginia alone grows, 139 variations. The oak is a tree or shrub in the genus Quercus of the beech family. There are approximately 500 extant species of oaks. The common name \"oak\" also appears in the names of species in related genera, notably Lithocarpus (stone oaks), as well as in those of unrelated species such as Grevillea robusta (silky oaks) and the Casuarinaceae (she-oaks). Class tracheophyte, Kingdom: Plantae Family: Fagaceae, Order: Fagales. I don’t know how to pronounce half of the words I just wrote, but I am sure my daughter does; she’s a junior Lorax (her favorite Dr. Seuss book.) All that said, I know that daddy thought that oaks were majestic trees. They were my father’s favorite trees.\nRemember the acorns we put in the ice tray, in the strange growing jelly, hoping to have new trees to plant by the spring? Look, there are five that germinated. You see those things that look like worms sticking out of the acorn shells; they are the beginning of the roots. Look, we have five little seedlings. They are still too fragile to grow in the yard. We can transfer them to flower pots until they are about a foot tall. Each of them gets a pot alone, so their roots can spread, and I will make sure you can visit again before school starts in September. “Grandma, can I stay to help water them every day?” Baby, I would love your company, but we could kill them watering that much. Remember we only put four drops of water in each hole with the acorns? Can you help me transfer them to their first pot if your mom has time to help us? “Please, mom, can we? “If we can get it done in an hour or less, we have to pick up your brother from camp.”\nMom loves getting her hands dirty. Growing is in her blood. I don’t have a green thumb or pinkie and don’t even own anything green in my closet. I love watching my 10-year-old daughter light up over planning the yard layout and planting trees, bushes, vegetables, and flowers with her grandma. That is a connection I don’t have with mom, but now I have a bridge to both generations.\n Grandma bought this two-acre plot after grandpa suddenly passed a year ago. The land was sectioned off for sale after the older man who had been holding up growth and expansion in our town fell to his death while working on the roof of his house in 2019. The parcel of land that grandma purchased was the first release of ten acres. At one time, this land and forty-eight other acres were tobacco farms. When the decision to make the land residential was made for purchase by anyone wishing to be a first-time homeowner, four other families also purchased a two-acre tract of land here on Glendale Drive. Given that these parcels were new residential areas, we had to have them graded, dig a well, build a house, and plant flowers, a vegetable garden, and trees.\nTwo acres of land may not sound like much, but it is when you have been dreaming of ownership for twenty years. Grandpa used to work in the tobacco fields on the opposite side of the road down what’s now known as Mulberry Cove. I remember how dad complained about the trees being poisoned by the tobacco because the field was right on the property line, and the rain would run off and stunt the growth of new saplings. Most of those trees were pine.\nMany different oak trees exist, including white oak, red oak, and live oak. Oak trees are known for their strong wood used in construction and furniture-making. In the olden days, most houses were built out of pine, but the floors were oak. Oak is beautiful and expensive, so it’s used for flooring, not walls. Foundations were only a thing of necessity once cheaper materials began to be used for flooring. A famous shade tree, the pin oak grows to a height of 80 feet with a trunk diameter of up to 3 feet.\nPin oak acorns contain approximately 45.4 percent total carbohydrates and 15.4 percent crude fat; according to the U.S., Oaks are one of the oldest and most widely spread trees on this planet. They existed way before humans were here. They feed various living creatures with their leaves and acorns. Oaks played a crucial role in human history as well. Early humans built their homes, created tools, and constructed strong ships from oak wood. These trees are still vital sources of raw material in our modern time. Unlike many other trees, oak trees have not gone extinct for a long time. This is mainly because their seeds are cased in hard shells. Their acorns and leaves are coated with tannic acid, preventing fungi and insects that could harm them. Oak trees can live 700-1000 years. When the trees surpass the 1,000-year mark, their growth slows down, and some parts die. One oak tree will produce ten million acorns over its lifetime. So, these five seedlings will be here well past our family, now and seventy future generations. That means your children and their children for hundreds of decades past hundreds of the time we can imagine.\nDaddy always said that the trees next to your house should be oak. I’m not sure what he disliked about other trees, but he said oak branches were strong enough to support the weight of a swing. I don’t think he was talking about a child’s toy, but I never asked him. He said that we would not have pine trees growing in the front yard near any house of his because pine trees burst into fire faster than any oak when struck by lightning.\nThis information painted the oak as a majestic tree for me now also. How cool is 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: Don't Forget The Milk\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1728\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where the laws of time and space begin to dissolve." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Why does everyone buy milk? \nThe thought perplexes you as you traverse the aisles of Jack's Mini Mart. Toilet paper makes sense. I mean, if you are going to be stuck in the house for days, you’re going to need toilet paper. But you've never seen Bear Grylls pack a gallon jug of milk in his knapsack before he heads out into the wild.\nThe original forecast is for a light dusting of snow, but as the hours pass, the predictions grow more and more grim. Two inches, then four, then a foot or more.\nYou were brought up in the backwoods of Louisiana where snow is as rare as a democrat. You’d see them both every now and then, but neither amounted to much or hung around too long. This is different though. This is rural Wisconsin. A blizzard is coming and you need toilet paper. \nOh, and milk. \nStores in Wisconsin are not at all like the ones down south. In your hometown, you know the name of the girl behind the store counter as more often than not, you've gone to school with her or her brother or sister or cousin. You call her by name, ask about her mom, and actually listen to her response because you care. \nIn Wisconsin, even rural Wisconsin, there is a new cashier almost weekly, and if you ask too many questions, you are likely to get a visit from the local sheriff.\nYou don’t notice who is behind the counter when you enter the store, and in truth, you aren’t sure if anyone is manning the register. You haven’t been greeted on your way in and your mind is focused elsewhere. \nIt’s a funny thing about snow—there is a silence to it. Most people stay home when it’s snowing, so unlike regular frantic days, time seems to slow and noise fades to the background. If you do decide to venture into a snowstorm, it isn’t unusual to be totally alone. You become immersed in thought and at the pleasant mercy of your other senses. You see more, you feel more, you appreciate the vastness hidden by the everyday.\nPushing the cart up one aisle and down the next, you begin to realize you haven’t passed a single soul since entering the store. You’d expected the crowd to be small—after all, just outside a blizzard rages. But this quietness is disconcerting. Your palms become sweaty, your stomach queasy, and the silence makes your quickening heartbeat audible. \nAll of a sudden, the two items in your cart, toilet paper and milk, seem to be enough. It is time to check out and leave.\nYou execute a quick 180 and push your cart to the front of the store, back to the cash register, back towards the exit which you now long to use. \nTurning the corner at the end of the aisle, you are now in position to see the single check out counter, strategically placed right inside the front door, but there is no one within eyesight.\nYou position yourself at the front of a line that doesn’t exist. Then you survey your surroundings, hoping to see a friendly face. You’d even welcome an angry face, as long as it comes on a person wearing the familiar smock of Jack's Mini Mart.\nTo your dismay, there is no one to be found.\nYou cast your glance out the large window—your car is the only one in the parking lot. You know there must be a logical explanation for the anomaly, but at the moment, none comes to mind.\n“Hello?” You say in a hushed tone, not wanting to appear impatient.\n“Is anyone there?” The question itself seems ridiculous. Someone must be here. The store is open, the lights are on, and you are there during business hours. \n“Hello?” you say again, more forcefully this time, growing eager to leave. “I’m ready to check out!”\nThe emptiness of the store and the corresponding silence creates an echo as your words seem to come back to you. Suddenly milk and even toilet paper seem unimportant. You are alone in the store and can’t help but feel as if something is terribly wrong. \nInstinctively, you know you shouldn’t be there. You are beginning to feel trapped by the isolation and by the snow that is piling up outside. Leaving the cart and its contents where they stand, you turn to the door, take a step, and then hear it. You stop dead in your tracks.\nThe sound is faint and distant, but for the first time since you entered the store something breaks the silence. You can’t tell if it is words or mumbling or a low whimper, but it is definitely human. Whoever it is, they sound as if they are in distress. Your rational mind begs you to walk out the door, yet you turn in the direction of the sound and begin to move towards it. \nBefore long it becomes apparent the sound is coming from the back corner of the store. You still cannot discern who it is or what they are saying, but you venture on. When you finally reach the origin of the sound, to your surprise and dismay, you find a little baby, laying on the floor, swaddled and cooing.\nAs out of place as the newborn seems, what is more puzzling is it doesn’t appear as if the baby is frightened. Your eyes meet and a smile spreads across the child’s face.\nWithout a second's hesitation, you reach down and pull the baby to your chest. You don’t know where this precious child's mother is, but you do know that no baby belongs on the floor of an abandoned supermarket.\nHolding the infant firmly, you shout, “Is anybody here? I need help!” \nYour words are sharp, crisp, clear. There is no corner of the small store where your questions can be unheard. When no response comes, you call out again.\n“I need help! Whose baby is this?” \nNo answer.\nJust as it has been since you first entered the store, you are alone. Only now, you can’t leave. You have to take care of this little one.\nFate has brought you together and you have no choice but to help. \nYou can’t remember the last time you held a baby. At that moment, you cannot remember if you have ever held one, yet it feels natural in your arms.\nRepositioning the child to allow access to your jacket pocket, you pull out your cell phone with every intention of dialing 911.\nNo signal. None. Not even one bar. \nYou don’t know if it is a location issue or a storm issue, but your phone is as useless as a gallon of milk in a snowstorm. \nThere must be a phone in the office. You think to yourself as you make your way towards the back of the store. You don’t like the idea of entering into a space reserved for employees, but desperate times call for desperate measures. \nThe door to the office is conveniently unlocked, and the phone on the desk gives you a temporary feeling of hope—temporary because when you lift the receiver to your ear, there is no dial tone. \nYou are alone in the store with an abandoned baby and have no way to reach out to anyone for help.\nThe idea of leaving the store with the child seems like the worst possible idea. What if the child’s mother is there, somewhere, and sees you leaving with the child? Would she or anyone believe your motives are altruistic? Would you be thought of as a kidnapper? It definitely seems like the worst possible idea, but reality is starting to sink in.\nLeaving is the only solution.\nIt takes you only a few seconds to get to your car and start the engine. The roads are almost impassable which complicates your thought process.\nThe police station is seven miles away and the hospital a little under ten. Your house, however, is less than two blocks and you can get there without using any main roads. \nYou have no car seat to secure the child. Right now, safety is of the utmost importance, so you put your car in drive, slowly pull out of the parking lot, and make the turn for home. In your life, you cannot remember driving so slowly. There is almost no chance of you sliding off the road, but there is also almost no chance of you finding an unattended baby in a supermarket. \nIn the best of conditions, the trip would take less than five minutes, and even at this snail’s pace, you pull into your driveway in under seven. A feeling of relief sweeps over you as you turn off the car and pick up the child. You've used the passenger side seatbelt to secure the precious cargo during the short drive.\nOpening the door, you exit the car, careful to place each foot solidly on the ground to avoid even the chance of slipping as you make your way towards the front door.\nComing from rural Louisiana and living in rural Wisconsin, you never lock your front door. For that, you are grateful because right now getting this child inside and calling the police are all you can think about. \nAs you turn the handle and push open the door, you are immediately greeted by a flustered woman who scoops the child right out of your arms.\n“What could you possibly be thinking, taking our son out in weather like this? And without his car seat? Are you crazy? I swear you’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached. Where is the toilet paper? Did you forget again? Can you please go get it while I put him to bed?”\nShe turns abruptly and heads into the back room with the child firmly held in her loving arms.\nYou watch her disappear into what is obviously a nursery.\n“What are you waiting for?” The voice calls from the back room.\n“The roads aren’t getting any better. You need to go before the store closes.”\nConfused and a bit disoriented, you turn back to the front door. Just as you open it, you hear the voice one more time.\n“Oh, and don't forget the milk.”\nYou sigh and head back out into the storm." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Cup Without Tea\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1389\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a regular household item becomes sentient." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She was late coming home one October night. Fireworks from outside rattled the teacups on the shelf. The sound of fingertips tapped the glass windows. Was she home? The tapping dissolved into a heavy rain coaxing the windowpanes. I sat in the kitchen waiting. Then finally, she came home. The rain made her porcelain-colored skin glow. She wasn’t alone; a man trailed behind her. They were drenched from head to toe. Their laughter filled the air. He appeared exotic, clad in a long sequenced shirt and sandals.\n\n“Is this usually how Diwali ends? Running through a rainstorm?” She asked with a playful smile on her lips. \n\nHe grinned broadly. “Is it odd to say my first American Diwali has been my favorite of all my years?” \n\nHer smile grew wider. “I’ll get us some tea.”\n\nOn cue, I warmed my teapot as she placed the leaves inside my lid. I felt my insides coming to life. I was steeping chai, a tea I’m sure he liked. She thanked me quietly before taking me into the living room setting me carefully on a tray. They settled on the carpet, wrapping themselves in towels. Their knees practically touched. She poured my contents into a cup for him before serving herself. They sipped the chai without breaking their gaze from one another.\n\n“Andamaina,” he said. \n\n“An-da-may-na.” She repeated mimicking his accent. \n\n“There’s no ‘may’.”\n\n“But you said ‘may’.” They shared a laugh. “What are we even saying?”\n\nHis cheeks blushed. “Beautiful.” \n\nShe sipped her tea still not breaking her gaze. “Say it again, but let me watch your lips this time.” She requested edging closer. He obliged speaking slowly. She watched his lips carefully.\n\n“Your tongue.” She said.\n\n“What about it?”\n\n“It moves differently than mine.”\n\n“Is that a bad thing?”\n\n“It could be an advantage.”\n\n“How so?”\n\n“For this.”\n\nAnd with that, they kissed…\n\nAnd kissed…\n\nAnd kissed.\n\n***\n\nI churned my black tea leaves repeatedly in my pot. The Earl Gray was extra potent, strong, and caffeinated. They’d need it. They always needed it. For several months, every day followed a familiar pattern. The early sunrise peeked through the windows before an alarm clock blared, followed by a quick press of the snooze button.\n\nI’d start up the tea.\n\nThey’d exchange kisses in the kitchen, kisses while cooking breakfast, then have to hastily eat their meals. Tea was often neglected. Then it was:\n\n\"Goodbye.\"\n\nKiss.\n\n\"Goodbye again.\"\n\nThey’d both leave for the day. Other dishes needed washed and a vacuum needed to be run. I’d remained submerged in my tea leaf traces until the day’s end. My stains grew deeper into my porcelain. Evenings followed another similar pattern:\n\n\"Hello.\"\n\nKiss.\n\n\"How was your day?\"\n\nKiss.\n\nThey were too preoccupied to notice me. I didn’t mind.\n\nIf she was happy then I was happy. \n\n***\n\nI brewed chamomile. Pots and pots of chamomile.\n\nDespite the amount of tea drank their hands still trembled. A blackened cloud perpetuated their anxiety. One phone call could change their lives. While he paced she sipped.\n\n“They’ll call. I promise they will.” She reassured him gently.\n\n“I’ve done everything I was supposed to. Always studied as a child, bachelor’s in engineering, grad school in America, and graduated with honors. I get this or I have to fly back to India.”\n\nShe sipped more tea. “It took me almost a year before I got my job.”\n\n“But you’re American. Things will always be easy for you.”\n\n“That’s not true-”\n\nA phone rang. He answered. She squeezed his hand. He nodded, thanked someone, and hung up.\n\n“I got the job!” Their joy overflowed as they embraced.\n\nThey kissed...\n\nAnd kissed...\n\nAnd kissed.\n\n***\n\nI felt extra clean one day. So did every inch of the house. She was buzzing in motion all around like a hummingbird. She watered the flowers on the windowsill, mopped the floor again, and polished my pot once more.\n\n“Marigolds, your mother likes marigolds right? I planted fresh ones in the front. Should I have planted jasmine instead? They’re much more subtle.”\n\n“It’s fine, it’s tea with my mom. It will all be fine.” He drew her close placing a tender kiss on her head.\n\nA knock rasped the door. An older woman with the same eyes as his was welcomed in. The woman frowned, scanning the house. I was positioned between the three of them at the table. I ensured the chai was made well. Less hot and properly balanced between the tea leaves and water prepared for the perfect amount of milk poured overtop.\n\nThe woman took a sip from her cup before speaking. “So tell me, dear, what is it that you do again?”\n\n“I’m a teacher.” She replied.\n\n“At university?”\n\n“Pre-school.”\n\nThe woman’s frown deepened.\n\n“Did you notice the flowers out front?” He interjected. The woman barely nodded. “They were planted just for you.”\n\n“Besides a love for teaching, I’ve always wanted to be a florist. Flowers bring me so much happiness.” She looked at him taking his hand.\n\nThe woman slammed her cup down accidentally hitting me. A part of me chipped. “Is this what you’ll do with your life? Just be a teacher?”\n\n“Amma.”\n\n“No!” The woman stopped him wagging her finger. “My son engaging himself with a teacher? Staying in America? Was this your plan all along? To keep him from his own mother?”\n\n“Amma!”\n\nI boiled my water.\n\n“No.” She said. “That wasn’t my plan. I didn’t plan to attend Diwali but my girlfriend insisted, I didn’t plan to meet your son that night. I didn’t plan to date him and fall deeply in love with him. But I do have a plan now. And that’s to marry your son.”\n\nThe woman sipped her tea and spit it back into her cup. “She can’t even make tea correctly, how can you marry her?”\n\nI steamed.\n\n“She’s nothing like the good Indian women back home.”\n\nI whistled.\n\n“She’ll never be good enough for you!”\n\nI burned the woman.\n\n“Ahhh!”\n\n“Amma!”\n\n“I want as far away from here as I can get.”\n\nShe finally spoke. “I’ll gladly show you the door.”\n\n***\n\nI was dry and weak. My insides had been untouched for weeks. Dust formed in the crevices of my handle. Each evening was unfolding predictably: a silent dinner, tv, drinks. The sound of empty bottles rattled in the trashcan beside me. At least he took the garbage out. He usually didn’t speak. He never cooked or cleaned. She would wait until he left the house to cry. She talked for hours on the phone holding a cup.\n\nA cup without tea.\n\nA cup filled with a drink that wasn’t from me.\n\nI was hurting because she was hurting.\n\n***\n\nOne morning I felt replenished. I was steeping with herbal tea. She decided to brew her cherished favorite: Rooibos tea.\n\nWhy was she having her favorite tea?\n\nShe only had it during moments of celebrations or times in desperate need of serenity. She didn’t look as if she liked sipping her tea. Tears trickled down her face nearly mingling into her tea.\n\nHow could my pot be so full but also feel empty?\n\n***\n\nThe first day of spring had arrived. Birds chirped in the open window. A breeze with fresh lavender floated inside from the garden.\n\nAnd then I crashed onto the floor.\n\nI lay shattered, pieces scattered around the house. She paused taking a deep breath before picking me up. She didn’t mean to knock me over. She gathered my pieces and carried me to the table.\n\nFor hours she glued me back together until I was finally whole again. Instead of lifting my lid to drop in tea leaves, she placed a handful of earth. Over and over she scooped it in me. It smelled nothing like tea. It sort of tickled. Then she planted three daisies nestled in the earth inside my pot. I sat on the table as she beamed at me. It had been ages since I saw that happy smile.\n\nThere will be other teapots to make her her tea. The flowers I hold will showcase the serenity she needs. No matter what, she needs to know of her infinite beauty, put herself first, and choose a love that is free.\n\nAnd never hold a cup that is without tea." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Elf #1 Reporting\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1043\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where someone says, “Everything is changing.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Elf #1 Reporting\nEverything has changed since the Abacus, the first calculation instrument we used in this workshop. I realized how slow and unreliable it was. It evolved into the hand-held calculator and the modern-day computer. I know many think IBM built the first computer but here is how it happened; please keep this quiet.\nWe elves invented the device that you all call the BlackBerry in 1790. It made it much easier to record and track inventory, from the looms to a pair of jeans or the tree to the rocking chair. Like you, we also used it as a two-way device. We work twelve-hour shifts 358 days a year. The week following Christmas is the only time no products are being made. The 26th and 27th are our holidays for whatever we want to do, as long as it can be done in 48 hours, anything on the planet. It had to be relaxing, fun, or life-enriching. The other factory workers would visit family or sleep.\nNot me; I’m a tinkerer, a thinker, a visionary dreamer, and a mechanic by trade. My name is Herbert M. Munchkin, and I am from Emerald City, Minnesota. Like many of my family, I have been groomed to do the same job for life. Living here now is magical; the Aurora Borealis is always above us, and ideas flow freely. Unfortunately, our contract won’t allow us to profit on the stock market, and we can’t market ideas first. Someone else somewhere else needs to have a dream. That is where the second elf in charge comes into play, the sandman. The Sandman employs ten million people:\n1) Muses: to foster creative processes\n2) Leprechauns: to spread luck\n3) Tooth Fairies: to encourage early earnings\n4) Contract Lawyers: to execute written proposals\n The big guy may fire me for revealing the inner workings of One Candy Cane Lane, but I have been in charge since 1791. He almost blew a gasket when I shut down production on January 2, 1792. We love assembling toys, sewing clothes, cobbling shoes, and delighting everyone with their wish at Christmas. I recognized the need for better accounting and storage systems. You see, the naughty and good lists both receive gifts. Every person gets clothes and toys; I can’t see anyone being punished at Christmas. No coal on my watch! We give educational toys to the naughty listed folks. There was a need for another list for trying to improve people, a year’s grace period. Luckily like so many things in the product lines that I was in charge of, the lists are automatically updated daily. However, there was still a need for inventory, distribution, and data updates.\nThe things that have inspired new products throughout history were most likely invented to improve productivity, or the need to get faster, produce more significant amounts and be more unique. When I think of the next invention, I ask myself three questions:\n1) Will it benefit the world?\n2) Will it benefit the workshop?\n3) Will the Sandman implant this idea faster than the phone?\nAfter four attempts to get someone to dream up the idea of the modern-day version of the phone, it finally found Alexander Graham Bell’s wife in 1874, YES, his wife. She told him, “your driver and I think that Norah lives too far away for us to travel to get a message daily about the renovations needed; the ride is dreadful. I wish I could send a pigeon faster.” It still took another year of complaints from his wife and three muses. Historical versions changed the reason for Bell’s interest in telephony came through his mother, who was deaf, and his father, Alexander Melville Bell, an elocution teacher famous for the phonetic transcription system he had developed to help the deaf learn to speak. Of course, a nagging wife would have been unforgettable for the wrong reason, so please understand.\nThe other person who received the phone idea sent his invention application by mail, arriving four hours before Bell’s. Unfortunately for Elisha Gray, Bell’s application was hand-delivered by his lawyer, who insisted on paying application fees immediately, assuring Bell’s patent first. Bell’s patent was approved and officially registered on March 7, and three days later, the famous call is said to have been made when Bell’s summons to his assistant (“Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you.”) confirmed that the invention worked. On 7 March 1876: Bell's U.S. patent No. 174,465 for the telephone was granted.10 March 1876: Bell transmits the sentence: using a liquid transmitter and an electromagnetic receiver.10 August 1876: Using the telegraph line between Brantford and Paris, Ontario, eight miles (thirteen kilometers) distant, Bell makes a telephone call, said by some as the \"world's first long-distance call.”\nFor a few years, Alexander Graham Bell found himself on the naughty list; claims were lodged that Bell had nefariously acquired and exploited an apparatus, the “teletrophono,” invented by Antonio Meucci long before Bell and Gray. One damaging piece of evidence for Bell was that Meucci’s material had disappeared without a trace from the same laboratory at which Bell was carrying out his experiments. In the 1880s, proceedings initiated by the American government charged Bell with “fraudulent and dishonest conduct” and claimed that his patent should be revoked. These proceedings were discontinued after Meucci’s death in 1889 and the expiry of Bell’s patent in 1893. No more patents, accusations, no naughty list; I transitioned him to the trying list for two years while investigating. Claims that Bell’s attorneys acquired technical details from Gray’s attorneys (both had lawyers acting as their agents) are said to have been added to Bell’s patent after it was submitted. One salient fact was that Bell saw no need to take out patents for the telephone in the Nordic countries. This meant that anyone anywhere was free to manufacture and sell telephones. Result of my inquiry Alexander Graham Bel moved back to the good list, and two Contract Lawyers were fired by the Sandman and evicted from the North Pole.\nSince their and others’ contributions over the years, phones have mutated from wall mounted needing operator assistance to untethered flips and more, including that dinosaur, the BlackBerry, to the latest iPhone 15." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fabricated Deities\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2717\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone whose desire to constantly improve something borders on obsessive." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Tw: allusive depiction of bulimia and graphic portrayal of Pica, specifically amylophagia.\nFabricated deities \nThere was raspberry polish on your middle fingers smudged on the edges of your skin. The rest of your fingernails were painted black. The glossy finish reflected through the light and made it look like you added specks of glitter for festivities; I couldn’t tell from the distance. I looked down to my own grown, naked nails sprinkled with tiny indents. I wondered if sickness ran through me and if you had the same calcium-deprived flakes growing beneath your nail beds. \n“Socrates asked what impiety is. He wanted to know the essence of what it meant to be holy…” our teacher's voice rang through the classroom, the mic pitching at the shift of her octave. \nYou raised your hand, and she smiled. She had a soft spot for you and your active participation. I was sure it would reflect well on your grades.\n“Just a minute, David,” she chastised with a gentleness.\nThe essence of you, I realized that day, was the eagerness to speak; the words couldn’t contain themselves in you, they sprouted out in infinite lexicons that strained my head, yet the slight pitch in your voice when you finished speaking was evident of your satisfaction. I went home that night, enthralled with the seduction of paganism as I never believed in gods, but as I heard you speak, I thought I ought to make up my own. \nPedestal \nThey have all gathered around you.\nThe class was divided into two. Those who were for the condemnation of an old white man who dribbled on and on to the double ignorant on the streets. I was never a fan of the ancient philosophers, most were bigoted, and their epistemology was reserved for white elitists who stuck up their noses at peasants. \nThe class instantly formed a circle around you once assigned to our groups. There was no need for you to move. They all hailed at your feet. \nThat day, as I stood with the ones who exhaled you as I did, I noticed your backpack, hanging behind your chair, had roses patterned on it. Painted ones, a print, of course, but the vibrant colors sought out attention. \nA boy beside me suggested an idea for the debate, a supporting argument for Socrates's condemnation. Once done, you pointed to him, a glint in your pupils swallowed by a dark chestnut. \n“That’s a good argument” you said with confidence. “Ian, right?” \nThe boy nodded. \n“Nailed it!” \nEveryone laughed. A tightness emerged in me, a familiar one that had been locked away for years—the sudden itch of affection, a surprising feeling of longing. I joined the rest with my own laugh, a jubilant noise full of admiration. \nCommon ground\nYour long black hair was down to your shoulders. Strands of white were sprinkled throughout it, a humbling feature. A revelation as refined as Aristotle's definition of god, a harbor of wisdom. \n“What’s funny about the Mandela effect is that it all started because we weren’t sure if this man died or not,” you began, voice commanding the small huddle of the four of us.\nWe lingered, hanging on your words as we waited for you to finish. There was Julia, a white girl with a mop of brown hair on her head. She laughed at all your jokes, less genuinely, but more for appeasement purposes, and ka shaw tai, who kept his hair long and grieved the losses from residential schools. \n“A universal gaslighting,” I mumbled, but you heard. \n“Exactly.” You laughed. The sound was a stream of noise, flowing lightly through the air with breathiness. \n False confidence \nThere was a suggestion I had for the debate, and before I could contemplate the intent of my words, they spilled out. A foolhardy attempt at getting your attention. \nI held a cup of tea as I spoke, taking small sips between my words, letting my tongue soak up the caffeine, a bit of false liquid luck to forward my voice. \nIt’s not a suggestion you’re happy with, and blood rushes to my cheeks. I don’t remember the words you said. The shame tingled my skin and reared me deaf to your criticism. When a girl next to me had a better argument, you nodded along like her words were a good tune. When she finished, you asked for her name.\nI excused myself and headed to the bathroom. Once in the stall, I pulled a lengthy strip of toilet paper and let it dissolve in my tongue. The empty, white taste cleansed my mouth of orange pekoe. I sat on the toilet, gorging myself on bleached wood until the tremble in my hands went away.\nIdentity \n“What’s your name?” Julia asked as I turned to leave. Class was over, and once again, we had huddled as a pack outside the classroom, talking about the nonsensical. That day, I found out your parents were Korean. There was resentment when Julia asked, “where are you from?”. A common doubt when your skin didn’t match the ones of colonizers.\n“I was born here,” you said. There was a dip in the corner of your mouth that Julia didn’t notice as she nodded along with an easy smile.\nI told her, and she repeated the wrong name, replacing the B with a D. You corrected her, demonstrating a D with your fingers. Your consideration was outstanding to me, so much so that I memorized its doctrine as an ethic: engraved it with your moral principles. My longing ran wild, and so did my desperation. \ndeparture\n“I should get to work,” I said. \n“Yeah, go to work,” you said. You gave me a quick nudge on the shoulder, and I looked over to Julia and pretended I didn’t notice. \n“I’ll probably go home. My partner is making grilled cheese!” you said. I watched you from the corner of my eye as you pulled out a pink umbrella from your backpack. You continued to say more, but there was pitching in my ear, and I began to walk away with a measly wave goodbye.\nOutside, a storm took a breath, the rain stopping for an hour or so, clouds still dark and heavy with thought, a sob about to emerge. My mouth began to water as I walked away from you, the bland want of paper itching at my throat.\nCrossed stars\nYou didn’t like my views on communism and China.\n“Communism can’t exist in isolation. It’s not true communism. It can only exist if the whole world also participates in socialism/communism.”\nThere was a set frown on your face as you looked at me with mournful regret.\nEarlier, we had been in agreement; Japan’s imperialistic past was vile. You had brought your fist close to mine until our skin touched mine for a brief second. The moment was sparse and quick; it hardly registered in my mind. \n“That may be true, but China has done some atrocious things–”\n“Most of what you hear is simple propaganda like North Korea.”\n“What about North Korea?” Your voice rose; there was a slight shift in tone, but I noticed. \n“You can’t truly believe everything you hear about them; it’s America trying to taint our image about them because they’re a threat…”\nYou looked down at your phone in your hands, the action revealing far more than I liked. Ian jumped into the conversation to my defense, but you had ceased to listen, eyes glued to your screen. \nSugar rush\nI saw you the next day. I walked out of class, and there you were, in your blue jacket, harsh against the pale pearl lighting of the common hall. Your hair was tied back and you glanced up from the conversation you were having with some guy beside you and noticed me too. \n“What class did you just have?” you asked, turning away from the guy you were speaking with. \n“Peace studies,” I said. My mouth felt dry. “I was just talking to Ka shaw tai a minute ago.”\n“Oh yeah!” You smiled wide, fang revealing through your lips. \n“What do you have?”\n“Gender studies.” You fiddled with the zipper on your jacket. \n“That sounds like fun!” \n“Oh, it is,” you assured me. The guy beside you tapped his foot, but your eyes still laid on mine. \n“I’ll think about taking it next year.”\n“You should,” you said.\n“Alright, well, I’ll see you on….”\n“Monday…”\n“Yes, no, wait, Wednesday,” I corrected you. \n“I’m sorry, I just gaslit you.”\n“Not you trying to pull a Mandela on me.”\nYour laugh came too easily, and I grinned widely. \n“Anyways, I’ll see you on Wednesday.”\n“See you later,” and you left with my name on your lips, turning away as you said it, but it rang through me like sugar hitting the belly, preparing my body for a rush. \nLower pleasures\n“I love sugar,” I said once. I had invited you to come eat with me at the fancier campus cafeteria, where the salads were freshly stirred with dressing, and the burgers weren’t frozen in the middle. \nI had picked up a tub of sour gummy worms, already giddy with the clenching sting they would bring to my teeth. \n“Noted,” you said. You reached over and opened a freezer filled with sweet frozen victuals: ice cream and expensive popsicles. \n“It’s negative five outside,” I said as you pulled out a tiny container of gelato, Madagascar vanilla. \n“You have your lower pleasures, and I have mine,” you countered.\n“John mills,” I said instantly.\n“Ya-ha!” You snapped your fingers a little too loudly, and the woman behind you glared at your outburst for a minute.\nYou ate your ice cream fast, hardly stopping between bites, then excused yourself to the washroom. You were gone for 10 minutes, and I worried you might have gotten lost. When you came back, your hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and your eyes were a bloodshot red. The nail polish on your index finger chipped more than usual. \n“You good?” I asked, taking a bite of my caesar salad. \n“Yeah…” you said with a hoarse voice. \nYou watched me eat my meal, your fingers shaking as you drank from your water bottle.\n“Want some?” I offered.\n“I just ate—“\n“That wasn’t a—“\n“Plus, I had a big breakfast.”\nYou lied, of course. You had made a big show that morning on how you woke up late and had to bike ten times your usual rate to get to campus on time. The prospect of a lie lay between us like a dead fish, the smell of it wreaking through the rest of our conversation. I thought it was such a shame, the need to taint our friendship with lies was inevitable but it all seemed premature nevertheless. \nAssumption\nMy delusions started to shatter after I saw how much you had in common with her. I noticed you went quiet when I mentioned things you didn’t like and found myself unable to make up for the silence, my mind rushing with questions I didn’t have the right to ask. \n“I thought we were the same age,” you said dully. We played a guessing game, trying to figure out each other’s ages. You got mine right, and I got yours wrong. \n“No,” I paused to make up for the revelation that came rushing over me, “you seem older.”\n“I know,” you solemnly said as if there was a bitterness to your youth. We were at different stages in our lives. \nI never asked why you saw youth within my eyes, and you never asked why I saw wisdom in yours, but somehow we both took offense to the other’s assumptions.\nHeld gaze\nOver time, I noticed how long and thin your legs were.\nThere was a day you wore jeans instead of sweatpants, and I blinked twice as I noticed your stick-like limbs. I wondered how they carried your frail upper body. \nThough we never discussed it, I noticed your eating habits and odd pattern that came with you and your food. You often drank lots of water and gorged on fatty foods before excusing yourself to the bathroom less than a few minutes after finishing the meal. Sometimes you didn’t eat at all, simply sipping your water bottle.\nWe often made eye contact after you returned from your long trip to the bathroom. There was something that we both understood through the held gaze. I feared what I knew, but your eyes held more than just secrets. They held promises too.\nswine\nI never told you about the paper, but somehow you knew. When it was the two of us, I often ate the muffin liners like it was a part of the muffing itself or nipped at sucker's sticks, nibbling at the paper until it unraveled itself in my mouth. You watched me once until I swallowed it whole. My cheeks stung, but there was a relieved look settled on your face, and your shoulders sagged almost instantly. My revelation I had shifted your thoughts of me, just as I did for you. I became swine to you that day. The ground was now leveled. Two pigs, who rolled in mud, indulged in lower pleasures. \nher\nI met her in your shared home. You had invited Ian and me over for dinner after class. She was white, and her hair was bright red. There were cartoons and animation merchandise around the house, from Sonic the Hedgehog to The Nightmare Before Christmas, all things I recalled you liked and talked about with joy. She spoke about the same topics in an identical manner.\nShe made an excellent meal for all of us, yam mashed potatoes with pecans on top and vegan meatloaf made with Beyond Meat. Like me, she studied you when you ate like a mother watchful of a child. A resentment festered; I wasn’t the only one who knew your secret. Once the meal was done, you made a show of staying in your seat, but I saw your eyes linger on the bathroom door. As if to help rid of the temptation, I excused myself. When I sat up to leave for the bathroom, she kissed you and mumbled something in your ear. \nI sat on the toilet with my pants at my ankles, staring at the white roll in front of me. A dangled square sheet of toilet paper stared back at me. The craving was hard in the bottom of my stomach, and needed kneeling. The paper shouldn’t have looked appetizing, but the thought of melting a little piece on my tongue and the starchiness running down my throat brought saliva to my mouth, so I did it. It tasted how it should have tasted, an uneventful turn of events, but the hardness in my belly did, in fact, soften but not without a few more bits of the paper. It didn’t horrify me when I realized I had finished the rest of the roll, the brown cylinder left in its wake and my mouth stuffy with brittle pieces of paper floating by my gums. I knew you would notice.\nCommonality \nThe four of us were outside, saying our goodbyes after the wonderful meal. \nYou and she talked, and I spoke with Ian. She paired Ian and me together like it made sense. And maybe in some perception we did. \nBut when Ian asked me to walk with him to the bus stop, why did you turn to look at me? Your lips were still moving as you responded to her, but your eyes landed on mine, waiting. \nThere was a moment when the orange leaves blew across the field, bringing with them a chilled gust of wind, and my knee shook from the cold. I pretended to notice a squirrel skittering up a tree, my mouth too salty for my liking, when I finally answered yes.\nThe emptiness in your eyes had shocked me, and it hurt the most when you turned back to her and pecked her on the cheek. I craved the cleansing taste of paper, needing something to console me. \nWhen we left, I turned back. I knew which window was the bathroom from outside your house. I counted to ten and waited." } ]

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

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hammer Down\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2032\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story including the line “I can’t say it.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Warning: Sex, sex and more sex\n\nMay want to read \"Alyce's Restaurant\" first\n\nUnabashed likeness to well-known plot\n\nHammer Down\n\n“Damn, that woman is pretty...”Drifter thought as he sipped his strong coffee and nibbled at his buttered toast. “Well, more like runway gorgeous...”He was hungrier but opted not to eat any of the fare offered at pudgy Alyce's greasy spoon after seeing his grimy apron. “No, much more wholesome and natural than that.” The coy waitress, Cassie, he was watching side-eyed him as she waited on another table. He sneaked a quick wink. “Heck, she doesn't even know how beautiful she is... Her long hair looked like silvery silk pulled back in a ribbon but wayward wisps framed her lovely maturing facial features. He remembered falling into those fathomless light azure eyes. She doesn't know the effect she can have on a poor deprived guy like me...Flirting with me then inviting me to her place for breakfast...at sunrise...how am I supposed to last until then?...\nHis number was called for his turn in the truck stop shower so he left a generous gratuity for the lady. When he stood he realized the result of that effect so pulled his duffle to his front , donned his cowboy hat giving it a slight tip to her as she spied him leaving and went to freshen up with a shave, shower, and, well...in case I do get lucky, a little self-release thinking of her twin bongos battling each other in that oh, so tight tee. Hopefully, I could set them free come morning.\nHe stopped at the convenience store side of the building to restock his cab then tried to get some shut eye in the bunk of his truck. He played battling bongos in his dreams.\nHe was awake and walking before the break of day following her instructions to her place down the road. Anticipation had him whistling with the birds and nearly skipping along feeling lighter than he had felt in a very long time. All his senses were on alert. He could smell the bacon aromas coming from Alyce's back door, hear the distant lonesome train echo, feel the crispness of the late winter morning, see beyond the church steeple the rosy colors paint the eastern sky as the sun began it's ascent and almost taste the sweet spice he could detect wafting from Cassie last evening.\nFourth street on the right, fourth house on the left, she opened the door to her tidy abode wearing a pink robe with her silvery hair loose and flowing. As he pushed the door shut with the heel of his boot, she dropped the robe.\nStaring at the fully exposed twins up close Drifter wasted no time toeing off his boots and shedding his clothes, too, remembering to retrieve the all important protection out of his pocket. Looks like I'm lucky already. He had no trouble lifting svelte Cassie by those warm buns and wrapping her long legs around his waist to burrow his face between the sunny side up twin-ish peaks better known as 'Cassie' on the left and 'Sassie' on the right desperate to get to know the sonsie Alyce's Restaurant waitress intimately. After all, she had suggested the menu...\nOther hangings on the wall rattled as he brought the hammer down and nailed her to it. His first strokes were wild and rough as she threw her head back exposing her long slender neck and hung on with a vice-like grip hungrily winging out that long pent up need. When spent they collapsed momentarily against the cool plaster breathing heavily unable to speak...\nShe pointed the way to her bedroom as he cradled her in his eighteen-wheeler wielding arms then laid her gently on her bed and snuggled in next to her ready to explore in more detail...slow and gingerly. He tasted and toyed from lips to her earlobes, nibbling down her exquisite neckline to collar bone and down, down, down to a u-shaped scar low on her abdomen... then back up circling around and kissing the small beauty mark along the erotically tender underside of Sassie that distinguished her from her virtual twin. Ah, ha... the mysterious difference between the two. One was dotted.\nHe languished on the sensitive centers of first Sassie then Cassie. Sensually licking, flicking, nibbling as he sampled each. Definitely sweet and spicy. A satisfying moan escaped from her open lips encouraging him to intensify the suckling until he knew it was driving her to the brink as her body quivered underneath him. She surprised him as she ardently took charge and climbed atop his tent pole.\nA slow grind with him testing the heft and weight of the pendulous duo gradually became a mutual frenzy. Rise and fall...rise and fall...Quick, quick, slow...Quick, quick, slow. More ,more, MORE...'Til at last they each claimed what they were looking for...what they needed.\nStill no need for verbal communication they entwined and continued the conversation between their curious bodies. Each learning the language of the other until they were both bilingual. Then it was simply a matter of speak and repeat … and repeat...and...\nShe had fallen asleep curled on his arm. Poor thing was probably on her feet all night. Droggy himself, Drifter reluctantly remembered he had a mission to complete to collect his payload and had nearly used up his extra time. Time well spent, indeed.\nA neighborhood rooster crowed and the shadow of a church steeple from across the street seeped through her bedroom window. Pressing reminders time was slipping away.\nHe wanted to memorize everything about her. The softness of her lips, the dainty hook of her ear, the curve of her neck, the essence of her hair, the strength in her shoulder, the arch of her back. As he watched her sleep he quietly drank in her beauty and marveled at her prowess and how complete she had made him feel.\nBut for all he knew she could be expecting her man to return soon. Glancing around he saw no evidence of another. She could be someone's mother or grandmother for that matter. Possessing an ageless, graceful air about her with smooth supple skin yet a becoming maturity in her alluring features she could be anywhere between the ages of 26 to 66. He didn't care. He had no regrets. As she started to stir he had an idea.\n“Cassie, come with me.” He whispered in her ear. “It's been forever since I've had anyone.”\n“I , I...”\n“Yes, yes you can. Please don't say … You don't have someone, do you?”\n“Someone long gone... Talk me into it.”\n“What do you think I have been trying to do? Can't make it much plainer. You are like the air I breathe. I can't live without you, now. You've become part of me. The only good part. I've fallen in love with you. I...”\n“Are you sure that isn't just lust?”\n“No, I want you by my side. Forever. Marry me if you can't go on like this.”\nFor good measure he once again nuzzled an extended nipple and devoured it flattening his tongue on the yielding underside and eagerly working it like he owned it. Suddenly a fine sugary nectar oozed forth from it. Slowly at first then in a stream.\n“What's this?... The extra cream you... you promised?...” He garbled as gobbling...\n“It's a long story... for now...but, well... help yourself to all you want....if you like.”\n“Mm, I like, I...m, m, m. I...mm.” He indulged...in both.\nFinally, she had to push him away, “Better let me throw a few things in a bag if I am to go with you.”\n“Wonderful! You're the most amazing woman I have ever had the privilege of having breakfast with.” He admitted as they routed around for their clothing.\n“Breakfast! Oh, no I never fed you.”\n“Don't know what you call me draining you like I did but I am satisfied.” He bundled her in a quick hug as her chest turned a brighter pink than it had been under his scruffy chin.\n“You're making me blush! Let me get busy.”\nShe pushed him away to collect a few knit tees with a red embroidered 'A' on the left upper chest. “Guess I won't be needing these anymore. I'll return them to Alyce.”\n“He'll have a hard time finding anyone to fill those out like you did, My Love. So the heart was only for Valentine's Day last evening. I didn't even realize it was covering the 'A' .”\n“You had other things on your mind.” She chuckled.\n“Glad I got to know Cassie and Sassie. Can't wait to live with them full time. You know I'll treat them right. Right?”\n“I know how you will treat them, all right!”\n“Can't blame me, though... We're made for each other. I've always been a boob man. And you are a woman with abundant boobs. A match made in heaven.\n“So, Angel, let me take out your trash while you finish packing.”\nBefore exited the back door he passed through a studio room full of paintings. Mostly landscapes devoid of people. But there were a couple somewhat different. One was a slump-shouldered man in a dark suit walking away toward a church steeple in the background. The other was a striking depiction of a newborn infant swaddled in strip-like clothes laying on a marble indented slab somewhat like an old-fashioned trough for livestock.\nShe walked up behind him and wrapped her arm around his waist. “Think I have room for that?” She pointed to a briefcase sized art supply carrying case.\n“Of course. These are beautiful. Have you been to all these places? Do you sell them?”\n“Mostly give them away. Most come from my imagination. I'll let someone know they are here. This place is a rental. I don't have to clear it out. Think I have all my important things.”\n“We can stop anytime and you can paint the highest mountain tops, the glassy lakes, the quiet streams, the towering waterfalls or the tranquil meadows we find along the way.”\n“That will be nice to actually see them.”\nThe last things she packed were some photos and as he picked up her bags she picked up a small teddy bear. Then they walked toward the truck stop.\n“Speaking of a match in heaven, let's stop in at this church to see if there is a priest who could tie the knot for us.”\n'But, I'm not dr...”\n“You look beautiful. Let's make it legal now then we can always do a more formal ceremony later. I don't have a ring. All I can offer you is my slightly battered heart.”\nAs long as she was there she suddenly wanted to make a confession so excused herself to the confessional.\n~~~\n“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”\n“Confess your sins, My Child.”\n“I have spent the last few hours fornicating with a stranger much the same way I committed carnal knowledge with you, My Priest. Now I'll marry him and find freedom roaming the highways forever.”\n“Say constant 'Hail Marys'...How can you run away with a trucker you don't even know.”\n“I know him Biblically already... We speak the same language.”\n“But I need you to survive. Your life giving...”\n“I pumped for you overnight. It awaits you in my frig but it will be the last.\n“Since our baby...I can't say it... I need this chance to survive away from here, away from..... You aren't really sick... it's only your guilt eating away at you. This is your chance to forget me and our sin, too. You can live in peace. There are some paintings in your rental you can do with as you please.\n“This man is a good man with a good heart. I am sure he sincerely wants me and I will be happy with him. Please do the righteous thing and perform a legitimate wedding ceremony for us. I can't continue …”\n~~~\n“Uh, thanks for helping us out on such short notice, Father. Come on, Sweetheart. Gonna have to put the hammer down. I got another load to deliver.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Melancholic Acceptance\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1100\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where someone says, “Everything is changing.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The hardest thoughts and deepest pain come from the thought of unattainable loss. I lay here in the same bed that my water broke, unable to let it go because I don’t want to remove the piece of her that I had left. My ability to perform stillness on my beige linen sheets was perfect as I straightened out my back against my queen sized mattress and began the journey addiction by scrolling through my cell phone. Like every other night for the past 347, I find pictures of her that I’ve stored in a folder hidden in my photos app. Pictures of her that remind me of what she was and how she was gone. Her brown cocoa skin, her head of hair, the clothes they wrapped her in, the stillness. This was a new form of depression I didn’t know existed. It was low.\nMy thoughts were becoming obsessive as I began to realize that everything is changing. I was losing my mind and it was clear to me and those close to me that I needed help. I was becoming hypersensitive, overwhelmed, stressed, tired and I honestly wanted to shut off from the world. I felt alone. I felt sad. I felt a new wave of melancholy as I delved into the madness of my brain trying to make sense of a pain, I thought I recovered from over a year ago. What hurt the most- knowing that the man I shared my life and experience with didn’t even have the respect to apologize to me for what he did. He didn’t have the courage to apologize for what he did to my body, for what he did to me. The gaslighting, the manipulation, the narcissist behavior. Thinking of him only enabled me to remove myself from the world and only focus on myself and my family. My living children. My pain. He didn’t love me. He never did.\nI was starting to accept the fact that love doesn’t exist and even though I had a tiny amount of hope in the back of my mind it did, but my reality has settled on the thought that it wasn’t for me. I’m not capable of being loved outside of the children I birthed. There was so much stress on me from the world, but this took the cake. I was tired. I was done for. I was exhausted from wearing a face that did nothing but pretend all day. I hated dealing with people I couldn’t trust. Working in toxic work environments had heightened my awareness and anxiety, because nothing is a conspiracy in Washington, DC. I’ve seen it all. \nI’ve seen the strategic terminations, the public distractions, the materialized propaganda, because that is what I do for a living. I feed the world what they tell me they want it to see, and I get paid very well for it. I get paid well to build a story, to share a story and to kill a story. I not only know the people that publicly flash false narratives on the television screen, but I eat lunch with the ones who build it. The people behind closed doors, the real power. Yet, for the first time in my life, I felt like I didn’t have any. Ever since I discovered he mixed that drug in my food inducing me into labor, everything had changed. The mere fact that she gave him the idea and they were dumb enough to discuss it in text messages on a phone line that I controlled and paid for, made my blood boil.\nI lay here in my master suite of my penthouse, and I grieve as the moon reflects off my windows and into my bedroom floor. I lay here and I think, I think to remember, that not everything is what it seems. I remember the call to hospital, waking up to my water breaking, scared of what was happening, scared of losing her, scared of losing it all. I remember being ignored by my doctors, being ignored by the nurses, my pain not going acknowledged, the sadness that filled my heart when the drugs faded off after my blood transfusion, after my 10 day stay in the hospital, after the essence of it all. For the first time in my life, I had no control over anything. I couldn’t build a narrative for something that I couldn’t control and had no control over. In that moment, I felt like everything was changing for the worst as I asked everyday Why me God? Why me?\nLooking at my life now, I have nothing positive to show for myself. How he was smart enough to transfer the documents into his name, giving him power over my accounts, I still don’t know. Even as I make it out of this mess, he tricked me into everything I signed up for when we were at the hospital. This gave him power to change and control of the narrative of what I could do and how I could do it. I was now stuck with all his debt, all his headaches, all his lies. I had no control or say on how everything is changing. There were no more nigh outs, or family nights, no he was gone….he was with her. I couldn’t leave my place, since he used my credit to guarantee his business loans to help her with her business. My life is in total disarray, something like scope creep. Restless nights have given me a great level of insomnia, which is probably the feeding my root cause of why I felt so unhappy. I hate that I allowed him and all men prior the opportunity to only to scar me, none to help me heal, none to apologize, help me figure it out. No-like many black women, I was always on my own in the end. \nI exited out of my phone’s photo app, only to open my news app and see his name and face plastered all over the main page.\n‘Acquisition With Start Up To Begin Conversations On Black Owned Capital In America’\nUgh, even online, he’s ugly. Seeing him standing next to me at the last conference we were captured before all of this, made me sick to my stomach.\nI looked at the top right corner of my cell phone to see the time had reached 11:27pm, making Wednesday only 33 minutes away. \nThis was the element I was stuck in. This was my life where I had to sit and unfortunately watch as everything is changing." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Family\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1049\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "trigger warning: abandonment.\nFamily\nBy: Anastasia Mellovich\nIt is 3 AM on July 30th, and tomorrow is the tenth worst day of my life, but who’s counting? The first worst day of my life was March 2nd, 1993, which just so happened to be my third birthday. It was the day my dad left my mother and I to move to Illinois. I have been up for the past three hours, making myself physically ill, thinking about the possible outcomes of tomorrow’s events. You might be asking yourself, where did the other nine horrible days come from? Those were the past nine family reunions I decided to attend in hopes of reconciling with my father, but I have done much more than reconcile. I have somehow convinced him that I am a family friend, and every year we catch up to make up for the other 364 days he missed out on.\n This year is different, though. I am thinking of coming clean about who I really am. You see, for all these years I have thought of my father as the bad guy, but every year I start to realize more and more that he was just a young dad who didn’t know how to raise a child. My name is Autumn, like the season, but once a year on July 1st, I go by Summer, like the other season. Weird, I know. I suppose you are wondering how no one notices that my father doesn’t recognize me, but if you knew my family, it would all make much more sense. I genuinely believe that Jesus, yes, Jesus Christ, himself, could come to our family reunion, and I am not entirely sure that my family would notice.\nI have arrived at the dreaded family reunion. I have gone for the past nine years and every single year, I wonder why I come. The smell of hot dogs and corn on the cob is filling the hot, summer air, and I am catching up with my aunt Helen, who I have not seen in quite a while since she missed last year’s reunion because her dog was sick. She never had any kids, so she treats her dogs as if they were precious gold. Gold is my last name. Autumn, a.k.a Summer Gold, that’s me. I glance up mid-sentence when I see my father arrive. As usual, he greets everyone with a warm smile and a hug. But I notice something peculiar; there is someone with him, a woman. He has always arrived at the family reunion alone. Who could this be? She looks sort of young, around my age. When he finally notices me, he introduces Brittany to me as his daughter. His what? She is twenty-seven, which means he had her just three years after he abandoned my mother and me. She sort of looks like me; she has reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes. She sits at about 5’5 and has a slender figure. She seems nice. I wonder if she knows the truth about him. It doesn’t seem like it. As I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Instead, I am filled with tears.\nAs I attempt to leave the family reunion without a soul noticing, I have my hand gripped around the driver side handle of my black 2011 Toyota Corolla, ready to get in and disappear, but something stops me. I feel someone’s hand on my shoulder, and my first thought is that it is my father, but it isn’t. It is Brittany, his favorite daughter. As I turn around to look her in the eyes and unleash my anger on her, there is no one there.\nAm I imagining things? Does this person really exist? I know there are a million emotions running through my body, but I have never imagined anything before, or at least not that I am aware of, or have I? Oh boy, this is turning into quite the day.\nI ended up leaving the reunion and driving about 45 minutes back home. I decided to lay down on the couch with my favorite blanket and turn on the five o’clock news. I am now tucked in safe and sound under my covers, but I still cannot unwind until I get some closure. My brain is going a million miles an hour. I did not plan for my day to end this way. I thought that once I came clean to Jeremy, he would be ecstatic to find his daughter that he once abandoned has grown up to be someone that he has a lot in common with. After much debate, I’ve reached the verdict that I still want to come clean to my father about who I really am, so I decided to compose a letter to him. I would send a text message or dial his phone number, but my gut feeling is to write my feelings down on paper and send them in the mail, so I don’t have to experience his immediate response. This is going to take some time for me to process.\nDear Jeremy,\nI am writing you this letter because, as much as I despise the person you have proven yourself to be, I believe everyone deserves to know the truth. I am aware that for the past nine years you have known me as Summer, a close family friend, but I really am-\nI am interrupted by a loud noise on the TV. I drop my pen back down on the table without hesitation as a newscaster begins to speak:\n“BREAKING NEWS\nPolice are searching for a girl known as Brittany Love. She was last seen with a man who claims to be her father, Jeremy Gold. She has red hair, greenish eyes, and is approximately 5’5-5’6. Sources claim that this man abducted her and is not related to her in any way. If you know any information about the subject, please come forward. There is a $1,000 reward.”\nI pick my pen back up, shakingly, but I cannot continue to write. I feel very faint, and my eyes start to see black dots everywhere I look. My brain feels like it has been mushed together with information I cannot begin to comprehend. I – I –\nI –\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: For You I Will...\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2991\n\nPrompt:\n\nComing up with a gift idea was the easy part — getting your hands on it is another thing entirely." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Yes sir, we have it. It’s a beautiful piece,” the woman on the phone said, igniting a fire in me.\n“Okay, can you hold it for me, please?” I asked, biting the nail of my manicured hand. There was silence on the other end of the line. Well, not silence. I could hear Bing Crosby singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire loud and clear. But I wasn’t interested in him, his chestnuts, or his fire. I wanted to know if she was going to be able to hold the one thing that my wife wanted more than anything.\n“Well, Mr. Moses, that’s the thing.”\nHer voice was filled with hesitation. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck, and I could feel my dreams shattering with the force of Thor’s Mjølnir and my marriage crashing down like shards.\n“What’s the thing, ma’am?” I asked, prompting her to get on with it. She was hanging the end of my world as I knew it over my head instead of just dropping the gauntlet.\n“We have it, but it’s not here. It’s showing in the computer, but it’s in our Dallas store.”\n“Dallas? Did you say Dallas?” I asked, not meaning to raise my voice. “Why would you check that far away? I mean, you might as well say Jupiter, or Pluto, or the sun!”\n“You said you really needed it for your wife and that she’s coming back from deployment. I was just trying to help, Mr. Moses,” she whined, and I could tell that she was about to cry. That wasn’t my intention. I knew she was probably already stressed with the holidays and all the patrons that I was sure weren’t all pleasant to work with. And now, here I was sitting on the phone yelling at her when all she was trying to do was help me.\n“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” I said, rubbing my hand down my face in frustration. “You really have been a huge help. Do you have Venmo, Zelle, or CashApp? Let me tip you for your trouble.”\n“That’s not necessary, Mr. Moses, but thank you. That’s really kind of you. Do you want me to call in a favor so that it will be there for you when you get there?” she asked, the smile returning to her voice.\n“No, you’ve done enough. Thank you for understanding. And I apologize again for taking my frustration out on you. What was your name again?” I asked, hoping that she didn’t get offended that I didn’t remember. \n“Lilian, Mr. Moses. And the pleasure is all mine. Let me give you the address to our Dallas store, so that you can call them and let them know you’re coming.”\n“Okay,” I replied, unable to hide my smile. I really appreciated her. “Are you ready?”\n“Yes, I am.”\n“It’s 4287 Potomac Way. The number is 972-655-1212.”\n“Got it! Thank you again, Lilian! Are you sure that I can’t tip you?” I offered again.\n“No sir. That’s unnecessary. It’s all in a day’s work. I hope your wife enjoys her gift and appreciates the lengths you’re going to so that her return home is a special one.”\n“Me, too,” I said, before hanging up the call. “Now, how the hell am I going to get to Dallas during the Christmas travel season, and back before Marilyn gets home?”\nI was talking to myself, because no one else was here with me. But sometimes, speaking my thoughts aloud made them easier to process. Dialing the number that Lilian had just given me, I put the phone on speaker while simultaneously opening the Delta app and searching for flights. There was one leaving in 2 hours, and even though it was going to cost an arm and a leg, it was my best bet.\n“Hello, thank you for calling Uniques and Antiques Dallas. What relic can I add to your family’s legacy today?”\nThe woman on the other line was chipper and eased my frantic mindset. They hired the best people for this company, because their demeanor on the phone, and in person, was enough to make you want to become a return client.\n“Hi, I spoke with Lilian in your Birmingham, Alabama store, and she says that you all have–”\n“Mr. Moses, yes?” she cut me off saying, shocking me.\n“Yes.”\n“Yes, sir. We’re holding it for you. Are you going to make it tonight? We’re closing soon. If you don’t want to rush, we’ll be here tomorrow, and can have your wife’s gift waiting for you when you arrive.”\nI sat there speechless, because I didn’t know how Lilian had called before I’d had the chance to. That was some customer service for you, and I planned to find her and tip her handsomely, whether she wanted me to or not.\n“Hello? Mr. Moses? Are you still there?”\n“Ye-yes, I’m here. I’ll be there when you open on tomorrow. Thank you.”\n“See you soon, Mr. Moses. Safe travels.”\nThis was proving to be a labor of love, but it was worth it. Marilyn was going to be over the moon when I presented her with this gift. Recently, her complaints have been how I don’t listen to her and don’t put forth enough effort to make her feel special. I was about to dispel both of those myths in one foul swoop. I knew it was just the time apart that had been wearing on her. This deployment wasn’t supposed to last as long as it did, but this was what happened when I chose to retire, and she decided to continue her career in the Armed Forces. Not that I was upset with her or anything, but the distance wasn’t something that I wanted for us anymore.\nWe’d been married for six years and had only spent a total of two of them together– and that wasn’t even a consecutive two years. Checking the airline again and thinking of the fact that the shop was about to close, I weighed my options. I could fly, spend a thousand dollars to do so with this last-minute round trip, or I could drive the nine hours to Dallas. Marilyn wasn’t due home for another two days, so the drive wasn’t an unrealistic goal. I would probably have to get a hotel room for the night if I drove. But I could sleep on the flight. But, what if the flight crashed?\nMy mind was whirling because there was no win here, except for the fact that I would be able to give Marilyn something that she’d been wanting forever.\n“Drive. I’ll drive.”\nI’d made my final decision and was going to stick to it. Booking a room at the Hilton, I grabbed my keys, wallet, and made my way out the door. I was on a Love Mission, as I’d dubbed this adventure. I selected my Road Warrior Playlist on Spotify and let the music be the soundtrack to my journey. I felt quite superhero-ish, now that I thought about it.\nThree hours into the drive, my stomach started to sing louder than Bruno Mars. I pulled into a local restaurant, never really liking fast food because there was a higher chance of them getting my order wrong and I wasn’t willing to take that chance tonight.\nWhen I sat down at Mama’s Cookin’, the smells of the soul food being prepared had my stomach howling like a wolf at a full moon.\n“Sounds like you’re ready to grub,” the woman that had greeted me at the door said, coming to my table and pulling the pencil from behind her ear and the pad from her apron pocket simultaneously.\n“Yes ma’am. What do you recommend?”\n“Well, everything’s good, so tell me what you gotta hankerin’ for,” she countered, sporting a smile that went all the way up to her eyes.\n“Give me your favorite,” was my final answer, and with a wink and a nod, she walked back towards the kitchen to put my order in.\nTen minutes and three thousand stomach growls later, she came back and placed a plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and cornbread in front of me. I knew I couldn’t eat all that or I wouldn’t make it to Dallas. The furthest I would make it was to a rest stop to sleep in my back seat or some motel on the side of the road if I dared to try to drive a few miles more.\n“Thank you. This all looks good, Miss?” I asked, wanting to know her name. It was a respect thing. I always preferred to refer to people by their names because it validated their existence more than pronouns and pleasantries.\n“Just call me Mama. Everybody else ‘round here does.” She winked at the stunned expression that I sported at just being served by the owner and went to greet the couple that had just come in. I didn’t hesitate to dive in and from the first bite to the last, I moaned at the taste never being less than delectable. I didn’t know what kind of magic Mama was wielding in that kitchen, but I was definitely going to give her a great review on Yelp!\nI paid for my meal, leaving Mama my monetary thanks under the tin that held the napkins, and headed back to the car. I was at least going to try to get through Mississippi before I stopped and got a room. Walking back outside, I hopped in, full and happy. Turning my music back on, I gunned it, trying to make at least the three more hours to Louisiana.\nPow! Skrrrrttt!\nI didn’t know when I’d fallen asleep, but the sound of my tire hitting something and blowing out, paired with my car jerking in the direction of the ditch on the side of the road, woke me up. I managed to get a handle on the car and slowed down enough to pull off the road to assess the damage. I wanted to complain but chose to be grateful that I was the only one on the road, or this could’ve ended worse than a flat tire. I had Triple-A, so this was a small inconvenience.\nChecking my phone, the inconvenience grew larger with no bars to call for help. I looked around and realized that I was in the middle of nowhere and now no one else being on the road was a concern. Was I about to be stuck here? For how long? Would I be able to call for help?\nSucking it up, I decided to pop my trunk and change my tire myself. It was in that moment that I realized that I’d become spoiled since retirement. I went from a serviceman who could survive in the wild and war zones, to a civilian panicking over something as small as a flat tire. Marilyn saying that I’d changed was making a bit more sense now.\nI changed my tire in no time and was back on the road on my mission to show my wife that I was still the man she married. That she still mattered to me. That I would go anywhere and survive anything just for her. With this new motivation came a burst of energy. I was alert and planned to reach my destination using the training that I’d received when serving our country to serve my wife and my marriage.\nFive and a half hours later, I was entering Dallas, Texas, and had to admit that I felt more like myself than I had in a while. I pulled up to Uniques and Antiques, parking directly in front of the store.\nBrrrrrng… Brrrrrrng…\nLooking at my phone, I smiled at the beautiful face of my wife before answering.\n“Good morning, Beautiful. Have you made it Stateside yet?”\nSniff-Sniff\n“Yes. But I won’t make it to you until after Christmas. We’re stuck in the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, and there aren’t any rental cars because of the holidays. I’m hoping to get a hotel room and try to figure this out.”\nMarilyn was rambling so fast that I couldn’t get a word in, so I just listened, not believing my ears. I saw a woman walking towards the doors of the shop and wanted to get to her as quickly as possible, because all of this was too perfect.\n“Baby, calm down. I’m going to call you right back, okay.”\n“Marcus, did you hear me? I’m stuck at the airport and won’t get home in time to see you. Are you even listening to me? Do you even care? This is what I get for trying to surprise you and coming home sooner? What could you possibly be doing that’s more important than being here for me right now?”\nMarilyn was frantic and I knew that she was ready to hang me up by my toenails, but she was just going to have to be upset with me a little while longer.\n“Baby, I heard you. But I really need to call you back. I will. I promise!” I pled with her, hoping that she would hear in my voice that I was doing the exact opposite of what she thought I was.\n“Screw you, Marcus. Don’t worry about calling me back now, or ever. I’m filing for divorce!”\nShe ended the call and that stung, but I knew she was just upset. At least I hoped she was just upset. I shook off the hurt that her words had caused before stepping up on the curb and entering the shop.\n“Good morning, welcome to Uniques and Antiques Dallas.”\n“Hi. I’m Marcus Moses and–”\n“You made it! I’m Susanna. I spoke with you on yesterday. Let me get your item for you.”\nShe rushed to the back and came back with a small black box. Opening it, I smiled looking at the antique princess cut diamond ring that had been in Marilyn’s family for three hundred years. I’d seen it in pictures on the ring finger of every woman before my wife.\nIt was supposed to be passed down to her, but her father lost it in a poker game. She’d never forgiven him for it. But now, I hoped it would be enough for her to forgive me.\n“How much do I–”\n“It’s already taken care of.”\nI looked at her, confused and her smile told me that she knew that wasn’t expected.\n“I don’t understand.”\n“Lilian took care of it. She said you said it was a lost family heirloom that you wanted to recover for your wife. After the owner heard the story, he packed it up and said that he was glad to return it to the family it belonged to. Apparently, he’d won it in a poker game some time ago and vowed that if anyone came looking for it, he would return it. He lost his best friend because of that game.”\nSusanna shrugged like this was no big deal but I wanted to jump across the counter and hug her, then search for the owner and hug them, too. However, right now, I was on the verge of losing my wife because of this ring, and I had no plans of doing that.\n“Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means!” I said, feeling like all of this was happening for a reason.\nI had a hotel room booked, just got the gift I’d been searching months for to give to my wife, and now, she was stuck in the same city that I was in. Talk about luck.\nRushing to my car with my gift in the bag that the clerk had given me, I gunned it to the airport. Calling Marilyn back-to-back, she kept sending my calls to voicemail. I didn’t give up, even while parking, getting into the airport, and having no idea where I was going. I would search every terminal until I found my love. Until I showed her what she meant to me. Until we were us again. I could say I was closer to the man that she married right now than I had been in years. I understood now. And I was about to show her.\nTaking a chance, I went to baggage claim, hoping to catch her there. I called her phone and heard my ringtone, Bruno Mars’s “That’s What I Like” blast over the hustle and bustle of the busy airport. Instead of dismissing the call this time, she answered.\n“What do you want Marcus?” she asked with attitude. It was comical watching her from a few feet away, rolling her neck with her hand on her hip like I could see that through the phone.\n“I wanted to say I was sorry. There was something that I had to take care of, baby. But now, I’m here. You have my undivided attention.”\n“It’s too late for all of that, Marcus. It’s over. I mean it. We’re just not compatible anymore. I love you but I’m done.”\n“But…”\n“Done, Marcus. Goodbye!”\nI didn’t waste time calling her back. Instead, I walked up behind her, tapped her on the shoulder, and when she whirled around, I was on one knee with the ring box in my hand.\n“If you mean that you’re done, please do me the courtesy of saying it to my face. Or–” I paused, opening the ring box. “Understand that I would travel the world to make you happy.”\nI watched her eyes travel from the box’s contents to my face before glossing over with tears.\n“Is that? You found…!” She threw her hand over her mouth in shock.\n“For you, I will do anything!” I vowed.\nStanding up, I put the ring on her finger and leaned in, kissing her with all the love I’d always had for 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: Sometimes You Just Gotta Make Your Own Rules\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2642\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Language, plus implied violence, physical abuse and substance abuse\n\n\n\n“But wouldn’t this be very dangerous if . . .”\n\n“Yes, Chrissy, it could go bad, disastrously bad. But I have to do this.”\n\n“This is really scary, Alex. I’m going to be so worried about you.”\n\n“Well, we just have to hope the plan on paper holds true for the plan in action.”\n\n“Believe me, I’ll be hoping that with all my heart until your mission is over.”\n\n* * *\n\nBorn and raised in this city, and yet in all my 43 years I’d never set foot in this part of town. Even law enforcement didn’t want to be here. Understandable. Sitting right on the ocean as it did, cruising right through was not an easy option. But maybe it was really more a case of just giving up on any chance of a permanent cleanup.\n\nAnyway, now I’m here on J Street for the third time this week. I’d rather it had been no times, but I had a job to do, and this is the place that offered the best chance of success.\n\nBecause of the way the land sloped down to the shoreline the area had long been dubbed Lowpoint, Eventually that took on a double meaning as the scene changed and remained the one I’m in the midst of right now. Girly clubs, peep shows, dive bars, porn theaters, adult book emporiums.\n\nA single coffee shop that apparently has never seen a health inspector was the only other commerce here. Unless, that is, you counted the panel trucks and car trunks with drugs, guns, grenades, pipe bomb, the occasional rocket launcher, and stolen goods with as much variety as general merchandise stores.\n\nAnd biker gangs were in the thick of it, ready to sell locals and travelers anything they wanted when they arrived. Drugs were especially popular, delivering the courage to stride into the various establishments.\n\nAnd the boys were equally adept at relieving the patrons of their cash and credit cards when they were leaving. Easy marks, having now added alcohol to the mix. And given that many, more than one might expect, were from the monied class, not only was the haul often rich in Rolexes, diamond stick pins, sapphire cuff links, and top of the line cell phones, but even better for the perps, these guys were not likely to run to the police.\n\nAs you can probably tell, these were not the law-abiding, weekend riding, charity-supporting motorcycle clubs. But more than even most outlaw units, the J street crowd pushed bad behavior to the extreme, the outermost edge.\n\nAnd pack after pack dressed the part, usually black pants, white t-shirts, waist length leather jackets displaying three-part emblems, lots of studs and rivets, all leading down to lethally heavy boots. And then for decoration, tats all over their personal real estate, sharp jewelry, wallet chains, possibly bandanas. And treacherously, my job had me in search of the baddest I could find.\n\nBut first I’d had to find someone else. In fact, that person was the reason I’d be seeking out the darkest corners here.\n\nMy first trip to Lowpoint had me inside the Baby Chix Club, looking for that fellow, hoping he’d be there. I knew he was average height, on the pudgy side, brown hair, and most notable, a red chain tat all around his neck. Luck had struck and I’d managed to sit close enough to him for a casual chat, learning in the process what nights he was usually here.\n\nI’d gone back to the club a couple of nights later, one of his usual times. On this second trip we’d talked a lot more and I’d had to call on every skill from high school acting class and as well totally suppress my gag reflex to keep up with a conversation about our “mutual indulgence” in fetishes, perversions, and dominance.\n\nThis third trip, now, was also one of his usual nights, but I’d only briefly entered the club just to make sure he was there, and ducked out without him seeing me. So, half of the puzzle in place, in case tonight’s the night. Now, onto finding the other half, the perfect gang, and then the hard part – activating both.\n\nI strolled along on the sidewalk, hoping my black jeans, black t-shirt, and black cap would blend in, casting me as just a big dude minding his own business. With a few hours of daylight left on this summer evening, I could wear sunglasses that would conceal the fact I was looking hard for something very specific.\n\nMy attention was drawn to a dirt yard with a tangle of bigass Harleys, and from my hurried research just days ago most looked like customs. No helmets hanging on them. Small American flags rode on the backs and large flags on poles flapped in the breeze at either side of the wide open space that likely used to be a store front. I slowed my steps and took out my phone, tapping randomly on the screen while I actually looked through my sunglasses at the rest of the scene.\n\nFront and center, three big burly bikers, tipped back in recliners, a beer in each cup holder, the flag motif continued on their patched-up jacket arms. They were in rivet-laden black and together displayed enough bling to open a high end jewelry store, suggesting a good deal of success at whatever game they were into.\n\nAnd judging by the number of bikes, there were surely more of them nearby, probably behind the door at the back of this open area. In the front here, some tables and chairs, several padlocked cabinets, large fridge, counters with bags of snacks – probably no fears of anyone stealing them – and, dear God, rifles.\n\nJust then a similarly outfitted guy came from the other way and walked in past them with nobody greeting anybody. Holy crap, the side of his face that I could see looked like a large patty of uncooked ground beef.\n\nHamburger guy stopped at the fridge and grabbed a beer. I could see the inside was filled top to bottom, door too, with cans of suds. When he entered the back room, though, I wasn’t able to see anything through that door.\n\nI put away my phone, extracted my small card case, and gathered my courage, shoving aside the thought of being vastly out-numbered by folks who weren’t exactly giving off welcome wagon vibes. Here goes.\n\nAs I approached, no reaction from them, not a word, not a move. Just three laser stares.\n\nKeeping my voice as even as possible, “Who’s in charge here?” Without changing position, the middle guy growled, “And who the fuck are you?”\n\nI flipped open the case. He slowly brought his chair to a sitting position and took in the badge, ID card and AG statement. And that brought him to his feet with an agility that belied his considerable bulk. ”FBI! You got nothin' on us!”\n\n“Shhhhh,” holding up my hand and looking over my shoulders. “No, I don’t,” I said, “but I do have something you need to know.”\n\n“Yeah? Talk!” The belligerence hung in the air like a bad storm cloud.\n\n“Can we sit at one of those tables?”\n\nHe eyed me for a few moments, then jerked his head toward the interior, signaling the other two to stay put. We took a seat near the back. He just stared, daring me I think to justify my existence in his space, or maybe even in general.\n\nI decided to start more conversationally, but yes also to satisfy my curiosity. “Before I get to the point, can you tell me what’s up with the guy with the effed up face?”\n\n“Raggy? Happened on a road trip.”\n\n“Was there an accident?”\n\n“No.”\n\n“Did he fall off the bike?”\n\n“No.”\n\n“So he was just on the bike and . . .”\n\n“More like, uh, behind the bike.”\n\nI just looked at him, puzzled.\n\n “Let’s just say he won’t be messing with Bruno’s wife anymore.”\nIt took a few moments for this to register. And when it did, my revulsion was tempered by the assurance I had very likely come to the right place.\n\n“She was luckier, promised to be a good girl, and just slapped around a bit.”\n\nAt first I was sort of surprised he even told me any of this, but on second thought realized he may have grabbed the opportunity to send a message. Message received, and I soldiered on.\n\n“OK, so here’s the situation. There’s a guy here in Lowpoint, a terrorist, that’s part of a large international cabal whose sole goal is to create significant chaos in America by pitting certain groups and the law against each other. What they envision is full out rebellion from folks like you and subsequent crackdowns on you by the authorities from local cops on up to the U.S government.\n\n\"This guy’s initiating the biker gang part of that plan. He’ll hang around here, pick up whatever he can about the gangs, eventually infiltrating one of them, and pass along anything unlawful to Homeland Security. To you folks he’ll pose as an experienced biker – says he’s studied it up, down, and sideways – and to HS he’ll be seen as an anonymous informer.\n\n“Says Homeland may not pay attention at first, but as the tips increase, and check out, the government will begin taking a closer look at you, imposing limits to your freedoms, restrictions on your rights. And once he’s gained some credibility he’ll start fabricating stories to further build the case against you. This is just the terrorist organization’s first target, and if successful others cities could follow.”\n\n“Where is this son of a bitch! I’ll see that it never even gets started!”\n\n“Too late, last Saturday he just happened to overhear something and already sent it along. Wouldn’t tell me what it was, but said it was big.”\n\n“Wait, how the hell do you know so much about him!” I thought I could literally see the mistrust jump into his eyes. I forced myself to hold his gaze.\n\n“Well we had intel on him, of course, and once that was passed along to me I was able to find him and cultivate an acquaintance, though of course he doesn’t know I’m FBI. Our information showed he would often be at the Baby Chix club, because it turns out he’s also a total perv.”\n\n“Why are you telling me all this, dude. Won’t your folks be getting on his ass?”\n\n“Well what he’s doing right now isn’t really criminal. If it ever got to the point of feeding in false information, sending HS on wild goose chases, we could move on him. By then, though, it would have already have escalated. I don’t have to tell you what could be happening in the streets as tensions flare up between law enforcement and bikers. That’s why we want to curb it now.”\n\n“Uh huh, uh huh. So OK, what, you wanna have us take care of it?”\n\n“Nothing official of course, but the Bureau has given me free rein to handle this as I see fit. So, taking full advantage of that leeway, I could offer a little casual assistance in getting him here, and if the beating of his life follows, well that’s up to you. And it could be thirsty work, so perhaps to make sure your fridge stays well stocked we could make a donation, say twenty-five hundred.”\n\n“OK, you got my attention. How is this gonna work?”\n\n“So here’s my plan. I want to tell him that for five hundred bucks you can set him up with an underage girl, a real one as opposed to what the Club promises, who will do whatever he wants. Of course, the underage girl will actually be you guys. I know he’s there tonight, but I also know what other nights he’s there, so if you just tell . . .”\n\n“Get the bastard, we’re ready to go right now.”\n\n“One more thing, for this to be effective he has to know why he’s getting beaten so he calls off his assignment. That means early on, in case he’d lose consciousness later, you need to say to him, ‘This is for what you did last Saturday, and if you ever do it again, this is exactly what will happen again.’ Now, how many rooms are back there?”\n\n“Two.”\n\n“OK, I want to be in one, while you take care of business in the other. And then let me know when it’s over so I can see the results and pay you. And I’m guessing I don’t have to tell you that my colleagues know exactly where I am tonight.”\n\n“Yeah, yeah, we’re not going to bounty you, but we want to see the money in advance. Like right now.”\n\nI reached in my pocket, fanned out the bills, put them back. I had no worries about having to surrender the cash without the job being done. This guy had enough fire in his eyes to burn down Lowpoint.\n\nAnd I headed over to the girly club.\n\nOh it was too easy. He almost ran ahead of me across the street, where he was quickly relieved of the five hundred and ushered into the back room. They closed their door, but not before I saw a large plastic sheet on the floor. I closed my door.\n\nAnd it was on. Loudly. If I didn’t have such contempt for this guy, I could almost feel sorry for him. But in reality, I was cheering every blow.\n\n* * *\n\n“Hi sweetheart.”\n\n“Oh Alex, thank God you’re safe. You are OK, right?”\n\n“One hundred percent.”\n\n“And it’s done?”\n\n“It’s done.”\n\n“They really bought that the guy was a terrorist? And that you were FBI?”\n\n“Hook, line and sinker. We’ll have to take Marty to dinner for the great job he did on the fakes.”\n\n\"And they never asked why a terrorist would reveal all that stuff to you?\"\n\n\"Nope. And you know if they had I'd have said he was falling down drunk.\"\n\n“So, do you feel bad at all about lying to them?”\n\n“Maybe a little. But just by chance I had a glimpse of this gang’s outlook on women, and believe me our real story certainly wouldn’t have been a motivator.”\n\n“Do I even want to know?”\n\n“Probably not. But, look, we have no reason to feel bad about deceiving them. Heck, for them it was three thousand dollars for less than ten minutes of work that they probably enjoyed no matter what the reason. And, you know, we just weren’t getting help elsewhere.”\n\n“We sure weren't. Thank you, thank you, you were so smart, so brave.”\n\n“None of this could have happened if you hadn’t had the presence of mind, despite what you were going through, to remember both what the creep looked like and the name of the club where he said you’d be a star. I know nothing will ever erase the nightmare of last Saturday, but maybe this can help.”\n\n“I think it can. Was he even able to walk away under his own power?”\n\n“Well, not exactly.”\n\n“What do you mean?\"\n\n“It, uh, went a little too far and he won’t be walking anywhere or . . . breathing for that matter. Don’t worry, fortunately or unfortunately, the guys let me know they’ll have no problem disposing of the problem without a trace.”\n\n“Ohhh.”\n\n“I know this wasn’t the plan, but it does mean for sure he’ll never rape anyone ever again. I hope you’re OK with how it turned out.”\n\nSilence.\n\n“Chrissy?”\n\nA sigh, a sob, before she replied.\n\n“My avenging angel, mission accomplished.”\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: What A Surprise!\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1017\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the phrase “Thank you! It’s just what I wanted.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The life of a pastor's wife is interesting, to say the least. Most of the time the last thing she expected was to be a pastor's wife. Quite often, when she married the man, she married someone in a profession so far removed from ministry that the thought never occurred to her. Many times she has never known a pastor's wife personally and has only observed her from a distance at church. Then there are the women whose fathers were pastors and as a PK (pastor's kid) she declared more than once, \"I will never marry a pastor.\" But, God seems to have a sense of humor. The woman who looked forward to being that lawyer's wife now watches him give closing arguments from behind a different kind of bench. The PK who said \"I will never,\" now finds herself mirroring her mom as she dons her hat to take her place in the congregation and dutifully smiles and nods at the members on her way to her seat. Her speech must always be salted with grace and she must never show any sign of distress or stress that might distress or stress a member. She steps into a \"role\" that has no manual, no list of what not to do, and no advisory board or mentor to whom she can run for wise counsel. If there are children, she must be a great mother with compliant children who never act like children while even in the presence of other children. Whenever she is in the presence of the church folk, she must become who they expect her to be according to their often unrealistic expectations. If she's an introvert, she has to come out of that shell immediately. If she's an extrovert, she must tone it down a lot. If she's short, she should be tall. If she's tall, she should not make short people feel shorter. If she's beautiful she needs to homely it down a bit. If she's homely, she should take to heart the tips of every budding MUA in the congregation. She should be an example of faith and confidence but not so much that the rest of the women in the church feel like they can never measure up to her standard. She should be very comfortable with the pedestal upon which the congregation has placed her but she should never show any sign of anger or frustration or bitterness when they kick the pedestal out from under her. She must be visibly supportive of her husband but she must never have an opinion about anything that goes on in the church even though she is a member of that church. She should be as children were deemed back in the day, seen but not heard. She should be so gifted and talented that the members of the congregation market her talent wherever they go, telling everyone they know about \"our pastor's wife\" but not so talented that the sister who has the same gift or talent in the congregation is overlooked or feels invisible alongside her. In fact, the pastor's wife should be good with being overlooked most of the time and a poker face is de rigueur at all times. She should graciously accept that she will almost always be introduced as \"our pastor's wife.\" She will be the first person a visitor will want to see and probably the last person they will approach. She must dress in such a way that she is instantly recognizable as the pastor's wife but never so expensively dressed that people begin to wonder if the pastor is embezzling church funds to dress his wife (unless, of course, the church belongs to a denomination where everyone is expensively dressed, then she must stay in step with the style culture of that community). However, having said all of the above, we would be remiss not to point out that there are perks that come with being the pastor's wife. She is recognized and acknowledged in ministry circles, often respected, and given seats of honor at special church events. She is welcomed with grace by other pastors' wives whenever she visits a church with her husband and she and her husband become part of a close-knit community of pastors and wives who support and encourage one another, dine, and vacation together. However, there is a caveat to this high visibility thing because there may always be that one person who recognizes her in any space, someone she has never met but because they have seen her at some service or event they now feel as though they know her and are free to rush up to her anywhere, anytime. She must be on her best behavior even at the laundromat or in the grocery aisle. The culture in many African American churches is to have special Sunday celebrations honoring the pastor and wife's anniversary (tenure) at the church. These celebrations are extravagant and joyous and full of grace and laughter. Afternoon services are usually preceded by sumptuous meals with a head table for the pastor, wife, and visiting pastors and wives (though some church folk have been known to complain about the exclusivity of such a table). Beaming auxiliary leaders present gifts, monetary and otherwise, to the pastor and his wife who smile broadly as they accept the gift. But, imagine the Sunday when a member decides to give the pastor's wife a beautiful purse (in her eyes) one she has picked out with purpose, a gift to surprise and delight her pastor's wife. Standing expectantly before her, this member presents to her PW a large gift bag and waits for the wife to reach into the bag to reveal the surprise hidden inside! The wife (poker face intact) extracts from that bag a large very white leather purse (not a tote, a very big purse) with large colored patches (think quilt work patches) on the front of the said purse. What is the wife to do but give the member a big hug as she exclaims, \"Thank you, it's just what I wanted.\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ethotopia and Pathostan\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1650\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a world devoid of logic, where feelings govern all decision-making." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Don't tell anyone here in Pathostan, but I don't make decisions the same way they do. As a secret archaeologist and a council member to the prime minister, I'm qualified to tell you. 75 years after my country's independence and on the eve of an agreement for diplomatic relations, my mother, the original archaeologist of our family, met my father after traveling to Pathostan to dig at the Buddhist ruins site. As soon as she and numerous, countless others were let in for the celebration, the leader of Pathostan initiated a lockdown. All airports were grounded. All waterways were blocked. Military troops were on the ground and barricading car and foot traffic exit routes. What made them make this choice? You see, he had a bad feeling.\nPathostan's president, Ayyubi Abbas, decided to lockdown his whole country based on a bad gut feeling. He wasn't sure he wanted to allow the diplomatic relations to proceed. Something told him another country digging in his country's temple ruins might not be a good idea. His whole world is devoid of logic. The quest was to bridge the gap between Ethotopia and Pathostan history and knowledge. To create a unified understanding. \nPathostan has a bad rap for a fickle nature. Their descendants and all those living there developed a particular gene that only releases the growth hormone for the amygdala of the brain. You see, no prefrontal cortex for them. All emotions. Limbic system a go. It wasn't really emphasized, but my mother found out about it from a rich doctor wanting to study it. So she was on a team to see if any skull or body remnants could be found from the temples to harvest DNA and do some testing. They wanted to know just how the world's evolutionary order had deviated so much. \nAnd then my mother was stuck at the border. She was a beautiful African woman. She was Amharran and had olive-brown skin like creamy chocolate mousse. Her name was Berhane, meaning my light in our culture. I came to be because my father, Elaf, saw the light in her. He was blinded by her beauty and brains. Her decision-making didn't seem to hinge on her emotions but was founded on her knowledge of science. He immediately whisked her away and asked her to live in his home with him to get to know him better. Apparently a regular custom of the country, she said yes. Knowing she was safest being under the radar and appreciating such an illogical choice she would never have made otherwise. Avoiding jail or worse was her only motive at the time.\nShe and my father had an affair as he was already married but had moved out and separated from his wife. When he saw my mother walking from the border, he thought her a Pathostanian archaeologist leaving the chaos and he didn't want to see her taken by another. Eventually, she told him the truth. After she was pregnant. \nMy name is Elane, a variant of Elene, also meaning light. As you can see, my parents thought me a precious combination of them both. They wanted me to secure a bright future. I wish they were here to see me now. Sitting behind a big horseshoe of a meeting table as one of the select few of the prime minister's council. My parents were killed in the battle for Ethotopian independence during the fight for my mother's home country when I was 14. I'm only 17 now. It hurts every day without them here. \nIt's hard at times to pretend that my emotions rule my decisions. Other times, it's fun to let my wild and impulsive side free. They can't know until the time is right that I base my council on my comprehension, and my authority is related to my chosen pursuit.\nTen days until I'm 18. Ten days until I met up with the rich doctor's hired men.\nI say little this meeting. Only one left, four days before the rendezvous. Unless we are called on emergency. My mind is elsewhere. We are to meet on the inner defensive wall of Vedana-Kama-Tanha, the main temple ruin.\n\"Elane, what do you feel about what Yusuf suggests?\" quips Ayesha.\n\"Oh. Well, you know. I think he should go with his first plan\" I mumble, without really knowing all the details. \n\"You think... Since when are real decisions made on thoughts. Here in the high council, our sentiments take first and only priority\" she retorted.\n\"Okay, Shasha.\" I vindictively call her a nickname I know she hates. \n\"Yusufffff, she's doing it again\"\n\"Council meeting adjourned. I have a choice to make and I can't feel all of my senses with you ladies bickering\" says Yusuf.\nWith a raise in her voice, \"You can't keep doing that\" Ayesha throttles. \n\"Ugh, I can and I will. Angers ugly on you, dear,\" flatlines Yusuf.\nWell, I lucked out on that one.\nHeading home, I grab a quick black espresso to go over the plan again tonight. There can't be any mistakes.\nThe last of my patience in my body's clock ticks by like a large swinging grandfather pendulum as I beg it to move faster. My final council meeting goes by without a hitch. Four days left. \nOn the day we are supposed to meet at 2400, right as the clock swings to my birthday tomorrow on February 28th, I pack my bug-out bag around 1300 hours after grabbing a quick black espresso and a cream pastry for lunch. Money, fake passport, jewels, essential dig site and collection equipment, a change of clothes, rope, and my newly bought Pac-Z-9 handgun. \nJust a few hours to kill. I will succeed where my parents have failed.\nJust my luck, an emergency meeting is called at 1900 hours. As I open the towering, mahogany doors a bag is slammed over my head and my wrists are zip-tied behind my backpack. \nIs this Ayesha's doing? I hear Yusuf's booming voice, \"I'm surprised you came, Elane, if that is even your name.\" \nHe kicks me in the ribs. Disoriented, I fall to my left as I feel my side arguing and twinge. A bruise forming. I bellow, \"More my real name than you would even be blessed with.\"\nMen pick me up and trot me out. As we ride in what I can only assume to be some sort of box truck with all the room and bumpy ride. They left my backpack on. I pull my arms down and under me to reset my body. I brace myself against the truck wall and ram my knee into the center of the zip tie as hard and as fast as I can. It cracks under the pressure. My hands are free. The canvas bag was duct taped to my throat and hair. Even the knife I fish out of my pocket can't rid me of the remnants, so I chop off my long black, and curly locks. Oh well, some sacrifices need to be made I think as my mangled and bloody wrists come back into view. Now time to get out of this truck and finish this thing. I can't tell if there's a passenger with the driver, but I know as soon as I shoot the door on its lock, they will stop. Will others be traveling in different vehicles nearby? I wonder how many there are following.\nToo bad. I can't just sit here and be taken wherever. I must take action. KAPOW. KAPOW. Time to see the moonlight. \nNo one comes at first and I hear another KAPOW. I slide up the side of the box truck slowly and caution myself to be patient. I don't know if my partners found me and made that shot or if it's something else entirely. \nI see the driver slumped and no sign of a passenger. I go to open the door to dump him out and get in when Yusuf comes from behind and grabs me by the waist. \n\"You like how I left your backpack. I knew you'd have a gun\"\n\"What the hell, get off me!\" I screech as I'm all arms and elbows. \nHe manipulates my body as he has my mind and grapples me to the floor in an instant. \n\"Don't worry, we've thwarted Ayesha's crew. That was all for show,\" his words ring in my unbelieving ears. \nHe goes on to explain that the was my father's first wife's child and that he followed his every action. When he learned about me, he learned to force his prefrontal cortex online with growth hormones and a diet high in turmeric and greens, as well as a special method called patience. He literally waited out his emotions and then chose how to respond. He didn't want to let me do this alone. I do still have a chance at having a family. We do still have a chance at freeing awareness and knowledge for all. \nWe join my partners right on time at our set location. Our plan goes off without a hitch. Come to find out, a diet high in salmon, turmeric, and yogurt along with potent chemicals called corticostressors that Pathostanians had inhaled for fear conditioning went too far. Their desire to stave off deep threats had activated brain pathways in the hypothalamus and brainstem that couldn't be turned off. What's worse is their effect on attention, working memory, and impulsive, sensory-seeking drives. Their noradrenaline and dopamine release then hyperactivated for 82 years leading to prefrontal cortex suppression. The amygdala was disinhibited and its functions strengthened, resulting in a vicious cycle passed down from generation to generation. \nMy brother and I worked together and broke the curse. A cycle of ignorance shattered. Logic, credibility, and emotions are in balance again. Decisions are no longer solely devoid of logic. Thank you, Berhane and Elaf." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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: american\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: Expression\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1398\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a silent retreat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She kept pretending to look as though she wanted to talk.\nEveryone around her was clearly struggling, and here she was, finding no difficulty at all in staying silent. Whenever someone around her opened their month, she could see the red light registering behind their eyes.\nOh no, I mustn't speak.\nWhen Charlene opened her mouth, it was only to convey an expression. Of shock. Of surprise. Of putting together a mathematical equation. It was not to speak. It was never to speak. Charlene had not spoken around other people for a few years now. One did not study with one of the best mimes in Europe to then go around speaking in front of others. Charlene was the last student of the famed Josef Masterson, and after five years of study in Lisbon, she had the tools within her spirit to go the rest of her life and never make a sound. Her body had become both a movie screen and--this was key--a projector. It wasn’t simply capable of relaying information. She could also get others to believe they were in control of what they saw. She could stand absolutely still and with the twitch of an eyebrow, she could cause somebody across the room to believe that she had suddenly remembered leaving the oven on.\nThat was the Masterson technique.\nCharlene became a mime because her father had been one. Granted, he was not a very good mime. He would stand out on the Fulcrum City Boardwalk and pray for pennies. A good day was when there were more than five dollars in his hat box by sunset. Even though she witnessed his failure, Charlene was sure that miming was her calling. When her father forbid her to continue on in his footsteps, she told him she was going to nursing school only to discreetly apply to the Masterson Academy. When she was accepted, she packed a bag and kissed her father on the forehead.\n“You’re going to be a wonderful nurse,” he said.\nShe nodded and gave him a half-smile. He saw a young woman who was going to have a very sensible life. She was already fine-tuning the projector.\nThere are many places in the world where a mime is not welcome. Charlene had done the usual tour of children’s hospitals and the occasional circus, but she was eager to find unconventional spaces to practice her art in. What would be the glory of only performing where you were expected to perform? She wanted to perform without anyone knowing it. She wanted to see if she could pass as an average person--no beret, no make-up, no striped shirt.\nAt first, the logical solution seemed to be a place where there would be a lot of conversation. Charlene went to bars. She joined a Book Club. She surrounded herself with people. What she discovered was that people were more than happy to do all the talking. Nobody ever expected her to speak, and, when they did, a simple tilt of the head or a bit of body language would suffice. She went on two dozen dates with men of all ages and backgrounds and none of them seemed to notice that she never said a word.\nHer plan required refinement. She couldn’t insert herself in scenarios where she would be expected to speak, but perhaps the obvious environment to avoid would make the most sense. What if she found a place where everyone wanted to speak and couldn’t? Could she make herself believable as a person who was dying to say something?\nThat’s when she signed up for the silent retreat.\nIt was a long weekend on Cat Frow Mountain led by one of the most notable silent retreat leaders in the country--The Reverend Comet Tallbuck. Charlene had heard about Comet from Josef towards the beginning of her time at the Academy. Masterson found the Reverend to be a charlatan, but then again, he was not all that interested in anyone who made their money by claiming to assist with insecurities. It was also hard to pinpoint exactly how her mentor felt about anybody since all his criticisms were given without speech. Usually it amounted to him pulling up a photo of someone on his phone and then giving a slow thumbs down.\nAs it turns out, there is not much to do at a silent treatment. That’s by design. The idea is to spend a lot of time reflecting on one’s own. The presence of other people is simply to make the numbers work. In a perfect world, every silent retreat would be a party of one. The retreat curators spin the whole thing into a challenge. It would be easy to stay silent if there was nobody to talk to. Having people all around you and not being able to speak with them creates a different kind of introspection. Charlene already knows this.\nHer entire life was a silent retreat.\nThe first day flew by after the orientation whereupon a piece of paper was handed out with all the rules and regulations. The bulk of it was that nobody spoke and everybody did chores. Charlene was assigned trash duty. When she performed at street fairs, she had an entire segment dedicated to pretending to take trash out, so she felt qualified for the real thing. When everyone went to their separate cabins after the welcome from Reverend Comet. She would be the only one speaking over the course of the weekend via recorded messages broadcast throughout the camp that served as an arts and crafts summer getaway for teens during the warmer months and a silent retreat the rest of the year. The grass had the crunch of remembered snow as Charlene carefully made her way to Cabin Nine. She was sharing the lodging with a middle-aged woman whose name tag had a scribble on it. When Charlene entered, the woman was sitting on the bottom bunk next to an open suitcase that needed to be unpacked. She was crying, and she didn’t seem interested in stopping. Charlene sat down next to her. Without thinking, she took the woman’s hand in hers.\nThe woman looked down at Charlene’s hand, then at her face, then she rested her head on Charlene’s shoulder. Not speaking to people was one thing, but Charlene had never really made touching people a part of any performance. Audience participation was tricky enough without it, and the Masterson technique had a singular focus to it. Charlene felt her bunkmate’s tears soaking through her sweater.\nIt was a lovely sensation.\nCharlene was grateful she didn’t have to say anything, because she wasn’t sure what she would say even if she could. The next day, she’d go to meditation and feel no trouble letting the silence wash over her. People next to her would be squirming and adjusting themselves on their yoga mats. She’d act slightly uncomfortable, when really, she felt totally at home in her body. She’d project a finicky kind of energy. She thought about clearing her throat, but that seemed to be gilding the lily. Instead, she licked her lips. A man across the room saw her. He smirked. He felt as though he was better at this than her.\nFantastic.\nShe took out the trash after dinner. As people were eating, they were looking around. They felt as though their lips had been sewn shut. Some were pretending that they were sewn shut simply because it was easier if they had no choice but to stay silent. Charlene imagined having the biggest lips in the world. Lips that could open and release sounds that only opera singers and humpback whales could make. She imagined having lungs the size of basketballs and vocal cords the size of washing boards.\nThat night, her bunkmate cried herself to sleep. Charlene hummed. It was her way of saying “I’m having a hard time too” without actually saying it. She was having a hard time, but not in the same way everybody else was having a hard time. She had to hide her light under a bushel. Outside, there were no crickets. It was too cold for crickets, but Charlene couldn’t help but wonder if they were doing the same thing that she was.\nSimply being quiet to see if they could.\nTo see how long they could go without making a sound." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Not the Trip I Planned\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1081\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a plan that goes wrong, for the better." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Not the Trip I Planned\nHe was not the children’s father but taught them to fish. Looking back now, I realize it was not quite as I remembered; he needed rides to the fishing holes because he didn’t have a car. That was the problem; he would take my car and leave me stranded. I would usually be at work and need to pick up my children from daycare and after-school programs. I had been in a vicarious situation for the last time around November 10th while temping at the Post Office, so I found a used car in the paper and insisted he purchases it.\nThis was a good plan for a few weeks until, like most used cars, it proved why the previous owner upgraded. It was okay to zip around the area near the house, but it could not do the highway. So, I traded during the week (M-F) only 8-6 because I only worked two blocks from home, and his job was fifty miles one way. This would have benefited him, but I still got left looking for my car often because men don’t respect time, rules, or favors. The straw that broke my (camel’s back) happened right before the super bowl, January 98. I was fixing dinner, and he asked me to borrow the car to run to the store. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand the shortest one-word answer in English. NO!\nIt was frustrating to realize that he took my car without permission, chose to stay out overnight, and I was supposed to be in Crozet for a new job on Monday morning, thirty-five miles away uphill. His demon was back; how did I miss the signs? There was nothing I could do except pray to work the following day. Thankfully, the trip home was downhill, and the car was four-speed. Rather than risk being stranded by a failing car, I abandoned my Monday night plan and stayed. For the next month, I refused to trade cars no matter the need.\nI quickly found a permanent job close to home, and I was able to retire my hair nets and steel-toe shoes. Back at work, I enjoyed doing office work, paper pushing, and number crunching. On Tuesday, St. Patrick’s Day, after my children got home, I went back to the office to ask my supervisor about a new position opening that I was interested in applying for. She said it would require me to take a test after work on Friday; we scheduled it for 3 p.m. I also had a backup plan for jobs, well, sort of. I have been trying to get a job in the 911 call center for about seven years. I tested in the top 5% of the United States three times, and they stopped making me test. I applied and interviewed so many times that I was on a first-name basis with Naomi in human resources and most of the firefighters at Monday night Bingo. I even had a second interview, number eight, scheduled for the 18th @ 3. I never made it.\nI was angry with my boyfriend again and knew he had to go instead of staying home, packing his glad rags in a hefty bag or a box, or just tossing that crap into the hall outside the apartment door. I am a fixer, a single mother of boys, in love with family, and not wanting to be alone; I put up with too much. After a seemingly heartfelt apology, I decided to rethink my break-up plans. I wanted to believe this was genuine, but you know what they say about a burned child “they dread fires.”\n So, I needed to think long and hard about what I should do. Whenever I needed to think, I would go to bingo alone, and I thank God that I was alone; no one in the passenger seat would have survived. That evening I had been wrestling with the decision to break up with him and the best way to handle it. I knew I would be better off without him, but I loved his family. His mother, aunt, and uncle treated my children and me like family—something I have missed since April 26, 1995, when my mom died.\nI had been driving a stick shift for years; my father taught me when I was 12 because my mom was a type 1 diabetic, and we didn’t have a better backup plan. She was a school bus driver; I was often the only person with her in the morning and afternoon for miles. I also had become a school bus operator for three years, and I was so comfortable behind the wheel of a stick shift that I decided to purchase a manual-geared car twice before.\nWell, here’s what I had planned. Step one stop at the bank for twenty dollars more; $40 would be enough to purchase all the slips, a hot dog, chips, and a drink. The wait for my turn at the ATM should have been enough time to know that I should have gone back home. Step two go to bingo. Step three was a coin toss. He goes if I didn’t win. Well, that is as far as the planning got.\nTwenty-five years and what seems like a lifetime ago, I was paralyzed in an accident. How does someone roll their car, going thirty-seven miles an hour on a straightaway? The simple answer is I don’t know how. That was the determination on the police report. For years I tried to figure out did I downshift before I hydroplaned. I had to; I was in the fast lane going nowhere, but bingo, not late, actually not even worried about being able to play the first 4 four games, the early birds, because after waiting my turn at the ATM, I decided against getting more money. \nWell, now I know that the accident saved my life in more ways than one. It slowed me down enough to enjoy life. Yes, life is different from the vantage point of a wheelchair, but I avoided a life-ending disease. Well, that’s extreme; maybe, but AIDS was still new in 98. I would never have been doing what I enjoy; quitting work was not an option back then. Yes, it took some disciplined to learn to survive on disability, but I can write about whatever I want, when I want to, so I have not worked since March 17, 1998." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: God had a better plan\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1006\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a plan that goes wrong, for the better." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Soleil had a good life growing up. She had dreams of having the perfect husband, two children, and a house with a white picket fence. She was a cheerleader, she had a good family and she was popular. Soleil also had plans to complete high school, go to college and become a professor. However during her senior year she got pregnant and had a baby boy after high school. With the help of her mom, Zarina, Soleil was able to go on to college. She was living her best life in college and things were going as planned until she went through a bad relationship and depression and ended up getting kicked out of school. She began to lose herself in this world and started experimenting with drugs to numb the pain. It started with a prescription drug for depression which had her out of her mind most days. Then she started smoking marijuana, drinking alcohol, and hanging with the wrong crowd. She had this one particular friend, Jacoby, who always came to smoke marijuana with her and since it was free, she figured why not. One day Soleil noticed Jacoby putting something white on the blunt as he was rolling it, but he was her \"friend\" so she didn't think anything about it. That night she got so high she was terrified. Her heart was racing and she was sweating profusely but it didn't stop her from doing it again because she was lost mentally and spiritually. A few months later she found out he was lacing the blunt with crack cocaine but by then she was used to it and her body craved it. She did some terrible things while in her addiction and some terrible things were done to her. She had a gun put to her head, she was almost raped, and she stole from those she loved. She even went to jail a few times.\nSoleil would get high in her mother's bathroom and then come out and try to look normal. She and her mom would have terrible fights because she thought her mom was always hard on her, not knowing at the time that her mom was stressed out from seeing her like that. Soleil would get high all night, sometimes for days, and when she would come down from her high she would cry and text her family asking for prayers. While in her addiction Soleil's dad was diagnosed with cancer and you would think that it would be a wake up call for Soleil but it wasn't. After she fed her father through a feeding tube, she would go get high. After she went to his doctor's appointments, she would get high. When they moved the hospice bed in, she got high. When her dad died, she was high and at the funeral she was high. Soleil stayed with a male family member for a while after her dad died and he tried to force himself on her many times. She began to look back over her life and this time she'd had enough.\nShe'd lost her home, her job, everything. But she never stopped praying and she never lost her faith. Soleil would get high while listening to gospel music and people around her would say that she was going to hell for that but she knew that only God was keeping her alive and healthy despite everything that she had done along the way.\nAfter 11 years on her self destructive journey, Soleil began to want more out of life. She had hit rock bottom and the only other way to go was up. Soleil soon met a man named Caleb who treated her differently, like she was somebody and she started to feel better about herself. It was time for change. Her plans hadn't worked out so it was time to surrender to God and let him guide her. After all, His plan is always better than ours. Soon Soleil was visiting her family again and getting better everyday. She had a good man and they were renting a house. Things were starting to look up. But one a month or two after the birth of her daughter, an old friend knocked on her door with a bag of crack cocaine. The temptation was too great and Soleil relapsed. This time she didn't have to steal to get drugs because people were bringing it to her. See the devil hates when he loses. Her boyfriend found out and told her family and he threatened to leave. She knew if she didn't get herself together she would lose everything. So she began to pray day and night for God to heal her from the inside out.\nShe prayed for God to take the desire to get high from her. Guess what? He did just that. It wasn't wasn't easy though and sometimes she dreamed she had drugs in her hand but she never got to use them. She always woke up. Her family wanted her to go to rehab but because she was raised in a close knit, loving family she couldn't bear the thought of being away from her family even though she was hardly ever around during her addiction.\nSoleil was literally fighting for her life, a better life. She went back to church and started feeling and looking better. She and Caleb got married and he treated her like a queen. She got a job in her local town but there were some people who wouldn't let her past be forgotten, but Caleb kept encouraging her to remain positive and go back to school. A few years later she reenrolled in college and completed a 2 year degree. She was active in her church and raising her children . Her prayers were answered when she got the job of her dreams. Life is good and Soleil is finally happy. Sometimes detours are necessary in life to get back on the right path. Soleil had a plan, but God had a better 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: When\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1655\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "WHEN\nAndy Pearson 2023©\n“When did you first fall for each other?” It’s the kind of question that gets asked with a tiny giggle. It gets asked at parties that guys don’t want to attend. Parties where people are eating pretty food from real plates. I was thinking about how I might watch the baseball game on my phone at that kind of party without appearing like I was watching. Then it was quiet, and everyone was eyeing me. \nOur host, Jennifer, smiled and asked the question again. “When did you first fall for each other?”\n People wearing blazers, and sitting on well-cushioned couches, think this is a cute question. I’d heard it before and knew that the answer should elicit oohs and ahhs. If you say something like, I don’t know, you’re not a romantic. So a cute story is called for even if it’s not technically true. \nI stood there trying to come up with a cute story, running our past through my mind like movie clips. The film in my mind jumped around like the projectors in high school showing a movie that had been run too many times. \nIdentifying the starting point of something is hard for me. Maybe my physics classes are the problem. Maybe that’s why I went into physics. Substance to atoms to protons to quarks and muons. It’s hard to know where to put a stop to it. I hemmed and hawed as the film clattered backward on the reel in my mind.\nWas it that day we were hanging out at that out-of-town track meet in high school? Lying on the mats soaking up the spring mountain sunshine. It might have been 50 degrees, but everyone was wearing shorts. Everybody telling jokes and sometimes throwing candy. Only a high school student can run track and eat candy at the same time. I would have been in tenth grade and you would have been in ninth. It’s a small school. There were artificial divisions like varsity and junior varsity, but everybody traveled and hung out together. You were poking me and making jokes about my fifth-place finish in the 880. I am not the fastest runner or the fastest thinker, but I always finish. I remember noticing your shorts that day. Maybe not your shorts, but your legs. I’m not certain I had seen them before. But today, I saw they were tanned. I remember looking at them without looking at them. \nWas this the moment? I don’t know.\nHowever, now that I think about it, it might have been on the bus ride back to school after that meet. Long day. Much sun. You dropped into the seat next to me. The two-hour ride just started when you fell asleep on my shoulder. I remember the feeling of you snuggling in during the ride. You twisted and turned until my arm was around your shoulders. You didn’t wake up after that. \nLooking around that quiet dark bus, you weren’t the only one asleep. Snores and drooping heads filled most of those green school bus seats. I was not asleep. Not a bit. I was wide awake trying to figure out this moment. \nThe bus pulled into the school lot. You woke up. Grabbed your bag. Didn’t say a thing. In the time it took me to get my tingling right arm to work, you were gone. \nWas that the start? I don’t know.\n Or did it start on that late summer fishing trip? Living down the street from, you and your brothers, we were a loose pack in the neighborhood. We were always together. Your dad loved to fish and he infected me with trout fever. He always wanted to leave early. Zero-dark-thirty he said. It became a joke for all of us. Being at the lake before first light was his plan. Every time. In the dark of the morning, there we were, four kids, two adults, and all that fishing gear trying to get loaded into his old yellow International pickup truck. We learned to bring our sleeping bags for the ride out to whatever far-flung body of water he wanted to explore. Crammed into the bed of the truck with tackle boxes, rods, reels, and coolers of food, we squished down into our bags and stared up at clear, dark mornings. Our plan was always to sleep for the drive. Sometimes we did. Mostly we complained about the hour, the chill of the morning, or the bumps in the road. Stuffed down into my sleeping bag, I realized you were in the next bag. I realized it the way an eleventh-grade boy realizes there is a tenth-grade girl with startlingly dark hair and light-blue eyes lying next to him. I’d known you for so long that I hadn’t thought about you for some time. You were just part of the landscape of my life. This time, I thought about you. Lying there, I realized that your dark hair always smelled like strawberries and your light-blue eyes shined when you laughed. \nWas this the start? I don’t know.\nMaybe it was the thousand moments growing up together. Birthday parties, classes, and just wandering the neighborhood in our pack. The rubbing together of two lives until an ember forms. A glowing spot that held heat before a puff of air turned it into flame.\nThe film in my head spun loose from the reel and whipped in a frenzied chattering circle. I tried another tactic to solve this question while the party and you stared at me over politely sized drinks. \nI might not know when something started, but I do know when something happened. I knew the instant something concrete happened. The time when everything changed. \nThe moment was the evening of Sept. 23. 1987. A hard data point. A random date when you think about it. After all, we’d known each other for years and then we ‘ran into’ each other at college. I’d gotten there a year ahead of you. \n Up until Sept. 23, 1987, we’d see each other around campus. We had lunches and dinners mixing with our new groups. I missed taking Psych 101 my freshman year, so we found we both had the class at 9 am, Mon-Wed-Fri. The large lecture hall was a cavern of anonymity and loneliness. Having someone to sit with was bliss. Someone to make inside jokes with when the professor wasn’t looking. Nothing, but two childhood friends passing the time while trying to pass a class.\nThen Sept. 23, 1987. In the study rooms at the big library. Not the first time we’d studied together. Why shouldn’t we study together? We had the same class. We were friends. We needed to pass Psych 101. So we were studying on that data point of a day in September. I was laughing at a bad joke when you tousled my hair. Not the first time you’d done that, but this time was different. You noticed too. Your hand slowed and you patted my hair back down. I grinned uncertainly at the barometric bounce in the atmosphere of the cubical. Turning back to my text, I said, “Well… I think we’ve got this figured out huh?” and closed my book. \nSmiling, you shook your black hair back and leaned over me. I could smell strawberries. You opened my book up and said, “I think we’ve got a bit more work to do. There’s a whole section we still need to go through, so settle down.” \nSlouching in my chair, I grinned and turned the page in my book. “Ok. Let’s see. Page 102. States of consciousness…” And we started quizzing each other.\nWhen we got to the end of the chapter, you stood up and started packing your backpack. I tilted my chair back on two legs and stretched out my arms and shoulders. That’s when it happened.\nYou were standing with your backpack slung across one shoulder. I was tilted back in my chair. You leaned down and kissed me. Not a pressed, passionate, hot-blooded moment. Not that at all. A relaxed kiss. A first kiss that was familiar in its newness. What should have been a surprise was a reminder.\nIn a comedic movie, I would have tipped over in my chair. In a romantic film, I would have pulled you in for a longer, more passionate moment. In this cinema verité, I simply smiled. I was still smiling when I lowered the chair legs down and gathered my books. You were waiting for me at the door of the study room.\nWalking back to the dorms was just like any other walk we’d been on and unlike any other walk, we’d been on. We just talked about… stuff. No moments of deep looks into each other’s eyes while waiting on the light at the crosswalk. Just chit-chat. Maybe we were walking a bit closer than normal. Maybe. I know I could feel you next to me even when we weren’t touching \nWe reached dorm row. The door to my dorm was on the right and yours at a right angle just a few feet away on the sidewalk. We were stopping and staring at each other. This was new. Normally, it was a quick ‘see ya’ and then through our doors. How to part now? How is parting done the first time?\nThen another kiss. This one had both of us in slow motion. New and already broken in. Comfortable.\n“I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.” You said and turned for your dorm. \n“Breakfast…. Yeah…. I’ll see you then.” I stuttered as you walked into your building. \nThe question at the party still had me stymied as I tried to figure out the cute answer. Everyone was quietly uncomfortably staring at me when you took my arm and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “I think it was before we both knew it.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Loved... and Lost\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2999\n\nPrompt:\n\nFly by the seat of your pants and write a story without a plan." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "*December 16, 2022 - *text message received*\n\n7:52pm: “We should talk…. come over.”\n\n…………….\n\nMidnight approaches. Paralyzed in thought and reminisce, Ria’s sitting on her walnut tan, leather sofa in her living room. Her eyes begin to water as she takes a sip of wine and delicately nurses the rim of her glass whilst staring out into the slow, rippling lake and trees covered in blankets of snow beneath the starry, night sky. As a single tear trickles down her cheek, Ria abruptly closes her eyes and sharply inhales. As she lets out a lengthy breath, she opens her eyes and takes another sip of wine.\n\nWith moments having passed by, she snaps out of her daze, places her wine glass on the round, glass coffee table and heads upstairs to her bedroom.\n\nAs she opens the doors to her room, she walks alongside her bed and makes her way to her bathroom. “You have to do this”, she reassures herself as she catches a quick glance of reflection in the bathroom mirror while turning to run her shower. As the water is getting hotter, she goes to her bedroom closet to find something to wear. She grabs an ivory, long-sleeved blouse and a pair of dark, skinny jeans and lies them across her teal, satin sheets.\n\nA few moments later, now finished with her shower, Ria wraps herself in a towel hanging from the other side of the shower glass, sliding door. She steps out onto the black, furry, floor mat and walks toward the bathroom mirror. Her ombre, brunette hair dripping wet, she begins to dry and style it. As she un-wands the last curl and unplugs the curling iron, she looks at herself in the mirror and forces a slight smile. She looks down at her leaf-shaped earrings lying on the white counter and as she cuffs her caramel curls behind her ears, she places them in. She opens the counter drawer for her makeup and applies her light brown, matte lipstick. Looking in the mirror, she reassures, “You can do this.” Ria finishes by applying brown eyeshadow and mascara, then proceeds to her bedroom to get dressed.\n\nRia glances at the distressed, white clock hanging above her headboard... 2am is approaching. She goes and grabs her black, trench coat from her closet and tosses her hair, with both her hands, as she buttons up. She bends down beside her footboard, grabs her black, heeled boots and puts them on.\n\nShe starts walking down the lightly dimmed, narrow corridor to her daughter’s room.\n\nShe opens the door to her daughter, Aurora, sound asleep, cradling her plush, Arthur doll and her TV left on the ending credits of Adam Sandler’s Eight Crazy Nights. Ria flicks the wall sconce on and as she saunters toward her, she stumbles on a curly-haired, Barbie doll, picks it up and places it atop the white, sideboard buffet next to the doorway. As she caresses the doll’s hair; she notices a drawing on the mirror… a family of 4. Ria feels a single ache in her heart and faintly sighs, causing a tear to drop onto the fluffy, white rug.\n\nShe turns to her sleeping daughter, concerningly.\n\nShe proceeds to the bed and sits next to Aurora, looking at her in adoration and guilt.\n\nRemembering the time, Ria sighs, turns to the nightstand and pulls the white-beaded string to turn on the lamp. She slides out the drawer and grabs Aurora some socks and underwear and lies them on the bed.\n\nRia then goes and opens the double doors of the closet and grabs a pair of black jeans and a white, long-sleeved shirt.\n\n“Mommy?”, an awakening Aurora asks sweetly, rubbing the sleep from her beautiful, dark brown eyes. “Yes?”, replies Ria, as she turns while shutting the closet doors and walking towards Aurora. “What are you doing?”, Aurora continues. Ria kneels and pauses while thinking of her next words, carefully. “We’re gonna go for a drive,” she replies with a smile, looking up at Aurora. “You wanna see Delilah?” she asks as she starts taking off Aurora’s SpongeBob pajamas. “Yes,” she exclaims with a big smile on her face, “and David?” “Yes, David, too.”, Ria assures, smiling, as she goes to pinch Aurora’s cheek with a wink. Aurora smiles as she put on her shirt and finishes fastening her jeans. “Your hat and gloves are on the dining room table.”, Ria reminds Aurora as Ria stands up and grabs Aurora’s polka-dotted coat from her bed post and her black boots beside the nightstand. “OK,” Aurora yawns, as she grabs her coat and boots from Ria and makes her way downstairs. Ria turns around and grabs the remote on the nightstand to turn off the TV and places it back. She then gets up and bends over to turn off the lamp.\n\nAs Ria’s heading towards the door, she pauses and takes another nostalgic look at the drawing taped to the mirror, before turning off the wall sconce. She walks out and closes the door behind her.\nSimultaneously, as Ria heads downstairs, Aurora’s tying the sparkly laces on her boots and putting on her coat.\n\nThe moment Ria turns the corner into the dining room, she wonders, “You want something to eat, before we go?” “No, thank you, Mommy. I’m just tired,” Aurora yawns while she puts on her black hat and gloves. “I’m sorry, I know, it’s late,” she regrettably expresses, “I’ll grab some blankets and a pillow for the car.” Ria hurries along the passageway near the entrance. She grabs 2 navy-blue, fleece blankets and a gray, throw pillow from the hallway closet and rushes back to the dining room to stuff them in an empty, black duffel bag lying beside the fireplace mantel.\n\n“You ready yet, Mommy?”, Aurora asks while bundled up and sitting at the dining room table. “Yes, baby, let’s go.”, Ria confirms as she’s zipping up the bag and signals Aurora toward the front door. Aurora stands up and puts on her coat’s hood as she walks down the passageway... Aurora opens the front door and walks to the car. Ria, not far behind her, grabs her keys and purse off the dark grey, console table beside the door and walks out to the car, locking the door behind her.\n\n3am approaches. As the gentle howls of the cool, forest breeze and the sound of the thin layer of snow-covered leaves crunching beneath her boots fill the air, Ria strolls to her car, as she notices the stars slowly clearing the sky.. Ria opens the driver’s side door and gets in, to an already-fastened Aurora, reclined on the passenger side. She tosses her purse in the backseat and knocks the snow off her boots as she props down, placing the duffel bag and keys on her lap. She closes the door and looks over at a half-asleep Aurora. Ria then unzips the duffel, grabs the fleece blankets, and lies them over Aurora, one after the other, as she tucks her. She then grabs the throw pillow, lightly props up Aurora’s head and gently nestles it between her and the headrest. Ria quietly places the duffel in the backseat and then starts the ignition. She turns on the heat and proceeds to defrost the car as she unfastens her trench coat and puts on her seat belt.\n\nSoon after the seatbelt clicks, Ria exhales, catching a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror as she turns on her windshield wipers and starts to drive.\n\n“Here we go...” she breathes, passing through the leaf-less trees of her driveway...\n\nSoon after Ria checks both ways and turns onto the main road, she looks over at Aurora still soundly sleeping and smiles. Driving down the road…, for miles, no car in sight… Occasional, Christmas décor and head beams lighting the night. Ria turns to Aurora and confesses, “You deserve better, kid.” “I know this, and I’m sorry… but, Mommy is trying,” she whispers, “…I miss them, too.” Ria concludes and lightly rubs Aurora’s leg. Ria gracefully sweeps her hand away onto the steering wheel as sentiments, bittersweetly, begin to fill her mind; her other elbow resting on the side of the door and her head resting on the palm of her hand.\n\n*Clips of the past start to play…*\n\n“Slow down, Delilah,” Aurora laughs as she chases Delilah around the playground. “Come catch meee!”, Delilah chuckles, running wildly towards the steps to the slide. Ria and David sitting on the park table, both grinning at the site of the girls.\n\nDelilah and Aurora are tucked in bed as Ria is sitting between them, reading them a bedtime story. Both of their heads rested on Ria’s shoulders. A few moments pass by as the girls are both smiling and begin nodding off. Ria finishes reading Disney’s Bedtime Favorites. Ria looks up to David, who’s watching in the doorway and smiles, before looking at the girls. Ria kisses both their heads and gently lies them on their pillows. She quietly crawls off the bed and turns the wall light off before walking out of the room with David, cracking the door behind her.\n\nRia just finished washing the dishes as David walks into the kitchen and goes to hug her from behind. They both start swaying to imaginary music as David grabs her soap-sudded hand, swiftly spins her around and pulls her in close as they slow dance. Ria rests her head on his chest.\n\n”Hey, I’m home.”, Ria says cheerfully as she hurries up the stairs to the bedroom with her luggage. As she throws her luggage down by the bed and takes off her coat, David comes from Delilah’s bedroom and passionately hugs her from behind. “I missed you,” he says as he holds onto her. He pulls her onto the bed and Ria holds onto his hand wrapped around her waist as they both fall asleep.\n\n”I love you,” Ria says. “I love you, too.” David says, as she hugs him from behind, resting her head on his back. *\n\n”Get her, get her!”, David yells as Delilah and Aurora energetically bombard a defenseless Ria with pillows. Meanwhile, Ria is shielding herself with her arms in the corner of the bedroom, laughing.\n\n”Will you marry me?”, David asks Ria with dewy eyes. “Yes,” Ria answers as tears of joy stream from her eyes.\n\nRia’s smile begins to fade.\n\n”I’m doing this for us, David, why can’t you just believe in me and support me?” Ria frustrates, “I just wanna feel like I have a voice and what I have to say could really help someone.” she continues. David scoffs, “That’s the problem, you wanna live in this fantasy world and worry about other people and we got our own life to worry about.\" “David…, just… please…, we’ll figure it out. Just trust me, ok? I really wanna do this and it’ll benefit all of us.”, Ria begs.” “What are you even writing about?”, David asks, pessimistically. After Ria enthusiastically explains, an unimpressed David just gives her a blank stare.\n\n“Why didn’t you tell me about these?”, Ria asks, shuffling overdue bills before showing David. “And what can you do? You’re not working. You can’t help me.”, David insults. “I can take out a loan. I can ask my family for help.”, Ria suggests. “That’s not enough.”, David argues, “And we’re already in debt as it is, we don’t need more.” “Don’t do that. Ok? I’m trying. And I gave up everything because you wanted us to move in with you. You knew I’d have to start over. And, if it’ll help until I get my writing off the ground then why not just –“ “Because we don’t need help or loans, we need you to work!”, David interrupts. “I can’t work, write AND be here for the girls like I am. You’re barely even here to spend time with them or watch them,” Ria frustrates, “I cook, I clean, I give them baths, I get them dressed, I’m the one teaching them, playing with them. Even when I had my job and my apartment, I was helping you all the time. All you do is work and relax, whenever you do decide to even come home. We’re supposed to be a team... I need help, too.” “…Yeah, you do.”, David insinuates. Ria scoffs.\n\n”Hey, girl, were you sleep?”, Ria asks David’s boss, on the phone, wiping the sleep from her eyes. “No, you’re fine, what’s going on?”, Lauren responds. “Sorry to call so late, but do you know if David is still working at the office? He was supposed to be home hours ago and he’s not picking up.”, Ria asks. “*silence* …I’m not sure, I’m sorry.”, Lauren replies. “Ok, sorry to bother you.”, Ria replies, “Goodnight.” “No, you’re fine, goodnight.”, she replies.\n\n”We should go out tonight. I have a babysitter for the kids for a few hours.”, Ria smiles anticipating David’s response. “I’m not really in the mood, why don’t you go with your girl friends?”, he replies. “David, we haven’t been on a date in 3 months.”, Ria worries. “I’m tired...”, David responds.\n\n”This isn’t working. Maybe moving you in was a mistake. Maybe.. we need to take a break.” David concludes.\n\nAs Ria pulls behind David’s car in the shoveled driveway. She looks out as it began to sleet and clears her throat, trying to brush off her depressing thoughts.\n\nRia checks her wristwatch. It’s almost 4am. She turns off the car and looks over at Aurora, still sleeping.\n\nShe quietly grabs her keys out the ignition, grabs her purse from the backseat floor, opens the car door, and gets out. Flinching at the sleet of snow falling from the sky, she shuts the car door and carefully tiptoes her way through the snow toward the salted porch. She reaches in her coat pocket for her phone. “We’re here”, she texts David as she reaches under the porch lights. She looks over at Aurora in the car, as she waits for David to open the door. He opens the door.\n\n“Hi,” they both say, nervously.\n\n“Do you mind getting Aurora? she’s asleep in the car, I’d feel bad for waking her again.”, Ria directs. “Sure.”, David answers as he grabs his coat from the hook beside the doorway. While he’s putting on his coat and hurrying to get Aurora, Ria briefly looks back then heads to the living room, lit by the fireplace. She unbuttons her coat, folds it onto the arm of the black, cushioned sofa and sits across on the accent chair, pondering. She hears the car door shut. “I’mma lay her in the room with Delilah.”, David says, as he comes in cradling Aurora. Ria nods and smiles, “OK.”\n\nDavid shuts the door, quietly walks up the spiraling, white stairs and heads toward Delilah’s room. He carefully lies her on the empty bed, aside Delilah’s. He unravels the cold blankets on her and tosses them in the corner of the room by the door. He then gently takes off her coat and boots and places them on the taupe, hardwood floor. He grabs the white, folded blanket at the bottom of the bed and covers her.\n\nHe walks out of the room and makes his way back downstairs to the living room.\n\nHe walks in to Ria patiently still sitting on the sofa, gazing at the fireplace...\n\n“You look beautiful.”, he says as he admires her by the archway. “Thanks”, she replies, looking around, “Seems like you’ve been well.” “Yeah, I’ve been doing better.” David laughs, scratching his head. “Without us?” Ria worries. “That’s uh….” David stutters, “How’ve you been?” “Still writing. My book became a New York’s best seller. I wanted all of us to celebrate, but you never answered my calls.” Ria wonders. “Yeah, I’ve been busy lately. But I’m happy for you, really. You really did it. That’s, that’s good. I’m proud of you.”, David says as he sits down on the black, cushioned sofa. “Yeah, I did it.” Ria confirms, discontent. “I started to think you weren’t gonna come.” David expresses. “Yeah, I just needed time to think, that’s all.”, she replies. “After 5 months, I'm surprised you have more to think about.”, David laughs.\n\nAs a tear falls from Ria’s eye, she stands up, walks in front of him and kneels. Looking up with tears beginning to flow from her eyes, she grabs David’s hands and chokes, “Be with me.” She shrugs her shoulders and lets out a soft chuckle while looking at David’s face. Anticipating his response, she cries, “I feel like I lost my best friend… Aurora misses you... I miss you. I miss how we used to be.” Ria gains some composure though tears continue to roll down her face. She sniffs and professes to David, “I wanna be a family again and whatever I need to do, I’ll do it. I just don’t wanna live without you. I love you.”\n\n“I….”, overwhelmed and slightly turned on, David lifts her on his lap, pulls the back of her head towards his and passionately kisses her.\nAs they start to strip, keys jingle and the front door unlocks…\n\nThe door opens and the sound of luggage rolls in.\n\nThe front door quietly closes and footsteps head toward the living room…\n\n“David?!”, a woman yells as David and Ria both turn around, startled.\n\n“Lauren?!”, Ria exclaims, jumping up. She looks down and notices Lauren’s pregnant with a ring on her finger, “No.”, she shakes her head, in disbelief, and cries as it all begins to hit her.\n\nLauren storms out of the house and heads to her car.\n\n“Lauren!”, David yells as he runs after her. Lauren pulls off before he can stop her. He comes back in and slams the door.\n\nAs Ria’s shock dissipates, she looks over at David turning around toward her….\n\n“I’m married...”, David sighs, “...that’s what I wanted to tell you.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Southern Heartbreak\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1491\n\nPrompt:\n\nFly by the seat of your pants and write a story without a plan." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Southern Heartbreak\nIt was a crisp cold night. I lay up here holding my beautiful wife, Leanna. Her beauty revealed itself even deeper to me through the whole in the roof under the moonlight. I had neva seen or eaten chocolate before, but I heard a description about it once being rich in flava, smooth as molasses and so sweet tast'n that it brings you to a sudden and instant joy. A feeling I felt every time Leanna’s smooth skin embraced mine. The crickets sang dey song. The frogs joined in for an amphibious sympathy.\nIt was like music to a fresh love that she and I shared. My favorite thing about Leanna was ha jet black hair. It sat on top of her head, coiled up on top in two braids with pieces of curled-up hair on each side of her face. Her hair danced back and forth as I rubbed my strong but scarred hands on her face. We lay on the dirt floor, keeping each other warm with a knitted quilt that momma sowed for us. She had woven this with her 80-year-old hands for a wedding gift.\nYou see, Leanna and I had just jumped the broom 2days ago. I was ready to be her husband from the first time I saw her by that rusted water well-fetching water in the hot and scorching Georgia sun. I wanted to always protect and love her with no fear. Watch our children be born, and although the world was cruel, be loved by they big strong daddy and beautiful momma.\n\n\"Marsell, do you think we will be ok?\" she asked, looking up into my eyes at those big beautiful, pitch-black pupils.\n\n\"I'm going to do my best to protect ya, Leanna. I love you so much, woman. Now come on, let's rest up,\" I squeezed her body tightly and closely to mine as we slept soundly.\n\nOn the inside, I hurt so bad. I knew that our fate was in another man’s hands. The look in Leanna’s eyes had given me a drive that was stronger than my heartbeat, responsible for my very existence which I cared nothing about. She was my existence. She was why I lived.\nThe Day Unseen\nWaking up next to Leanna, tasted and smelled like freedom. Calculating by the mental clock in my head, I could feel that there were a couple minutes until sunup. We lay there in each other’s love as the rooster crow at sunrise. She kissed my lips warmly and gently and planted kisses of love into my strong and hard chest as she kissed my heart.\n\n\"Quick Masta is coming fo ya son! Sharpen up!\" My daddy ran into the little brown shack that barely held its own foundation up.\nWe all line up in order starting with the men to the women.\n\n\"Good morning y'all,\" Masta said walking back and forth as the rickety floorboards creaked. He had some strange red-bearded man with him. I could feel my palms begin to sweat.\n\n\"This boy here is the finest buck I got. Marsell is strong and extremely handsome, and he just got married to that little beautiful nappy-headed winch ova there, Leanna.\n\nI burned with rage, as the men admired my wife’s beauty, but I could not react because I didn't want to bring trouble on the others who lived here also. I could see my poppas’ eyes begin to fill with tears because there was nothing, he could help his son.\n\"Marsell, you coming to the big house with me for a while,\" Masta motioned for me to come along.\n\n\"Please, masta, don’t sell me. I'll work harder for ya,\" I was grown man having to beg this man who held the rights to my life.\n\n\"I'm not gonna sell ya boy. I would be crazy to do that. Why you're the strongest nigga I got. I'm just going to use you for breeding for this fine-paying gentleman right here. With your look and brown complexion, you’d give Eliza a fine baby. Her good hair and fair skin will make a fine baby that will be a beautiful fine house nigga for looks. After that, you can come to Leanna. I promise yo granddaddy on his death bed that if you got married, I would never sell you or this pretty wife of yours. Know, if anybody knows one thing Marsell. it is that your master is a man of his word na,\" He patted me on the back as we walked as if I was a dog or something.\n\nWalking off, I could hear Leanna's low whimpers and sobs as momma and daddy comforted her. As I walked from the fields to the big house, I could see the instant transformation of scenery. The grass seemed greener as the red dirt clay road led to the white building and huge brown oak doors. Walking through the front door was so foreign to me. I had lived on the land all my life and had never seen the inside of this place.\n\n\"Yo daddy and his brothers build this house with their bare hands Marsell. You should be proud. Ladies, take him to the breeding room,\" he said, giving me a fancy white glass with a brown, strong-smelling liquid inside.\n\n\"Welcome to the big house Marsell,\" The ladies snickered while admiring my physique and sweaty clothes as we walked down the long hallway.\n\nI kept silent. All I could do was think of my sweet wife and how I was the only man that ever touched her smooth chocolate skin, I had left her, but not by choice. I would rather have been beaten a thousand times than hurt her like this. This was not the first time Masta had used me to breed a baby. I was 16 the first time this happened. That time was with a girl in the fields who was sold off late in pregnancy, so I never knew nothing about my child.\n\n\"Well, what are you waiting on boy? Eliza is a beautiful Mulatto gal, that nappy-headed winch you got is extremely beautiful, in fact, if yo master didn't love you so much. I'd be going right on down there while you here with my gal,\" The red-bearded man laughed encouraging me to drink the strong, brown-smelling liquid.\n\nI wanted to kill this mutha fucka right on the spot. In my head, I had done it already, a thousand times. I walked into the room feeling uneasy and lightheaded from the drink. She lay on the bed as her long black hair flowed down the side of her light shoulder. Her body was covered in a white sheer gown. I felt nothing because this wasn't beauty to me.\n\n\"Marsell, you shol are handsome, the most handsome man I'd ever bred with. You are educated too. Don't be afraid to touch me. We’re gonna make a beautiful baby that will make Masta proud,\" She walked toward me and began to rub all over me and kiss me everywhere.\nShe had this seductive way about her. She was not innocent like Leanna, in fact, everything about her body language and words were very opposite. This seems like a normal thing for her which made me feel bad for her in a way. She had no control over this. Although, my heart was with my wife. Her nature led me straight into passion and ecstasy.\nI got dressed right away in an attempt to get back to Leanna. I had no words for Eliza, she had asked me to stay a bit longer with her. I can imagine she had lacked attention, which I could tell by her inner anatomy, and so I did, but I had one thing on my mind. I lay there for a little while listening to her life story. I kissed her on the forehead and rushed back home with the thought of the baby that would be born from Eliza's womb in 9 months. I wanted to come home and give my wife the same advantage for that would be done out of the strongest love ever known to man.\nThe rain began to pour down. As I got closer to home, I could hear the loud cries from several women, but more distinctly my mother. The rain beat my eyelids down, but as I got closer. I could see Leanna's life’s body lying in my mother’s breastplate. I shuffled to the ground and began to grab her body. I checked for a heartbeat. I felt nothing. I cried out to my mother.\n\"Momma, what happened!\" It felt as if my heart was ripped right out of my chest. I rocked her back and forth, cradling her like a baby in my arms as the rain and my tears continued to fall endlessly.\nMy dad touched my shoulder softly and gently.\n\"Son, I'm afraid Leanna has died from heartbreak." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Two of Me...\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1746\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a plan that goes wrong, for the better." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“That boy’s death is on me!” Farrell tossed papers on his desk and flopped in his chair. He rubbed his now crimson forehead as if doing so would relieve his frustration. His anger seemed to raise the temperature in his office. This caused Ross to wipe his brow knowing there wasn’t anything he could say to his partner to change the situation.\n“We don’t have any witnesses?” Ross delicately asked.\n“Oh no, we gotta whole funeral home full of witnesses! That’s not the problem! The problem is the witnesses won’t talk!\nFarrell wasn’t exaggerating. And yet, they both should have known it came together too fast. In less than two weeks, the detectives had a lead on Anthony Thomas, spooked him upon his arrival from the military to bury his grandmother, and took his statement and confession for the bodies in the waterfront building. Only to have the coroner bag the top of his head separately from his body when taken to the morgue.\nRoss came up with a plan.\n“So, we gotta get back to basics. Check to see what the lab was able to gather from the crime scene and work from there. We should go to the Martin’s house. Lean on the pastor and his wife a bit. Check out the Watt’s house. Look for clues. It ain’t over yet.”\nThose words seemed to calm Farrell a bit.\nOr at the very least fuel him. \n****\n“Do I have to light a fire under your ass?” The voice on the other end barked. “I’m not sure why you are still in town?!”\nMalik Douglas sucked his teeth before barking back, “Because up until this phone call right here, I thought I was ‘sposed to lay low.”\n“That’s before they started investigating”, Sticks continued rather nonchalant. Now you have to go.”\n“Moms is due any min…”\n“Stacey has Dennis, and you have many years to get to know your sibling but you gotta be free, right?”\nMalik huffed.\n“Exactly. Now go downtown, there’s a locker in my name that has your to-go kit. Further instructions will follow.”\nMalik had every intention of following Sticks’ orders, but there were things he wanted to do first.\nAnd he was determined to do them.\n****\nThe phone rang again, and it was growing tiresome. That mood was obvious when the phone was answered.\n“What!?” \nIt was a growl Sticks was getting used to.\nUnfortunately.\n“Good to hear your voice too.” Sticks attempted the playful banter.\nBut Jasmine wasn’t having it.\n“You know what Sticks, I would say it was nice to hear your voice too, but I have been hearing it over a dozen times a day every day. It’s almost like you don’t trust me to get shit done. You told me to get it done, but I can’t get it done with you calling. I’m all by myself here, so you have to give me time to get ...things... done.”\n“Jazz, baby, that’s about to change. I’m sending you help.”\n“Oh, now you’re gonna send me help. You should’ve left Man here like I asked you too. Now, with the house almost all packed up, you’re gonna send him back?!”\n“No, there’s been a change of plans. We’re gonna leave about two bedrooms empty.”\n“We what? We who? But more importantly, we why?”\n“You are gonna have company for a bit.”\nWith that the cell beeped, and the call disconnected.\n****\nOut of habit, Farrell parked the car down the street from Pastor and Betty Martin’s home. \nRoss looked at him skeptically.\n“Do you think they’re gonna make a run for it?” \nFarrell sighed and flicked off the engine.\n“Why you always gotta be an asshole? I don’t want them to see us because then they have time to get their stories straight.”\n“The pastor and his wife?” Ross again asked sarcastically.\n“The brother of Sticks Martin. The parents of a murder suspect or at the very least a witness. Besides if I am not mistaken, this was your idea.”\nThe pair walked up the Martin’s walk greeted by the Pastor opening his front door. Upon noticing the detectives stepping onto his porch, he rolled his eyes.\nLuke then opened the screen door, broom in hand, stepped out, and began sweeping leaves. \n“Gentlemen.”\nHe had no desire to make eye contact.\nSo he didn’t.\nRoss spoke first extending his arm to shake hands, “Mr. Martin. My name is…”\n“I know who you are, Detective.”\nAgain no eye contact while he continued sweeping.\nIrritated by the lack of respect, Farrell interjected.\n“Good, so we’ll get right to the point then, Luke.”\nIt was at that point that Luke gave his first lethal glare.\n“I am a pastor. Show me some respect, Detective.”\n“Okay then, Pastor Martin, do you mind…”\n“Are you a member of my congregation, Detective?”\nLethal glare number two.\nCombined with a dramatic pause sharply ended by Luke still sweeping leaves into a small pile forming in the corner.\n“I’m going to assume your silence as a no. In that case you may call me Mr. Martin. To save us all some time, Detectives, I know why you are here:\nNo Betty and I were not at the church when the shooting occurred.\nNo, I have not heard anything about who may be involved.\nI have not seen my son Rondell since that day.\nNor do I know his whereabouts.\nBetty poked her head out of the door and interjected.\n“And no one has seen Samuel either.”\nLethal glare number three.\n“Don’t you do that, Luke, it’s true. Maybe y’all be better off talkin to the Douglas boy. That’s if he’s still around.”\nLethal glare number four.\nBetty grunted in defiance and shut the front door. The clicking of the locks seemed to echo.\nLuke angrily tossed his broom onto the wooden floor of the porch.\n“Excuse me, Detectives, I now have to walk around my house to the back door to get a bag for these leaves.”\nRoss moved aside, but Farrell’s bulbous stature didn’t allow room for Luke to go down the porch steps.\nLast lethal glare.\nFarrell moved aside.\n“Good day, Detectives.”\n****\nIt was unspoken. If family, friends or neighbors came to visit, they entered through the back door. Even if the visit migrated to the front porch, the salutations started in the back. \nHugs and meals were provided in the kitchen.\nAnd you had to eat.\nOr at the very least have something to drink.\nWith a piece of pound cake.\nThe family also congregated there. Overflow was in the dining room. And if company came, they sat in the front room.\nNo one called it the living room.\nCuz the life happened elsewhere in the house.\nSo, when Malik came in and found the kitchen empty, he stopped and listened.\nThe only sound that could be heard was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room.\nIt seemed so loud.\nJust then his cell vibrated.\nThat also seemed to echo.\nIt was a text from Dennis.\nIf you get this, your Mama is in labor.\nMalik sighed and rushed back out the door and headed to the downtown hospital. He had already texted Dennis back and told him to meet him outside, and he hoped he didn’t have to wait very long. Malik didn’t know how accurate Stick’s information was, but sitting out in the open was not a good idea. He decided to walk down a cement path leading to a bus stop. This way he could blend in.\nThat’s when he saw Dennis.\nWho could not blend in if he wanted.\nHe was lightly jogging and waving.\nShouting “Aye”.\nWith a neon- pink, stuffed giraffe tucked under his arm.\nMalik couldn’t help but smile.\nApparently he has a little sister.\nShit.\n“Leek, you sure made it down here fast,” Dennis said while extending his free arm to shake hands. Malik smiled and took that arm to pull Dennis into a man-hug.\n“Congratulations D. How’s Ma?”\nDennis’ head danced back and forth as he and Malik walked up the sidewalk to the hospital entrance.\n“Pissed at me.”\nBefore Malik could wrinkle his face in confusion Dennis went on to explain.\n“Stace…your mother, didn’t want any pain medication because of…”\nDennis’ voice trailed off purposely as they were nearing people.\n“Yeah I know.” Malik, fully aware of his mother’s former addiction, agreed.\n“But she was in so much pain. So I discussed it with the doctor, and finally we all agreed that she should get an epidural.”\nThey entered the elevator and Malik began to chuckle at the wide-eyed, smiling, neon animal still tucked under Dennis’ arm.\n“So, I have a sister, huh?”\nLike he forgot his manners, Dennis began stammering, “Oh, oh, shit. My bad Leek, yeah we have a baby girl. Six pounds nineteen inches long. A little beige, but your mother checked the …edges of her ears? Anyway, she said she would brown up. Said you were almost as beige. Now look at chu!”\nAs they exited the elevator and Malik followed Dennis to his mother’s room, he stopped abruptly.\n“D?”\nDennis stopped and whipped his head around confused.\n“Yeah Leek, what’s the matter?”\nLeek chuckled, “Does the baby have a name?”\n“No.” Dennis said matter of fact then smiled confusing Malik.\n“No?”\n“No. Your mother said she’d wait for you to get here cuz she wanted you to name her.”\nGood thing he decided not to listen to Sticks.\nStacey was wide awake and jovial when they walked into the room. She did, however, roll her eyes at Dennis.\n“Another one?”\nMalik didn’t realize what she was referring to until he glanced at the corner of the room. It looked like a Pepto- Bismol bottle exploded at the zoo. He whipped his head around and raised his brow at Dennis.\nWhose only defense was to laugh.\n“Aye she’s my first. I’m allowed to get carried away,” he explained as he found a place to prop the animal.\n“Where’s the baby?” Malik asked.\nStacey pointed to the tiny plastic basinet. Inside was a tiny bundle swaddled in a pink blanket. With one look at his little sister’s sleeping face, Malik, smiled and named her. \n“Atiya.”\nThen he kissed his mother on the cheek and walked out. He hated to do it this way, but he had no other choice.\nHe had to do what needed to be done.\nWith that he headed downtown." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lost & Found\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1029\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two people falling in love via email." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\" Dad, can you pick me up? I don't feel good. My heart hurts.\"\n\" Honey, you only have two hours remaining, be strong, I know you can do it.\"\n\" But my teacher was mean to me and now I'm sad.\"\n\" I can't pick you up again today. You need to put your big girl panties on and soldier on.\"\n\" Also, Dad, I lost my Hello Kitty backpack.\"\n\nAfter I pushed 'end call'; I opened Google, \" How do you send an email to county jail?\" I want to love someone, someone who will love me and take care of me. I want to sing duets with Denis- he can sing the John Travolta part while I sing the Olivia part. But I don't know how to tell him 'You're the One that I Want'. \n'Showing 85,00 results, Search instead for'…. none of which actually helps me. My heart hurts a little more until I realize that I typed 'tail' instead of 'jail'. God. I am so sloppy. \nMy dad doesn't understand me. I heard him say that he believes that I will live with him and mom forever. God I can't think of anything worse. I'm not though. Even my doctor believes me when I say that I am going to marry Denis one day. I like my doctor because he is nice and he gives me medicine. \n--------------------------------------------------------------- \n\nDear Denis, December 27, 2019\nLast weekend I watched A Man, A Prisoner, and Quilting. Wow. It's so unbelievable. I guess that's why CNN wanted to document the insanity, plus it helps that you are so good looking and charming. 😉You also have such a great body. How often do you work out? Is there a Peloton in jail? I love my Peloton. What is your leaderboard name? We should be friends. My favorite instructor is Denis. He spells his name the same as you. Oh, BTW my name is Amanda but my friends call me Mandy. Also, I am 18 years old and in my last year of high school. What were you like in school? \n\nPS- I've never done anything like this before. I'd really like to be friends. I hope you get this. \nPPS- Also, your quilts are really beautiful. I quilt too, luckily, I have my own scissors, well several pairs actually. When you had to keep asking the prison guard for your scissors it made me mad. \n♥️♥️♥️\n\ndear amanda feb 1, 2021\nthank you for your email. can you load $200 on my prison commissary? i can't eat another bologna sandwich. i will write more later. gotta go\nG4075-68\n\nDear Denis, February 1, 2021\nYay! Oh my Goodness! My friends and family all told me I was crazy for emailing you over a year ago. They offered me a million reasons why you wouldn't respond. They said things like he probably doesn't know how to read, or maybe he got shanked. I always felt that I would hear from you. I knew it in my heart. 💗\nI am embarrassed to admit this, but I don't know how to do what you asked. I'm not saying I won't. I tried to Google \"how to load a prisoner's commissary?\" \n\nPS- I've watched A Man, A Prisoner, and Quilting like ten more times. It's so funny when you say that thing about smiling. \nPPS- Is that a lightning bolt tattoo? I am so jealous. I want a dragon tattoo but my dad says only sailors and circus performers have tattoos. Do you like cats? \n♥️♥️♥️\n\ndear amanda, feb 2, 2021\nmy homie got a hold of a drill and spit out that lightning bolt real fast. hurt like a mother. are you one of them religious types or what? send pics\nhow to load prison commissary link\nG4075-68\n\nDenis, February 3, 2021\nYou are so funny. Did you get the $300 I put on your commissary? Did you get the pictures? I used a new App to swap your face with my uncles, now it looks like we went to Disney World together. If you won a trip to anywhere in the world, where would you go? Since we are friends now, you can call me Mandy. Do you have a nickname? What is your favorite movie? Have you ever fainted?\n\nWhat do you mean 'religious types'- I don't think so. I think I am just like everyone else; my family believes in God and Jesus and stuff. Mom says that if I do something bad, all I need to do is ask for forgiveness and everything is all-good. \nAnderson made me very mad when he called your case 'suspicious'. I don't believe that you poisoned that teacher. In fact, I know you didn't. There is no way that you did any of the stuff that they are accusing you of. Besides, just ask God for forgiveness. \nI can't remember, do you have any children? What sign are you? I'm a Gemini.\n♥️♥️♥️\n\ndear mandy- feb 3, 2021\n you look pretty in your picture. where do you live? maybe you can visit. \nG4075-68\n\nBig D- Feb 5, 2021\nIt was so great seeing you, especially now I know the origins of your nickname 🍆(hahaha). It didn't hurt as badly as I imagined.\nI know you said you need $200 every week for commissary, but I can only afford $100. Is that okay? Please don't leave me. I think I love you.\nHave you ever eaten a Lion bar? They are so good. Last year when my dad took me on vacation to Europe, I discovered them. Hopefully one day we can go on a vacation together, maybe even a honeymoon, but not somewhere where people wear flip flops, looking at other people’s feet disgusts me. Eww.\nPS- I keep forgetting to ask you, what is your favorite color? \n♥️♥️♥️\n\nThe Herald Headline: \nPolice found a Hello Kitty backpack with a bloody name badge that once belonged to former teacher, Kelly James. \nLocal teenager Amanda Blue Collins has been arrested for poisoning her teacher. Shortly after Collins' arrest Ms. James' former boyfriend was released. Denis Campbell spent four years in jail awaiting trial." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Vase\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1307\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a first or last kiss." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Then there's Mama. She was a cruel woman. Everyone got a slice of her tongue. She spoke few words but when she spoke, the words were fire and ice. Papa, the strongest man I have ever seen was weak and sad when he was with her. He couldn't stop the fire from her tongue. When she was finished, he would come out of her room with his head bowed and his knees shaking. I asked why he let her do that to him. All he could do was shake his head and say \"I love her. She wasn't always that way.\" He'd pull out the wedding picture and cradle it in his arms as though it were a holy object that would break. \"See how beautiful she was, Rona?. Her blonde hair with the violets in them. The soft white dress she wore and her beautiful smile. I always told her it could light up the room. \" I looked at the picture as I had a thousand times before. This was a different Mama: a young woman who had the love of her life standing next to her. \"Papa, you look so handsome. I haven't seen your smile in a long time. \" I put my hand on his arm.\n\"Rona, my smile was all goofy teeth and tongue tied. I was so happy to marry your mama I couldn't talk. I almost forgot how to say I do when the preacher asked me. Maureen's smile lit up the room and her laughter carried my nerves away. She squeezed my hand and said, 'I do too, George!\"\nLater, we heard glass breaking as Mama started throwing whatever she could find. The door to her room was always closed but we always knew what she was destroying. Last time, it was a vase that we gave her for her birthday. She had actually smiled when she got it and the first thing she did was fill it with yellow roses from Papas rose garden. The fragrance filled the house. We were smiling for a week. After that, the fragrance faded, and the roses withered away. So did Mama's mood. I asked her if she wanted me to go out and pick more roses for her. She gave me that look, the one filled with knives and darkness. She grabbed the roses out of the vase and started to tear them up. When she was finished, the dead rose petals were strewn all over the house like a torn feather mattress. The smell of decay was pervasive. The vase lay on its side but was somehow, not broken. I picked it up and took it to my room. When Papa came home, he saw the mess. I was sitting on the stairs opposite Mama's closed door, listening for any sound coming from within. There was only silence. When Papa opened her door, the darkness fell out of the room like a load of dirt. The anger and loneliness lingered in the air and smelled like filth.\n\"Mo, what can I do for you, honey?\"\n\"Stop calling me Mo.\"\n\"Sorry Maureen. It's just..Mo is the pet name that you wanted me to call you. I...I love it so.\"\n\"Get out George.\" He closed her door gently as he left the room, He saw me sitting on the stairs. \"It's ok, Rona, Mama needs some time.\"\n\"I know, Papa.\"\nHe hugged me. .\"Are you hungry?\"\n\"Yes, Papa, I didn't have lunch.\"\nPapa sighed. \"You must be starving. How 'bout we go and get a hamburger and vanilla shake?\"\n\"Sounds good Papa!\" I took his hand. \"But what about Mama? She must be hungry too!\"\n\"We'll bring back a burger for her.\"\nPART 2-\nMy brother Garret hasn't been seen for a year. Mama kicked him out when he was sixteen. Papa tried to keep him home, but Gar had had enough. Mama told him he was worthless since he wasn't helping to earn a living. Garret told her he would get a job after school. She told him, why go to school when all you can get are c+? You should be a man and put food on the table.\nAfter that, he ran to his room and started packing. All he had was his baseball mitt, a few t shirts and his overalls. He put on his sneakers, but he had outgrown them. I ran to Papa's closet and grabbed a pair of Papa's shoes. He tried them on but they were too big. \"It's ok, Rona. They'll fit if I wear 2 pairs of socks. \" He grabbed his bag and ran down the stairs. \"Gar!! Do you have to go? Stay. She'll get better, she always does! what about your math test tomorrow? Gar!\"\n\"Bye Rona!\" He yelled as he ran out the door. He was staying in a boarding house in the next town. Papa sent him money and clothes sometimes. Once, he sent a pair of new boots. When he didn't hear from Garret for a few weeks, he went to Ms. Emily's boarding house. Ms. Em said Gar left after Mama called him. He told Ms. Em that Mama was angrier than he ever heard so he ran away. Papa saw the boots. They were still in the box. When he brought them home, he put them in the back of his closet., hoping that Gar would come home. The boots, like the wedding picture were just a memento of how Papa wanted things to be: full of false hope and empty happiness. Mama found them. She left them in pieces on Papa's bed, along with the knife she used to cut them with.\nThey hadn't spoken for a month afterwards. Papa went to work and lived his usual routine, I went to school every day and sat by myself at lunchtime, away from the other children. I had taken the wedding picture out of Papa's room when he wasn't looking. When I took out my sandwich, I removed the picture from my book bag. She was a stranger, this lady with a smile and violets in her hair. I asked Papa once, why she is the way she is now, what had changed? He always told me he didn't know but deep down, under all that sadness, he kept the truth buried.\nMama, meantime, stayed in her darkened room, only coming out for food. Later, Papa found that she used pails for her toilet, then empty bottles, then the rug.\nMama finally came out of her room, took a long hot shower and washed her clothes. It took us two weeks to clean her room. We opened her windows, dusted her furniture with lemon Pledge, and washed her sheets with bleach. When we finished, the room was sunny and fresh smelling. The spots in the carpet never went away and are a constant reminder of what Mama had done. I put a small round table over one of the spots and moved her rocking chair over another one. I was pleased, the little table and rocker were by the window and gave a nice sunny place for Mama to sit. I went out and picked some roses for her vase and placed it on the little table.\n\"Can I show her, Papa?\" He nodded. \"Mama, come see what we did.\" She let me take her by the hand and show her the peaceful little nook we'd made for her. She sat in her rocker and smelled the roses. \"Rona, come sit with me, honey.\" I sat down beside her and placed my head in her lap. It was a good day. Papa smiled and sat on her bed. We sat, with peace and quiet as company. She motioned over to Papa. As he reached down, they kissed, as if for the first 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: Jakob and Leena\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1874\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a successful marriage proposal, or one that goes horribly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Jakob?”\n\n“Yes, Leena.”\n\n“Did you get the newspaper? It should be here by now.”\n\n“Not today, my love. You were so tired.”\n\n“I’m never too tired to read to you.”\n\nIn sixty years, Jakob had never won an argument with his wife, and he was sure he wasn’t going to win this one either. He went to the front door, opened it, and picked up the daily newspaper from the mat.\n\nA generation prior, Jakob’s and Leena’s parents came from Uglich, a rural Russian town. Their families had lived three streets apart, yet were strangers until the day Jakob first met Leena at a movie house in Brooklyn.\n\nJakob, sixteen at the time, spoke with a thick Russian accent. He had been in America for a little over a year and had no time for school, as he was the primary breadwinner for his family. Leena, on the other hand, had spent all of her fifteen years in America and spoke perfect New York City English, a fact made evident when Jakob tried to park in front of the theater where Leena worked taking tickets.\n\n“What’s the big idear? You can’t pahk ya cah here.”\n\nJakob was instantly taken by the pretty young girl who put r’s where they didn’t belong and removed them from where they did.\n\n“I am Jakob.” He smiled. “I not be here long.”\n\n“You mean you won’t be here long.”\n\n“Yes, that’s what I said.”\n\n“No, you said—nevermind. Just move your cah.”\n\nJakob did nothing of the kind. In truth, dropping off the daily paper to the newsstand should not have taken more than a minute, but on that day, he dillied and dallied as long as he could, all the while smiling at Leena.\n\n“You’ll be here tomorrow, yes?” Jakob asked as he walked back to the delivery truck.\n\n“Tomorrow is Monday. I’ll be in school,” Leena answered with a huff. She was annoyed by the handsome young delivery driver. Yet something about his smile made it harder by the second to stay so. “I only work on weekends.”\n\n“Then Jakob will see you Saturday.” With a tip of his cap, he was gone.\n\nWhen Saturday arrived, Leena wasn’t sure what she was hoping for. She was intrigued by the boy who smiled, and she was more attracted to his broken English than she would have expected. He was rough around the edges and not the kind who normally turned her head. \n\nSo why had she thought about him nonstop for a week?\n\nJakob handed the daydreaming teen a newspaper. “This is for you.”\n\n“What? Why are you giving me this?” \n\n“Because paper has all the news of the world—anything you want to know is in there.”\n\n“Thank you, Jakob,” Leena responded with an unexpected smile.\n\n“You very welcome. Miss...” Jakob leaned forward, hoping the pause would have the desired effect.\n\n“Leena. My name is Leena.”\n\n“You very welcome, Miss Leena. I see you tomorrow.”\n\nAnd thus began a tradition. Every Saturday and Sunday, Jakob would bring Leena the newspaper and they would talk. Very early on, they discovered the coincidence of their families’ hometown. Leena loved it when Jakob told her stories of Uglich with its cobblestoned streets and brightly colored buildings. Leena, in turn, would read Jakob stories from the paper. In the beginning, she did this because he hadn’t yet learned to read English. Over time, though, she grew to love reading to Jakob, and he loved the sound of her voice.\n\nOne day, Jakob broke the routine and asked Leena a question.\n\n“Leena, what can I do for you?”\n\n“What do you mean, Jakob? Yah don’t have to do anything for me. I enjoy your company.”\n\n“You don’t understand, Miss Leena. Your reading brings me joy. I want to bring you joy.”\n\nJakob didn’t know that reading meant as much to her as it did to him, and she looked forward to their daily conversations. Without giving it much thought, however, she answered him.\n\n“Yah see that old lady over there?”\n\n“The one with the packages?”\n\n“Yeah. She’s struggling. Go help her.”\n\n“As you wish.” In no time Jakob was carrying the elderly woman’s bundles, a kind deed he would often repeat.\n\nFrom that day, when Leena would read to Jakob, he would help one of their neighbors. Sometimes he would fetch their groceries while other times he’d walk their dogs. He became proficient with small household repairs, replacing lightbulbs and faulty wiring. Before long, the young couple became a fixture in Flatbush. Neighbors gossiped about the girl who read and the boy who helped.\n\nLove at first sight—true love at first sight—is a phenomenon that takes years to reveal itself. For Jakob, it took four. “I am to marry you, one day,” he told Leena a few weeks after they met. Jakob had not spoken idly but it took four years for him to find the courage to ask for her hand.\n\nA gentleman to his core, Jakob first asked permission to marry Leena from her father. After this permission was secured, he set his plan in motion. On a beautiful Sunday, the couple sat on a sun-drenched bench in the middle of Central Park. Jakob handed Leena an envelope and asked her if she would read the letter inside. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she read the words, written by his hand in English.\n\nLeena, you are the love of my life. You give meaning to my soul. You are the only irreplaceable thing. Will you please be my wife?\n\nAll Leena could do through her tears was nod.\n\n“Jakob finally makes you speechless,” he said as the two laughed and shared a kiss.\n\nFour days later, Leena had a surprise of her own. On their bench, she opened the paper to the wedding announcements and pointed to a picture. “Look at this,” she said, smiling from ear to ear.\n\n“It is us,” Jakob shouted. “We are in the paper!”\n\n“Mr. and Mrs. Irving Copin have the pleasure of…” Leena started to read before Jakob interrupted his bride-to-be. Turning to strangers passing by, he announced to the world, “Everyone! You know it’s true. I am marrying Leena. It says so in the paper!” \n\nJakob ran to the flower vendor on the corner to buy a spray of flowers. \n\nHe turned back to Leena, who gave her fiancée a wink and pointed to Susan, a little girl walking with her mother. Susan’s father, a soldier, had been a fixture in the park before joining the army and heading to Europe to fight. The news of his death had left a hole in the heart of the neighborhood and his daughter. Leena cried happy tears when Jakob handed the girl her tulips and lilies. The smile on the little girls face was brighter than the sun that shone down on the young couple.\n\nIt was Jakob’s greatest gift to Leena by far.\n\n🜋 🜋 🜋\n\nBy the time he and Leena were married, Jakob had long since stopped delivering papers. He now owned and ran a small newsstand while Leena taught English at the local high school. The young couple moved into a modest apartment, not far from the movie theater where they first met.\n\nEach day was busier than the last, but every night, Leena would read the newspaper to Jakob. When she was done, he would do an odd job or perform a small favor for a neighbor or a random stranger.\n\nOn warm summer nights when the sun stayed up until past nine, the two would sit together on the same bench in Prospect Park. Leena would read the paper while Jakob, always the gentleman, would tip his cap to the ladies as they passed by and stand to shake the men’s hands. \n\nWhen the weather was cold, Jakob and Leena sat inside on their favorite chairs for the nightly reading. \n\nAs the years passed, so did history. Leena read to Jakob about Hitler invading Poland and Truman dropping the bomb on Hiroshima. She read to him when the war ended and the day President Kennedy was shot. It was during these readings he learned of Apollo 1’s unspeakable tragedy and Apollo 11’s historic victory. Even after Jakob learned to read himself, he never read the newspaper. That was Leena’s job and her greatest joy. \n\n🜋 🜋 🜋\n\nSixty years can feel like forever, but for Jakob and Leena it passed in the blink of an eye. They spent every day together and yet it still was never enough. The last night that Leena read to Jakob, she only completed a single news article before exhaustion overtook her.\n\n“Would it be alright if I went to bed early tonight,” Leena asked, smiling at her husband.\n\n“As you wish.” Jakob responded, helping her from her chair and walking with her into the bedroom.\n\nThe next morning Leena was gone.\n\nThere would be no great memorial or public service. It had never been Leena’s way. Instead, as a lasting tribute to his beautiful bride, Jakob placed an obituary in the same newspaper Leena had read to him all these years. He wasn’t a man given to soaring rhetoric, so the announcement of his wife’s death was understandably short. Jakob had to trust that his words would be printed accurately as Leena wasn’t there to read it to him, and his eyesight was failing.\n\nThe following day at four o’clock, Jakob, out of habit, moved to his favorite chair next to Leena’s, which sat empty. With no paper to read and no company to entertain, his only companions were silence and bittersweet memories, until there came a knock at the door.\n\nJakob, slightly unnerved by the unexpected interruption, slowly rose to his feet, walked across the room, and opened the door to find a face he knew well.\n\n“Hi Jakob,” Susan said. “Do you remember the flowers you gave me when I was little?”\n\n“Of course I remember, but don’t forget it was Leena’s idea,” he said with a small chuckle.\n\n\"On my darkest day, you brought me sunshine. I've never forgotten that.\"\n\n“It was my pleasure,\" Jakob said, smiling at the pleasant memory. \"What can I do for you today?”\n\n“You can let me read to you.”\n\n“Why would you want to read to me?” Jakob asked, perplexed.\n\n“Because I was chosen to go first.”\n\n“First?”\n\n“Yes. Look out into the hallway.”\n\nSusan stepped aside, allowing Jakob to look down the corridor. As far as the eye could see, there was a line of friends and neighbors, each one with a newspaper under their arm.\n\n“I know you feel alone, but no one is alone who is loved. None of us can replace Leena, but we can repay your kindness by standing in for her. Today is my day.”\n\n“Come in, Susan.” Jakob said, wiping tears from his eyes, “Come in and sit.”\n\nAfter Jakob found his way back to his favorite chair, Susan sat down, opened the paper, and began to read from the obituaries:\n\nTo Leena, \nYour voice was the story of our lives. I await the day when you will read to me again. \nLove, Jakob\n“Now that we have that out of the way—let’s turn to page 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: Saving Austin\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2925\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story inside a character’s mind, literally." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Austin has been asleep for 3 days. One morning our mother went to get him from his room for school, and he didn’t wake up. Our dad rushed him to the hospital, but he was not dead, sleeping. The doctors said that the hospital had overcrowding. Too many people due to some other disease going around; so they sent Austin back home to us. He’s been in his room since.\nMy mother is becoming more upset each day and my dad hasn’t been doing too great either. I researched on the internet and found an ad on craigslist:\n\"Local Wizard will help with getting people out of bad situations\". Payment first.”\nSo I thought I'll go to his spot and see what he’s about\nThe \"business\", which more so looks like a hut, was off the side of branch avenue. My bike was definitely more worn from the trip than me, but I was happy that I got there. The place was definitely in the ghetto. The walls destroyed, the building lacked any sort of security, I also noticed that the windows were out. But I saw no other option, so I walked up to the front door and knocked.\n*Knock* *Knock* *Knock* No Response.\nI *knock* again, and the door fell down. Not the best way to start getting the help of a wizard, knocking down his door, but I said \"why not?\" and kept going. I walked into the back room and saw a man dressed in all black robes. His face was still very visible in the darkness. He looked at me, with peircing brown eyes, the color of chocolate. I saw that he was quite fair skinned, couldn't determine if he was black or not, but he definitely wasn't a white guy. It would have been a bit weird if he was in this neighborhood.\n\"Are you the wizard\", I asked him.\n“Get out of here kid”, the man said.\nHis voice was smooth and calm. I felt nice after hearing it. Despite this, I sat down on a nearby chair and gave him a look of contempt.\n\"I can't leave, I need your help\", I told him.\nHe sighed and got up. He was tall, very tall, almost like a giant. His hands were just as large as him, and he used them to rub his temples and look down at me. \"Fine...what dod you want\", he asked.\n“My brother has been asleep for 3 days now. We need help” I told the man clad in a black rob so obviously evil looking that I had to beg myself not to wince talking to him.\n“What makes you think that I would help one such as you”, he asked me.\nI thought to give him a long explanation about the love or anything else; but then I decided against it. “Look man, I got the money that you wanted out of your craigslist ad, why else would you not help me at this point.”\nHis eyes lit up and then he smiled for a moment. “Fair. That’s a fair response. I will help you then, give me the money. Take me to the boy”, the wizard told me.\nI gave him the money, a total of 1 dollar. I hope this is worth it.\n\"By the way, leave the bike here\", he tells me.\n“Why?”\n“Because we are taking magic broom sticks”, he said.\nI looked at him trying to hold my face and composure, not sure if he was being serious. Which then led to him laughing like he said the best joke ever. “Because we’re taking an Uber together. I’m not riding a bike there, and you’re definitely not getting in my car”, he corrected himself.\nThe car arrived and we were on our way home. I closed my eyes for a moment to just think. In my daydream, I could see my brother calling out to me. “Jennifer! Jennifer” he was yelling. This happened almost everytime I closed my eyes, whether it be in class, or to sleep the last 3 days. I didn't like this. I thought that if I got this guy to help Austin he would be able to get me to stop seeing him.\nI snuck the wizard past my parents, and got him upstairs to Austin’s room. He looked around the bed and the room. He took a bright purple powder out of his bag. He covered a specific area of the floor with it. And after that he spread the powder around the floor. Then he made a square around Austin’s bed.\n“What’s the powder for”, I asked.\n“In order to help him we’ll need to enter his mind. Come sit down and do like I do”, he told me.\nThe wizard sat down in the dust and crossed his legs. He began to pat his chest with his fist and began to hum rhythmically with the beating. I sat down and decided to do the same. Patting and humming, humming and patting, patting and humming… for forever. And then nothing. Nothing occurred. Nothing that I could notice. I stopped, and the wizard stared at me for a moment.\n“Do you want your brother out of the coma or not” he asked.\n“It feels like nothing is happening\", I told him. We’ve been humming and patting and wondering what's going to happen”, I said.\n“Your lack of faith is what will get this child killed”, the wizard said, “You must breathe, hum, and pat to the rhythm. Then you’ll understand.”\nAnd then he began again, this time closing his eyes and getting into the beat.. I closed my eyes this time, visualized that I wanted to help my brother. Humming and patting… humming and patting… Humming and patting… I want to save him. Where did that come from?\nAnd then, I felt it. I felt myself rising up. My body was levitating. The room felt like the air was being sucked out of it. The world felt like it had no gravity, like I was able to float. I was too scared to open my eyes to look at what was a place in space. Or underwater. Or in the sky…it was the sky. I felt myself rising higher, I was in the clouds. I was swimming in them. I never knew that clouds had this much water inside. I could see the whole world below me. I could tell the horizon was never ending. Then I was over the ocean. I dove down.\nI swam amongst the fish. I heard the songs of whales hundreds of miles away, and dashed toward them. Pretty good for a girl who couldn't swim. I saw sharks eating their prey, and their prey working together to save their babies. I saw the octopus give up its life for it's children. I saw fish cry for it's lost husband. Then I dove deeper.\nNow I’m under the ocean. In science class, my teacher taught us that the center of the earth has molten rock and magma. That it’s beyond hot, even being somewhere near it would kill you. Yet here I was staring at the center of the earth, and I could still hear the water above me. I could feel the waves crashing underwater, the sea life struggling and thriving for survival. Then I heard crying. I went there, to see what it was.\nNow I’m in a hospital. The maternity ward. I am walking around the doctors and the new parents. Seeing one couple I follow the. I see them giving birth, the stress and the struggle, until the doctor says something that I cannot hear. Then the nurses and other doctors enter the room. They send my mother out of it, and my father looks scared. I follow them, all the way to the operating room. They’re giving her a C-section. Then it hits me. This isn’t just any woman, this is my mother.\nAnd then I saw him. That little chocolate drop that my mom “had to get cut out of her”. I never really understood why she would say that to him, but I guess now I see the reason. Austin is crying loudly, his voice is almost deafening as he takes his first breath. I can’t help but admit that he’s quite beautiful, despite being covered in a ton of blood. I see the doctors begin to clean him, my mother is sleeping, that was exhausting.\nThey allow my father in the room for a moment. He picks up Austin, his only son, and I could see how my father fell in love with him. It was almost instant. This small infant was there with two people who love him.\n“You must go to him, and protect him”, a voice said.\n“Who was that”, I replied, shocked and horrified.\n“It’s me, the wizard. Who else could it be?”\n“Where are you” I asked yet again confused and scared.\n“I am where you will be… once you follow your path.”\n“What does that even mean?”\n“Follow him” he said, and then I heard nothing else.\nAnd so I did, I followed Austin like his shadow. I saw almost everything, his first time getting hit in the face with a dodgeball. The first person he ever kissed that was not our mom, was this boy in his class. I saw that my mother would often take Austin to the hospital. She never told me this. I was surprised to find that most of my time “following him”, was spent here. I also felt vindicated knowing that I was right that he was stealing my hair pins to play with or to fix a toy of his. I’ll definitely have to remember that for later.\nThe wizard came back to me, but he wasn’t himself. Instead, he appeared as some sort of bird. He said that he was a dove. Why he chose a white pigeon I’ll never understand, but he would follow me through my years of watching Austin. His commentary…wasn’t always helpful.\n“Huh, so that’s what you looked like putting on make-up?”\n“Can you shut up please? It was my first time.”\nAfter the first few years of following him, I noticed something else. I…wasn’t there. Despite all these memories of his that I was seeing, I wasn’t seeing myself in many of them. The only ones I saw myself in, were the ones where I tortured him. Or I made fun of him, or made him feel bad. It’s strange to think about, but he doesn’t remember me? That couldn’t be it, I thought to myself.\nWe reached the week before Austin went to sleep and didn’t wake up. I sat in the hospital bed with him, staring at him for a minute. Watching him. It was almost uncanny how happy he could look in such a weird place. It was so clean, so washed out. I went over to the other side of the hospital. I needed to get away. It felt boring. Sitting and watching this little boy all day. I looked outside of the window. It’s hard to see much of anything happening in these spaces. Austin couldn’t see them, the places he hadn't been. Oftentimes they looked like washed out paintings, instead of actual vista’s or anything else.\nThe Wizard bird came to annoy me more than join me, I could already tell by how it flew.\n“What’s wrong”, he said.\n“I’m bored”, I replied.\n“What is boring you? Watching your brother?”\n“What else have I been doing but watching him?”\n“You need to find your purpose for why you’re still here watching him.”\n“Because you told me to? You told me to follow him?”\n“Yes. I did, but you didn’t have to do that. I never held you hostage.”\n“What do you mean?”\n“You could have left your brother a long time ago. You didn’t have to sit there and watch him for all that stuff, you chose to. You could have woken up and gone about your day; sure your brother would never wake. But you wouldn’t have to be 'bored'”, he explained. “You have more in your heart that you’re not willing to admit.”\n“Yeah well…” I started.\nThen I felt something else. Something dark. Something…evil. I couldn’t tell what it was, but whatever it was, it was not good.\nI turned around to look for it. “It’s coming from your brother’s room”, the bird said in a calm voice.\nI ran back to Austin. I looked in his hospital bed. He was sleeping, and there was this… thing standing over him. I couldn’t tell what or who it was. It had a long nose, pointed ears. It’s eyes were a pale blue. The skin was white as snow. Their hands were claws that protruded what looked to be at least 2 feet for the nails alone. Their mouth was open, and it had razor sharp teeth. They had breasts and a woman shape, at least if that woman was built like a fridge, so I could only assume that it was female.\n“What is that thing” I shouted.\nThe white creature opened the satchel bag that hung around it’s chest. It stuck it’s claws into Austin him waking up for a moment and staring it her. It gripped him, pulled out a bright white light and then consumed it. Then she spit out a small ball and packaged it away. She then looked at me, I saw that she was not happy by how she bared her teeth at the bird.\n“That is as a Night Hag. It steals away children’s spirits in their dreams\", he said. \"If the spirit is not returned to their bodies, then the child dies\", he explains further, \"And the hag keeps the spirit eternity.\"\n\"I can’t let that happen. How do I stop it\", I asked him.\n“You must run in and protect him with your body”, he said. “You must show it your true intentions, otherwise it will steal you away too.\" The wizard bird perched him self as useless as ever, on the bed where Austin's body laid.\nI took what he said literal and ran into the creature full force. I bounced off like a ball that hit a wall. She looked down at me, her eyes lighting up when she could see that I was a bit discombobulated. I started to feel the pull of the hag's open mouth.\n\"It’s sucking me up!”\n\"You must admit your intentions otherwise the hag will steal you away” he screams at me\n\"I intend to help my brother\" Ishouted.\nThe night hag laughs more and opens her more. She begins to suck away my arms and my legs, my torso falls off of my body and all that's left is my neck and my head. I cannot hold on anymore. I see inside of her, pure darkness. The absolute oblivion. She will kill me. I will die, and my brother will never wake up. I’ll fail… I can’t fail… I can’t. She starts sucking up my head as well.\nI LOVE MY BROTHER” I scream as loud as possible, “I WANT TO SEE HIM WAKE UP BECAUSE I LOVE HIM. I LOVE WATCHING HIM GROW, I LOVE SEEING HIM BE BETTER. I WANT HIM TO WAKE UP.”\nTears running down my face. But I am so much lighter, and it’s not the fact that I’m a disconnected head. I am...better.\nThe night hag closes its mouth. It spits out my legs and my torso back at my neck. My body puts itself back together. It stares at me with those beady blue eyes. And I, in turn stare back at it. After our little contest, she looks into her bag, and slams down a small white ball. It cracks. Breaking open, a small form out of the light inside. It’s Austin.\nI run and pick him up, staring him down and kissing him. The night hag, having been the real failure, skulks off, back through a dark door. I hope I never see that thing again.\n“You did well, young Jennifer. You saved him”, the bird said to me. “Now I must go…”\n“Thank you”, I told the bird. “Um…not to be a nuisance. But how do I get back home from here?”\n“You still don’t get it, this is allhappening in your head little girl. It’s all a dream”, the bird says laughing and using a bit of a mocking tone. It flies off, out of the hospital window and becomes a man with wings. He peers through the doorway and looks back at us, Austin unconscious at this point. “Remember to take care of that guy. We’ll need him in the future.”\n“Wait, who’s ‘we’” I asked him.\nAnd then he was gone. I can’t even determine if he flew away as he was gone so fast.\n“I want to get a cheeseburger”, he said.\n“Sure buddy. We’ll get all the cheeseburgers”, I told him, “But first we have to wake up.”\nAnd then we did. As we woke up and I saw the room cleaned, the wizard man was gone, and Austin was standing over me. He gave me an excited hug; I thought back to his birth. The day that he screamed so loud it felt like I would be deaf. I thought about how I said back then that he was in the room with 2 people who loved him. But I was wrong.\nHe was there with 3." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: They Were Young Once\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1776\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone finally gaining access into their family’s very old computer." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As the fourth son of a fourth son, by the time I met Pop Pop, he was a fragile old man, bent at the waist, eyesight and hearing failing. My memories of him are limited to the seven years he and I occupied this earth together, but I remember very clearly the nights when he would sit by my bed and tell me tales of the Old Country in a thick accent and broken English. I make this point because it’s with this memory in mind that I tell you about the day I found his old computer, which housed treasures from the past and secrets I'm sure he thought had long been forgotten. \n\nIt was stashed at the bottom of a steamer trunk where Pop Pop kept the family heirlooms and keepsakes, most of which dated from before the War. The computer was an odd find among threadbare Polish quilts and framed yellow photographs. It sat silently under an archaic Torah, its pages crumbling from years of disuse. \n\nAs I pulled the computer out of the trunk and set it on my desk, I discovered the hunk of junk was a Commodore 64, named for its 64 kilobytes of RAM. With a rubbery keyboard, blocky graphics, and distinctive beeps, the computer had far less processing power than a cheap burner phone I could buy with pocket change from a convenience store. As a child of the 90’s, I was used to computers with graphics and pictures and video on demand. I knew Pop Pop’s computer was state-of-the-art in its day, but the day I found it, it was as if I had happened upon secret cave drawings or Egyptian hieroglyphics. Though the hard drive didn’t have much on it, what it did have was Pop Pop’s authentic life history, saved in PaperClip, an ancient word processing program. Useless in its archaic form, I googled how to export the 1’s and 0’s to something legible, saving the files in SEQ format, then converting them to Word.\n\nI opened the first file and began to read. I was familiar with our family's legacy—or so I’d thought. I could recite verbatim the accepted story of how Pop Pop met Mimaw and how brightly the sun shone when Uncle Solomon, my grandparents' oldest son, was born. He was the first of our family to enter the world in a country not named Poland. What I didn’t know—what hadn’t been shared—were the stories of Pop Pop escaping the Warsaw Ghetto, and the real story of how he met Mimaw. Every grandchild thinks their grandfather is a hero, but mine, an old man with a broken-down body, really was. \n\nI decided to print out his stories on the old dot matrix printer he kept in his garage. Watching the printer head swish back and forth, I smiled as the fusty old man I knew disappeared into a swashbuckling scoundrel.\n\nFrom the framed pictures in the trunk, it was clear Pop Pop had always been tall and striking. Celebrating his 90th birthday, he sported a full head of hair, his black curls frosted into silver. His hazel eyes, more gold than green, were framed by long, curly lashes. He was blessed with a full mouth, high cheekbones, broad shoulders, and a narrow waist he kept trim by walking dozens of miles each day. Mimaw often said he was the most handsome man she had ever met. \n\nLuckily, some wives of German soldiers thought so, too. \n\nAfter being forced into the ghetto, Pop Pop knew the Nazis would deliberately limit food supplies to weaken the Jews. Savvy and shrewd, he knew he needed to establish a smuggling network if he were to feed the starving inhabitants trapped behind the Nazi barricades. As leaving the ghetto meant death or worse, Pop Pop used a charm offensive to convince fraus and fräuleins to assist him in his noble endeavor.\n\nI’m not sure how long I had allotted to cleaning out Grandpa's house, but I quickly understood it would take much longer than I had imagined. His stories leaped off the page and kept my attention without fail. I wasn’t surprised by how easily he convinced the local women to assist him, but I was amazed at how this man, whom I only knew as Pop Pop, was able to charm the men as well.\n\nHe pleaded with local religious leaders to do their Christian duty and to be Good Samaritans, he blackmailed errant husbands and duplicitous politicians over their secret, tawdry lives, and he bribed police officers with money he’d pickpocketed from Nazi guards. Before long he had regular supplies of bread and fish flowing into the ghetto, keeping men, women, and children alive—all who most assuredly would have perished without his help.\n\nThe fact I was least prepared to uncover was my grandfather’s friendship with one of the guards. In the beginning, the relationship seemed as if it mirrored the others—transactional with a purpose. In short order, however, I could tell the two men had become friends. I found it hard to imagine how a Jewish prisoner and a German guard could become close, but through the words hidden in the computer hidden in the trunk, that conclusion was inescapable. \n\nTo add to the intrigue, the guard's name was Viktor—just like mine. Was I named after this German guard? The more I learned about both of them, the more I hoped it was so.\n\nA young man like Pop Pop, Viktor had grown sick at heart over the barbaric treatment of the Jews. Viktor had lost faith in Hitler and the Fatherland along with his fear of his fellow Nazis. Pop Pop wrote that Viktor often said, “There are a lot of things in life worth living for, but the important things in life are worth dying for.”\n\nAs Viktor delivered his final food parcel to Pop Pop, he suggested that the time to escape the Warsaw Ghetto was imminent. Rumors ran rife of a Jewish uprising. This did not surprise Viktor, as he had helped arm the Jews who eventually rioted in a futile attempt to prevent the continued deportations to Nazi-run death camps.\n\n“We must leave now,” Viktor said to Pop Pop. “One of my girlfriends runs a nightclub in Berlin. It’s 500 miles due west, but no one will expect us to run into the heart of Germany. We will be safer there if we catch the morning train.” \n\n“No trains,” Pop Pop replied. “I will never set foot on one. Let’s steal motorcycles instead.” \n\nAs I read Pop Pop’s words about the escape, I was struck by how he described the night. He remarked about how amazing the Polish landscape looked bathed in moonlight, how peaceful and serene the cool breeze felt. I had to imagine it was his remarkable ability to see beauty in a world that was so awful that gave him the strength to defy the Germans and put his life on the line for others. \n\n“I expected to die,” Pop Pop wrote. “Not just that night, but every night since I had been forced into the ghetto.”\n\nThe words were jarring about a time decades before I existed. I couldn’t help thinking about how unlikely it was that I would be in America, the fourth son of a fourth son of a man who should have died in Poland or Germany. \n\nPop Pop didn’t because of Viktor.\n\nViktor had been killed in Poznań when the two men had come across a squad of German troops separated from their battalion. \n\nThe Nazi soldiers who the two men encountered were low ranking, with no one to give them orders. They didn’t ask my grandfather or Viktor any questions before pulling out their lugers and pointing at the escapees, two apparent deserters dressed as civilians riding on motorcycles. \n\nAt a time when a wise man would have run, Viktor turned his bike towards the soldiers and drove directly towards them. The memory of Viktor’s bullet-riddled body falling off the BMW at the soldier’s feet appeared to have haunted Pop Pop throughout his life. Viktor’s death was the last thing my grandfather saw before making his way to safety in the woods, his eyes blinded by tears. \n\n“Viktor not only gave me my life—but the love of my life,” Pop Pop wrote. “When I see him in the next world, I don’t know which to thank him for more.”\n\nWhat came next was the part of the story he had sanitized for me all those years ago when he tucked me into bed and told me stories about how he met Mimaw. I wasn’t mad about the white lie—I was just glad I learned the truth. \n\nMimaw was neither Jewish nor Polish. It was true she was one of Viktor’s girlfriends, a showgirl who strutted and sashayed across the stage, her sultry body teasing rows of Nazi officers. When Pop Pop met her backstage to obtain his forged credentials, his jaw dropped. Covered in road filth from head to boot, he stank of mud, blood, and smoke. Mimaw was bedecked in white silk and rhinestones—and smelled of vanilla and spring air. She broke into a smile when she saw him, embracing him affectionately, ruining her dress in the process.\n\nThis surprised him, as Pop Pop had expected tears. He’d informed her of Viktor’s death as she was about to take a curtain call. She waved the stage manager away, wanting to know everything, and then she stoically walked towards center stage to take a bow. Her strength matched that of Pop Pop's and in an instant, I loved her even more.\n\nWiping my own eyes, I folded the dot-matrix printer paper in half, tucking it back into the trunk. There I found a large manila envelope that I had neglected to see earlier. Taking out the envelope, I undid the clasp and slid out a black and white glossy photograph of Mimaw on stage, festooned with ostrich feathers and long black gloves. I turned the picture over to see it had been kissed with red lipstick, faded over time. “To my Liebchen,” Mimaw had written in her spidery scrawl. \n\nAlong with the photograph, the envelope contained a set of keys for a Zündapp KS 750 motorcycle—used primarily by the German military. It occurred to me that Pop Pop did not procure motorcycles from peaceful farmers. He stole them directly from the Nazis themselves. \n\nSmiling at Pop Pop besting Nazis and marrying German showgirls, I clicked through the other computer files to read more about Pop Pop’s adventures, ones seemingly bigger than one lifetime or a Commodore 64 could possibly hold." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Scar House\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2725\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone finally gaining access into their family’s very old computer." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When I was a kid, I thought Scar House was a colossal place for two people to live. In my young mind, it was not only the grandest house in Cape Argo but also in Cedar Ridge County. Scar House was a testament to old American luxury. The hallway was spacious and welcomed visitors with warm, ambient lighting and sleek, polished floors. Each of the four bedrooms was a sanctuary of comfort, featuring large windows that bathed the room in natural light and bespoke wardrobes that added to the bygone opulent American luxury.\nThe heart of Scar House was undoubtedly my Dad’s library. It was a haven for any book lover, with towering, meticulously crafted shelves housing a world of books on Ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome, as well as philosophy, physics, and psychology. My Dad’s study was a quiet, sophisticated space with an antique writing desk and no state-of-the-art technology in sight. He found it the perfect setting for his creative ways to flourish.\nScar House boasted two bathrooms (one for me and one for Dad), each with a deep soaking tub and fine marble finishes. The house also had a basement, which had been left empty long before I was born. As a teenager, I had asked Dad on many occasions to transform the basement into some kind of games room or movie den. But he adamantly refused each time, giving no formal reasoning for his decision. On my final attempt to persuade him, he warned me that he would lock the basement and throw away the key so I could never ask him the same mundane question again.\nAs I stand before Scar House, the mirage of my youth has clearly faded. It’s just a regular, all-American house built towards the end of the 1920s. Well, I’m probably doing my old house a disservice by saying that. It’s slightly larger and grander than most houses in Cape Argo, not by much compared to the newer, modern houses that have been built over the last fifty years or so. But it is a special house, at least for me, and I admit I’m biased. It’s the house where my Dad lived until he passed away. It was also the house that shaped me into the man I am today.\nThis is the first time I’ve been back to Scar House since Dad’s funeral six months ago. Dad passed away after two years battling prostate cancer. Towards the end of his life, I didn’t recognise the eminent and fiercely proud Professor of Classics and Ancient History and Culture, Walter Grant. All that was left was a husk of a man who was embarrassed by his illness and wanted nothing more than to die. But in several teary rages over the phone and in person, Dad confessed that he was too much of a coward to end his own life. Behind his feeble eyes, I knew he was asking for help to end it all. But like father, like son, I too was a coward who couldn’t bring myself to help my Dad sever the mortal coil that caused him so much pain.\nMy heart skipped a beat as the door to Scar House opened. I had hoped to see my Dad emerge in his usual attire: a white shirt, colourful cardigan, brown slacks, and a pipe in hand. “Is this the FBI’s high-flying Criminal Profiler I see before me?” he would often quip. “Does the Behavioural Analysis Unit forbid their workhorses from phoning home once in a while?”\n“I could say the same for the parents of high-flying Criminal Profilers,” I often retorted. “The phone works both ways, you know, Dad.” At that point, sensing he was as much in the wrong as I was, he would turn on his heels and beckon me inside my childhood home.\nBut it wasn’t my Dad who stood on the porch (being six months dead was mainly the problem); it was Mallory Knox of Fortworth and Rush, an estate sale company I had hired to clear Scar House of its contents and put it on the market. After Dad’s death, I had taken all the sentimental items I needed (which only amounted to three boxes), and I instructed Mallory to ensure the rest of Dad’s belongings went to charity. The books in Dad’s library had been distributed among a few universities and museums across several states. Some of the books were quite rare. Dad was proud of my achievements, but he did have one hang-up: my lack of interest in reading. Books just didn’t do it for me. I preferred films and TV shows.\n“Andy,” Mallory greeted me, her curly blond locks, shocking pink lipstick, and tight-fitting grey pantsuit standing out. “I didn’t hear your car.”\n“I parked down the street,” I said. “One last walk down memory lane, if you will.”\nMallory nodded in sympathy. “Is Mark not with you?”\n“Work.” My husband Mark was a paediatric cardio-thoracic surgeon at the Wishing Star Charity Hospital in Washington.\n“He’s a good one, that man of yours,” Mallory said. “Hold on to him.”\n“I do try, but those pesky kids keep prying him away.” I winced at my joke; it was in poor taste, and Mallory humoured me by smiling weakly. “So I guess this is it then. One last look around the place, sign some papers, and off into the sunset I go.”\n“Considerably richer, too,” Mallory teased.\n“Yeah, there’s that too.” Reaping financial gains from my Dad’s death made me uncomfortable. It was a lot of money I inherited from the sale of the house and some of his more valuable belongings.\n“I do have a surprise for you, Andy.”\n“You didn’t find a dead body in the basement, did you?”\n“No, should I have?” she replied.\n“I’m joking, Mallory,” I said as I made my way up the ten stone steps to the porch. “Dad hated the basement with a passion. I pestered him for years to convert it.”\n“That definitely would have added more value to the house,” Mallory’s voice brightened at the thought of earning more commission on Dad’s house. “Crying shame he didn’t renovate. He must have had his reasons.”\n“Dad always had his reasons,” I said. “He just never indulged me in them. So, what’s this surprise you’ve got for me?”\n“One of the removal men, Ronnie, took a keen interest in Professor Grant’s writing desk,” Mallory explained eagerly. “He’s an amateur carpenter and loves historical furniture, especially puzzle desks.”\n“Puzzle desk?” I said, confused. “Dad’s writing desk was just an old-fashioned writing desk. I think he bought it from an antique shop in Paris when he was a student and shipped it back to the States. He never told me it was a… puzzle desk.”\nMallory held up her hands in mock surrender. “I’m only telling you what Ronnie said.”\n“What’s this surprise you’ve got for me?”\n“A laptop.”\n“A laptop?” I said, less than convinced. “Dad hated technology. He was the definition of a technophobe, Mallory. You knew him.”\n“Yeah, Professor Grant sure hated the modern age,” Mallory conceded. “I think he said it was the scourge of modern living and the downfall of man. Something along those lines, anyway.”\n“Sounds like Dad.” I pondered Mallory’s words for a while as I stood on Scar House’s porch. “How did Ronnie know Dad’s writing desk was one of these puzzle desks?”\n“He’s seen them in books and one in a museum, I think,” Mallory shrugged. “As he and the other removal guy were moving the desk, he decided to look underneath the desk. He fiddled with the drawers and the lip of the desk for a few moments. I’m not quite sure about the finer details, if I’m honest. All I can say is that you’re now in possession of Professor Grant’s laptop.”\n“How old is it?”\n“Oh, it’s an old boy, alright. None of these modern slim things you get.”\n“Does it even work?”\n“It does. It’s password-protected, though.”\n“I suppose I’ll have one last look around, sign the papers, and then ride off into the sunset with my Dad’s old laptop.”\n“Don’t forget the money, Andy.”\n“Yeah, how could I forget the money.”\nIt’s been nearly four months since Mallory Knox handed me Dad’s old laptop, and she was right about one thing: It definitely wasn’t a modern, slim laptop like the ones Mark and I use. Dad’s was a clunky and chunky 1999 Raytheon Chameleon with an Intel Pentium II processor and 128MB of RAM, running an early version of Windows 2000.\nThe laptop had become a bit of an enigma for me. Its password-protected puzzle was something I just couldn’t crack. I tried all combinations: birthdays, family names, pet names, and important historical events and their dates that Dad had been interested in. I tried an amalgamation of all of them, and nothing worked. The worst of my problems is that the laptop now taunted me by saying I had one last chance to type in the correct password. If I didn’t, I would be locked out until the administrator entered a special key code. And with Dad being the administrator and dead, I was screwed either way. I got the feeling Dad really didn’t want anyone looking at his laptop. I still couldn’t fathom why he had hidden the laptop in his writing desk in the first place.\n“The more you look at it,” Mark said as he read one of his many weekly medical journals, “the more the damn thing will continue to taunt you. Can’t you put it somewhere else? It’s making the room look untidy. Maybe put it in a box in the wardrobe, or better yet, take it to a tech museum or something.”\n“I won’t let it beat me,” I snapped. “And I’m not taking it to a museum either, Mark. It’s not just any old laptop. It’s my Dad’s.”\n“The old beast is driving you mad, Andy,” Mark laid the medical journal flat in his lap. “You look haggard and worn out.”\n“Keep the compliments flowing, darling,” I said sarcastically. But Mark was right. The desire to unlock my Dad’s laptop had become almost an obsession. “Yeah, you’re right. I need to take a break from it.”\n“You work for the FBI. I’m surprised you haven’t got one of your tech nerds to break it open for you.”\n“That would be breaking a lot of protocols,” I said. “Using government assets to fulfill a personal desire is a sackable offence.”\n“Calm down, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes. I was only trying to help. Surely there’s someone in the technical department who could help you. Someone… I don’t know… that might owe you a favour.”\n“If you’re referring to Emilio,” I said, “Yes, he still works there.”\n“Then flutter your eyelashes at him and get him to open that damn laptop, Andy.”\n“You are talking about my ex, Mark.”\n“I’m not saying have sex with him. Just be overly nice to him and get him to open the laptop.” Mark picked up his medical journal and continued to read. “If he can’t do it, I’m throwing the monstrosity in the bin.”\nEmilio’s parting remark echoed in my ears as I examined the individually numbered folders on my dad’s laptop. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it? Your dad definitely had an unhealthy obsession with serial killers…”\nI wanted to say that my Dad had never shown any interest in serial killers. He never inquired about my line of work nor what I did. He upheld a distinct separation between work life and home life. Whether we spoke on the phone, I visited him at home, or he came to Washington to see me and Mark, I was his son, not an FBI Criminal Profiler. He absolutely had no fascination with serial killers.\nIgnoring Emilio’s quip, I thanked him for his help and headed straight home. I opened a bottle of white wine, sat at the kitchen table with a wine glass in hand, and began delving into Dad’s laptop.\nThe laptop contained twelve individually marked folders. As I navigated through them, I discovered in-depth journal entries, numerous grainy photos, and assorted news clippings.\nFolder #1 contained information about Elaine Bright.\nFolder #2 Franz Platz.\nFolder #3 Sharon Lee.\nAll three were would-be actors attempting to make their mark in Hollywood in 1981. Each was found strangled to death in their apartments. The murders remained unresolved, and the press had dubbed the killer ‘The Hollywood Strangler.’\nFolder #4 contained information about Carrie Womack.\nFolder #5 David Edgars.\nFolder #6 Priscilla Jackson.\nFolder #7 Travis Cooper.\nFolder #8 Elizabeth Bell.\nThese five were prostitutes working around the North Beach and Broadway areas of San Francisco from 1984 to 1986. Each was discovered in an alleyway, their throats slit and bodies severely mutilated. Again the killer was never apprehended, the media named them ‘The Frisco Freak.’\nFolder #9 contained information about Clare McDonna.\nFolder #10 William Wilson.\nFolder #11 Stephanie Ruberwitz.\nThis trio were medical students residing in Pittsburgh’s Strip District in 1987. Found in their beds, hands and feet bound with barbed wire, they had died from gunshot wounds to both eyes. The killer once more eluded police capture, earning the moniker ‘Pittsburgh Pete’ from the media.\nFolded #12 contained information about Mary-Anne Shell.\nThat folder made my world crumble. I felt the air leave my lungs, my heart stopped beating for a few moments. The walls of the kitchen closed in on me as the weight of everything I had ever known came crashing down upon me. I looked at the photo of a beaming sixteen-year-old high school cheerleader, Mary-Anne Shell. But my mind couldn’t comprehend that name. The exact same photo of the girl I was looking at stood pride of place in a golden photo frame on my bookcase. But I knew that girl as my mother, Ellen Grant, not Mary-Anne Shell.\nThere wasn’t much to read in Folder #12 compared to the rest of the folders. Just the one photo and several press clippings. They revealed that Mary-Anne Shell lived in Waxburg, Cedar Ridge County (sixty miles east of Cape Argo) with her mom, dad, and six siblings. Mary-Anne was the oldest of them all and also the only girl. She disappeared on June 16, 1988, as she walked home from school. Mary-Anne’s body was found in woodland near her home almost two years later, on July 9, 1990. She had died from an abdominal wound. A baby had been torn from her stomach. My body shuddered as I read the date again. And again. That was my birthday. I was born on July 9, 1990.\nMy hand trembled with shock as I placed the wine glass on the table. My head ached with trauma at what I had just read. My Dad, Professor Walter Grant, the man whom I adored, the man who had raised me as a single parent, a man who embraced my homosexuality, a man who encouraged me to be a criminal profiler yet wouldn’t discuss any part of my job, was a monster. He was the Hollywood Strangler, the Frisco Freak, and Pittsburgh Pete. And, crucially and cruelly, he kidnapped my mom, kept her prisoner (more than likely in the basement that I begged him to renovate for me), then raped her, and finally tore me from her womb when I was ready to be born.\n“Hello lover boy! Mark proclaimed as returned from his shift at the hospital. “I’m home.”\nBefore I even realised it I selected all twelve folders and deleted them from the desktop. I then deleted them from the recycle bin. They were gone forever. “Emilio cracked the old bitch open then.”\n“Yeah, he did,” I replied as Mark kissed me on the lips. \n“Did the great Professor Walter Grant have any dirty little secrets then?”\nI closed the laptop lid. “No, there’s nothing on it.”\n“It clean?”\n“Pristine.” I forced a smile.\n“You okay? You look like you’re going to hurl.”\n“I’m fine.”\nMark poured himself a glass of wine. “The question is why would your dad leave an old blank laptop in a secret compartment his writing desk.”\n“I guess Dad’s secrets died with him.” I looked at the laptop intently. “It’s probably better that way.”\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: A Chinaman's Chance\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1691\n\nPrompt:\n\nMake a race an important element of your story." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“I timed the movement twice and found the speed as follows: The first time 240 feet of rail was laid in one minute and twenty seconds; the second time 240 feet was laid in one minute and fifteen seconds.” \n—San Francisco news reporter for the Daily Alta California \n\nSunlight creeps over the mountains of Utah and spills across the ground. A train huffs along a track. The orange-red dawn fingers the ink-black metal of the engine and catches the steam and smoke rising from it. \n\nThe engine wheezes to a halt not far from the end of the line. \n\nFeet encased in thick leather work boots stir up puffs of dust. Black braids of hair swing under wide-brimmed hats, the style of which was brought from another country. The wearers of the hats are also from another country: China. \n\nThis is the Central Pacific Railroad’s great force of track layers. Some of these men have been laboring on the iron road for as long as six years. \n\nThe line started in California in 1863. Today is Wednesday, April 28, 1869. Trains can now run from San Francisco up into the Sierra Nevada mountains, through Donner Pass and down into the Nevada and Utah deserts. \n\nThe Central Pacific and Union Pacific railroads have been building towards each other since they began, and are now nearing the chosen junction in Ogden. Recently, the Union Pacific laid six miles of track in one day. Their bosses sent a message to Charles Crocker, the Central Pacific’s construction supervisor, inviting him and his “Chinese pets” to beat that. The Central Pacific workers did so, laying seven miles in a day. The Union Pacific then hammered out seven and a half miles in one day by working from 3:00AM until nearly midnight. \n\nCrocker then claimed that the Central Pacific workers were capable of putting down ten miles of track in one day. \n\nThe Union Pacific workers declared this idea ridiculous, and the UPRR’s vice-president Thomas Durant bet Charles Crocker $10,000 that ten miles of track in one day was impossible to fulfill, saying further that his money was covered. \n\nIn response, Charles Crocker and James Strorbridge, his one-eyed construction superintendent, spent several days arranging for trains loaded with track supplies to be brought to the rail head. To win the bet, five trains, each with sixteen flatcars full of supplies, are standing ready. Every set of sixteen cars holds enough materials for two miles of track. \n\nWorkers have already laid down wooden ties on graded ground for ten miles. It was planned that Tuesday, April 27, would be the great day, but a train running off the tracks caused the event to be postponed to the 28th. \n\nNow the day has come. Over 4,000 men are assembled and ready to begin. All but a small fraction of this number are Chinese. These men range in age from their late teens to their forties, and all are fit and strong. The weather and terrain in the United States are like nothing they ever saw at home. Yet touches of home are found in all their camps. Ceramic bowls, toothbrushes made of bamboo and boar bristles, food, and opium are all shipped to Gold Mountain from China. So many Chinese live in the United States that it has produced a new and thriving market in the buying and selling of Chinese goods.\n\nMost of these Chinese men hail from southern China’s Pearl River delta, called the Siyi, consisting of four counties south-west of Hong Kong. To them, the United States was the Flowery Flag Nation and Gold Mountain. It’s a place where laborers are wanted, and the Chinese are willing to supply that labor. The Chinese are the most numerous of the CPRR’s workers, and the company knows it. These men have climbed the mountains and tunneled through them. For years now, both railroad employers and the employed have been aware that the iron road can’t go forward without Chinese workers. \n\nWhen pay is handed out on Fridays, white workers, mainly Irish, tend to disappear, and sometimes don’t come back after the weekend, too drunk to work. Chinese workers insist on being paid in gold dollars rather than paper, and save their money. They send much of their earnings home, first exchanging gold for silver, which is more valuable in their homeland. The silver goes back across the sea to their home villages. With the money go many letters to families. Some of those letters are to wives and children they have never met, supported by what is sent back from Gold Mountain. Some of those wives in China die virgin widows, legally married to men they have never been with, after raising children they adopted and provided for with money from an unseen husband. The wealth from Gold Mountain also funds the building of village watch towers, erected so as to provide warnings against attacks. Many of these towers stand into the twenty-first century. \n\nThese men have been tried and have not been found wanting. They know their business. They know this will be a race against time. They’ve beaten the Union Pacific once, and they’re ready to do it again. The bosses are ready to have them prove to the other side that they are just as capable of great things.\n\nOne-eyed Strorbridge is mounted on a horse, ready to travel up and down the line to perform his role of superintendent. The Chinese have been heard referring to him as “One-eyed bossy man.” He holds his watch in his hand, waiting for the hour. \n\nThe delicate second hand makes the final round of the dial. \n\nThe engine’s whistle screams long and loud, piercing the morning quiet, and a plume of white steam shoots into the air. It’s 7:00AM. \n\nEvery worker surges forward, climbing onto the flatcars and unloading the iron rails, fishplates, and kegs full of bolts and spikes. In eight minutes, the first sixteen flatcars are bare.\n\nSmaller flatcars are set on the tracks by hand and loaded with the supplies. A horse with a rider is positioned on either side of the car, and a single long rope links the horses and is secured to the vehicle. Six men pile onto each flatcar and hand out materials as they are needed. \n\nEight Irishmen, working in teams of four, use heavy iron tongs to grip the 560 pound rails and move them off the flatcar and onto the ties. After they are set down, the rails are meticulously straightened; a crooked section could derail a train. Straightening finished, spikes are hammered by hand with mallets through the solid iron rails and into the wooden ties.\n\nThen the fishplates—which hold one length of rail to another—are bolted on. Four hundred Chinese men armed with shovels and tamping bars lift the edges of the ties and fill in more ballast, setting the track firmly in place. \n\nThe track moves forward at a pace to match a leisurely stroll. An hour goes by, and a mile has been laid down. Two hours pass, and the supplies from the first sixteen-car train are used up. \n\nThe small horse-drawn cars are now moving at speed, whizzing forward and back on the track. Empty cars are lifted off to allow full ones to pass, then set back in place to complete the return journey and be reloaded. \n\nAs the watch hands tick towards noon and heat grows, the work keeps on at a steady pace. When the CPRR hands break for lunch at 1:30PM, they have been at it hammer and tongs for six and a half hours, and more than six miles of track are on the ground. The bosses declare that this location will be known as “Victory.\"\n\nAfter lunch, the going gets tougher. The morning’s prepared grading covered terrain that was relatively flat. The road now winds right and left up a slope. The straight iron rails need to be bent accordingly, and this slows the march of the railroad army. The ends of the rails are placed on wooden blocks and they are beaten in the center with hammers until the necessary curvature is reached. Nevertheless, when the railroad hands call it quits at 7:00PM, ten miles and fifty-six feet of track have been built. \n\nThe four Irish iron workers receive four days’ worth of pay. There are no records telling whether the Chinese workers received anything more than their usual wages for a day. No bookkeeping is done on the wages due to “John Chinaman.” One-eyed Strorbridge does not know the names of his multitude of Chinese workers. He hands pay over to Chinese headmen, who then deal out the proper amounts to every man in their work gangs. But this Strorbridge does know, and will testify to in Congressional hearings concerning Chinese immigration: the company had less difficulty with Chinese workers than with whites, even when their pay was delayed. The Chinese are a hard-working people who all the bosses say are less troublesome than Irish hands. \n\nBoarding boss Jim Campbell mounts a locomotive and has the engineers run it back to the morning’s camp at 40 miles an hour to prove the track is well-laid and safe. \n\nAs the sun sets, 1,200 men ride the flatcars they emptied back to Victory Camp. The rest walk the ten miles back. Night creeps over the earth, and stars wink in the heavens. Candles and fires glow in and around the tents, lighting up the canvas city. The strains of a song drift in the air swirling with opium smoke: Marry your daughter to a Gold Mountain guest, They would come back home with glory and wealth. \n\nTomorrow is another day of work. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAuthor’s note: The song lyrics are quoted from the book “Ghosts of Gold Mountain” by Gordon H. Chang. I also used that book for much of my research.\nI also used the following article for research:\nhttp://cprr.org/Museum/Southern_Pacific_Bulletin/Ten_Mile_Day.html\n“A Chinaman’s chance” is a term that developed in California in the late 1800s. It’s similar to “when pigs fly” and “a snowball’s chance in Hell\". Chinese in the U.S. were often viewed and treated with hostility." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Don't Be So Dramatic\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2326\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": "Disclaimer: This story contains sensitive themes, including mental health, physical violence, gore, abuse, and suicide.\nAdmittedly, I struggled to remember Lyla’s name for the first couple of weeks that Barbie and I taught her. After that, I would consistently mix her up with the other dancers. It wasn’t until her second year that her name would remain engrained in my mind. \nIt was flu season, so three of the kids were out sick, one was on vacation, and another was performing in his preschool play. That only left Lyla. She was typically late, which was why today, Barbie wanted to stick around in case Lyla would show up. Five minutes into stretches, the studio door cracked open. A mother poked her head inside and revealed a five or six-year-old Lyla clutching her hand and hiding behind her. Barbie and I eased out of our half splits on the pasty floors and painted on our professional grins. Barbie chirped a warm greeting to them, and Lyla’s mother returned the greeting.\n“Everyone else is out today, so it’s just going to be us,” Barbie said.\nLyla’s mother gave Lyla a loving farewell and tried to nudge her into the studio. Her round doe eyes widened like she was caught in headlights. Her little hands and feet plastered onto the walls of the threshold to keep her mother from pushing her inside as Lyla repeatedly screamed in a panicked protest. After a moment, her mother gave up and gave us an embarrassed apology before exiting the studio with her tearful daughter. \nBarbie sighed, “Oh, well. Time to go home, I guess.”\n“Can’t say I’m disappointed,” I chuckled. “I didn’t want to listen to that damn recital song again.”\nShe bubbled with laughter. “C’mon, Lea, the kids love it!”\nBefore I packed my things, I left the studio to use the bathroom before my drive home. Maneuvering through the furniture in the lobby, I heard muffled yelling and leather repeatedly snapping against skin from behind the bathroom door. \nIf this had happened now, I could’ve gotten my phone out and recorded. I could’ve called someone. I could’ve… I don’t know. I could’ve done anything else. \nThe bathroom went quiet. A moment later, the door opened. Lyla’s mother practically dragged her by her arm out the door as tears spewed from Lyla’s now puffy eyes. Her mother pulled her through the back door that was directly next to the bathroom before either of them could have seen me. \n“You alright, Lea?” \nI looked over my shoulder to see Barbie entering the lobby. \n“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.\nI stumbled over to her and whispered as if anyone was around, “I think Lyla’s mom just beat her. Should we call the police or CPS?”\nShe paused. For a second, it almost looked like she was fighting off a smirk. “They won’t do anything.” Her voice echoed as she entered the stairwell, “My daddy used to dole out whoopings all the time when we were bad. It’s a shame, though—the baby was just a little frightened.”\nI tried to ice the stinging, throbbing sounds of what I had just heard and seen with Barbie’s words. I remembered that my friends’ parents would hit them growing up, and they turned out fine. I still couldn’t help but think of that evening every week when I would see Lyla, though. After the fact, I’d even searched for her mother’s name in our records. \nMira, the name breathed into my mind, soft and airy as I looked at it in the Word document. She seems nothing like a Mira. \nAs years went on, the anxiety attached to the memory began to numb. I was promoted from assistant teacher and began teaching classes on my own. I took Lyla’s budding skill and potential as a sign that everything was okay and an excuse to forget about what had happened.\nOne day, I was walking down the sidewalk to the dance building. I noticed a red Camry subtly shaking in the lane of parked cars in my peripheral vision. Lyla and a little boy, who looked older than her, sat in the backseat. She was about nine at the time, so he had to be ten or eleven. I can’t say he was her brother, although I’d seen him with her and her mother before. He looked different from them. They were brown-skinned, and he was olive with a pointier nose. \nThere wasn’t an adult in the car with the kids. They were in a tug of war over a bottle of soda. Before the toil could go on for longer, he slammed his fist into her jaw hard enough to send her head into the window and make her release the drink. \n“Go to class, retard!” he barked. \nI felt myself shrinking while watching her face scrunch up. She began to cry and left the car, still receiving insults from the boy. I called for her, rushing over to pull her and her little blue dance bag into an embrace. Upon seeing me, the boy quieted down and avoided my eyes when I stared into the car. \nInside, I gave Lyla some time to get water and fix herself up in the bathroom. Then, I told the other kids to start stretching without me. I called her mother at the front desk and told her what happened. I could still see the Camry from the window. While Mira was explaining to me that “Maxwell (the boy) is used to being rough when he’s with his brothers”, she appeared within the window’s view as well. We ended the call. Then, she opened the driver’s door, took an umbrella from it, opened Maxwell’s door, and proceeded to beat him with the umbrella as passersby awkwardly peered at them. When I told Barbie, she informed me that it would make both of the kids stronger when they got older. \nI finally managed to get Lyla to audition for our dance company when she was fourteen. Her performances had started to become shaky, and she struggled to memorize combinations, but this was typical amongst our teens, especially as they moved up through the class levels.\nAudition Day rolled around a couple weeks later. I immediately regretted asking her to try out. Throughout the three minutes that she participated in the audition, she stationed herself in the back of the studio, stumbled out of pirouettes, forgot most of the combinations, and constantly eyeballed the other dancers to check if she was correctly doing everything. When the first song ended, she snatched her water bottle and bag and stormed out of the door. \nI didn’t see her again for two years. When she returned, it was only for a month or two, but I enjoyed seeing her come back to try dancing again. I had hoped she had finally grown out of her anxious phase, but she was still shaky and quiet. All I saw of her were her erratic movements and shy grins. She didn’t speak to anyone before or after. \nAt the end of the month, she didn’t show up for a class. When Ms. Barnsley and I were shutting the studio down for the night, I heard a knock at the Peach Street entrance, which I had just locked. I opened it and was taken aback by Mira standing on the other side. Her dark eyes were glossed over with preoccupation. I told her that class had already ended. \n“I know,” she said. “Lyla never came back to the car.”\nI furrowed my eyebrows. “She never came to class. I thought she was out sick.”\nShe tilted her head. “No. I dropped her off here ten minutes before class at 6:47.”\nA brief silence sat between us. \n“Have you called her?”\nShe grew agitated and nodded, her movements frigid. “Yes! She won’t pick up the phone.”\nWe asked the security guards if they had seen Lyla, but they hadn’t. I suggested that Lyla might have met up with some friends or a boyfriend and ran off with them, but Mira revealed that Lyla didn’t have any friends or a boyfriend. Mira didn’t receive any news about Lyla’s whereabouts from their relatives either when she tried calling them. Twenty minutes passed when we decided to call the police. Ms. Barnsley and I helped them and Mira search for Lyla. After a couple of hours, I started heading for the interstate to go home and called Mira to persuade her into getting some rest for the night as well. \n“If she ran away, she’ll probably return home tomorrow or the day after,” I reassured her. “Did you two have a falling out or something?”\nA sniffle buzzed through the phone, “No. She seemed a little sad about something, but I didn’t think she’d run off. She’s not the type. She’s not bad like that.”\n“You don’t know what she was sad about?”\n“No. You know, she gets sad sometimes, and I usually just let her have her time to herself in her room. Then, she feels better after a day, but she’s never done this. I really don’t want to think someone took her.” \n“I’m sure that didn’t happen. She might be dealing with a personal issue and be afraid to tell you. I’m sure there’s a reason. We’ll find her. If you need anything, I’m here. I’ll check up on you tomorrow morning, OK?”\n“Thank you so much.”\nThe next morning, there was still no word from Lyla. Mira seemed even more irritated when I called her again, but she erupted into tears after a moment of speaking: \n“...I don’t know why God would do this to me-” she paused while choking on her own tears. “I’m not perfect, but I do everything for my kids. …I love them. I love her.”\nInstinctively, I wanted to tell her that I understood and that Lyla knew Mira loved her, but memories began to flood my mind with uncertainty, drowning out any comforting words I could have offered Mira.\nWhen I was first starting at the dance school, a mother was coming to pick up her daughter from class. Her husband was drunk in the passenger seat of their truck and spilling out of it while trying to get out. They caused a scene as the mom and their daughter tried to pack him back into the truck. Her father always seemed to be drunk when I saw him.\nThen, there was Marco, whose aunt would often forget to pick him up. And Jade, who was always disruptive and picking on the girl who couldn't afford new dance shoes. And Valentina, who would always have meltdowns because her leotard was itchy. And Maria. Phoenix. Marli. Hailey. And so on.\nBarbie had always told me not to worry too much about any of the kids. \n“When you help one, another's gonna have an issue,” she’d say.\nThe whole time we were searching for Lyla the night before, I could only reflect on the things I didn’t do for her when I had the chance.\nThis was my fault.\nInstead of replying to Mira, I sat there, unable to think of a response. Mira continued to vent,\n“It’s her father’s blood,” she growled. “She’s got that same blood in her veins.”\n“I never saw him with you guys.”\n“He was never really in the picture, but she’s still got that same vile blood in her.” She took a shaky breath to keep from breaking down again. “…I just don’t know what happened. I’ve always hugged and kissed my kids, “goodnight”. I told them “I love them” every day. I would ask how their day went at school. I provided for them. I was just talking and laughing with her the other day. After everything I’ve done for them, I just don’t know why they act like this.”\nI fidgeted beneath my sheets as she huffed out an angered chuckle.\n“It’s these phones and social media!” she declared. “They’ve got these kids acting crazy, and they’re putting all kinds of mess into their heads. I thought everything was okay when she came home from the psych unit. I prayed, but she’s rebelling again.” \n“Uh, Lyla’s a sweet girl. I’m sure there’s a reason. A lot of teens do this.”\n“She’s ungrateful and rotten.”\nThe day passed. We searched for her again and still didn’t find her or turn up any clues. The following day, I called again. As we spoke, she and the police were on the way to Lyla’s location. They had finally decided to track Lyla’s phone, since she hadn’t come home the day before. As soon as Mira told me, I nearly rushed out of the house without any shoes on. \nAs I grew closer to the destination, the streets grew more desolate and ragged. Countless tents appeared on the sides of the roads. Most of the buildings were abandoned. This part of the city was practically a ghost town. I wondered how Lyla could survive here, even for two days. \nThe GPS led me to an empty 12-story office building. I pulled into the empty parking lot behind a police car and Mira’s Camry. Mira was on her knees. Her head sagged into her hands. My insides shivered with dread. Her sobs grew clearer as I turned my car off. I opened the door, and a repulsive draft thwarted me. I coughed and covered my nose as I ran to them. \nTwo bloodied legs were peeking out from behind the cop. I shook my head in rejection of my damning thoughts. A growing lump burned in my throat. As soon as I could see the full body, I ceased my running. My weakening legs threatened to let me collapse. I turned and grappled onto a light pole for support. My free hand held my sickened stomach as I fell to my knees, unraveling into a mess of tears." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Moving On Day\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1313\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which someone says “You'll never be content.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "After the women carried the last tote bag into the loft and gently tossed it into the empty bedroom sans the king- sized bed Millicent put together the day she moved in, she slid in her socks on her vinyl plank flooring and flipped open her laptop which was sitting on the kitchen island. \nMillicent or Millie as her friends called her, tapped a few buttons and in an instant her new third floor apartment overlooking the pool was filled with Marvin Gaye’s Got To Give It Up. \nThat signaled the start of the celebration.\nLisa let out a ‘hey there nah’ as she opened the cupboard over stove to retrieve the purple, Solo cups from the shelf and opened the packaging. \nShe shook her hips to the beat causing the other ladies in the loft to either giggle or shimmy. Brenda took a cup and rinsed it out before she went over to the refrigerator to press the automatic ice maker.\n“Look Mill, you finally got your ice maker.” Brenda mentioned as she reached for one of the bottled beverages placed in a decorative bowl on the island.\nThe air in the loft hung heavy as Carol and Keisha gave each other knowing glances. Brenda intercepted the glance and said, \n“You two cut it out, Millie knows I don’t mean no harm.”\nMillie shimmied past them and she continued to slide over to her patio door to slide that open as well. The loft filled with air that was crisp although it was cloaked with the syrupy scent of honeysuckle. \nThat’s when Lisa, cup in hand took a sip while looking out of the patio door overlooking the pool. She noticed a rather sculpted, statuesque, chocolate man taking off his shirt to dive into the pool. Lisa quickly shimmied back into the loft, walked over to a chair by the island and grabbed a box of menthol cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse and swiftly sashayed herself out onto the tiny balcony and sat down on one of the chairs. She commenced to light a cigarette as she yelled over her shoulder, \n“Aye yo Mill? How late your pool open tho?” Lisa semi cackled as she continued to ask, “Nah, I’m for real tho Mill!!!”\nAt this point, Keisha had lit a cigarette in the apartment and yelled over to Lisa, “Girl, if you don’t bring that cigarette up in here and stop all that yelling before Sam hear you.”\nLisa laughed and came back in the apartment for a minute to grab a cup full of somethin and to giggle.\n“His name Sam huh Keisha? Ain’t chu murried Keisha?”\n“Been murried just as long as you have, Leeeesa” Keisha quipped back sharply yet and still letting her best-friend’s name hover in the air like a song. \n“And Carol ain’t too far behind us. The only one who’s available is Ms. Millicent over there and she slow walkin her ass.”\n“Oh, no Kei, tell me you didn’t?” Carol asked whipping her head back and forth between Keisha and Millie.\nMillie nodded, “Carol, she did.”\nKeisha stood up with her cigarette and walked into the kitchen where there was an amethyst ashtray on the counter next to the paper towel holder and flicked her ash.\n“I ain’t do nothin obvious. I wouldn’t do my sister like that, but you know how fussy she can be so one day when I was droppin somethin off to her I decided to take out her trash and boom, there was Sam just as happy to take the bag from me and take it to the dumpster. That’s it.”\n“And that’s all it’s gon be too.” Millie added as she sauntered back over to her patio to take one last look over the pool before attempting to shut the patio door.\n“You ain’t got to do that,” Lisa stopped her. “Even though whoever has them damn honeysuckles is irritatin my sinuses and shit. Leave that door open the breeze is nice. Plus, I guess they keep the pool open pretty late, for um Sam, you say now Kei?”\nThe girls all erupted in laughter as they took their respective Solo cups into the living room which was strewn with body pillows since the rest of Millie’s furniture hadn’t arrived yet.\nOf course, Lisa took a pillow closest to the patio and the other ladies spread themselves out accordingly while the music played in the background. Brenda giggled as she looked at the cup.\n“How did you manage to find purple Solo cups?”\nMillie giggled, “Girl Amazon has everything!”\n“You ain’t lyin,” Carol chimed in.\n“Just don’t go overboard with the purple n here Mill, it’s gon look like Barney blew up in this camp” Keisha advised.\n“Kei,” Carol said through giggles, “You behave, I heard you took all of Millie’s furniture choices out of her cart.”\n“I did no such thing,” Kei replied, I just simply stated that every woman who gets a lofty earned income credit refund has the leather sectional with the lights.”\n“Millie, no! Say you didn’t!” Brenda gasped causing everyone to look at Millie who was holding her arms out to be rescued by the invisible furniture gods.\n“Bren, you see we all sittin on body pillows up in here, so no, I didn’t.” \nBrenda sighed in relief.\nCarol interjected while pointing around the open concept loft with her cup, “But this ain’t it…”\nMillie interrupted, “Oh c’mon now give me a little fuckin credit. I did actually buy furniture, but it ain’t get here in enough time for our little gathering.”\n“Speakin of that, where our food?” Lisa interjected. “I purposely only had coffee this morning cuz I thought we was havin brunch and shit.”\nMillie looked at her phone and tapped it a couple of times with her finger. Keisha leaned over and gently took her wrist and looked at Millie’s fingers,\n“Oooh gurl, I ain’t ever see your hands look this bad.”\nMillie snatched her hand away and replied,\n“The food is fittin to get here in bout twenty minutes, Lee, and I know Keish, as soon as I get used to my new surroundings and get my finances on track, I’ll be able to tend to my talons more often, but ain’t like I go out much no way.”\n“Which don’t make no sense to me,” Lisa chimed in, “Now that we know the pool is across from the dog park?”\n“Is it?” Carol asked as she peeked out the window.\n“He gone, chile.”\n“Who gone?” Brenda asked.\n“Sam done toweled off and left about fifteen minutes ago. And I dunno if there is a dog park up in this big ass complex and neither does she. But what Millie need to do is take lil Nipper over there to the pool and ask Sam’s fine ass ...where the dog park at.”\nMillie sighed. “I can’t do that. That ain’t me no mo. I’m too old for rejection.”\n“What makes you think you’re gonna get rejected, Mill?” Brenda asked sincerely.\n“You right, Bren but, I guess I’d rather get rejected than get robbed.” Millie said dejected.\nThe whole room sucked in air at the same time. \nLisa winced and said, look we all know that sucked and we hurt for you when it happened; and I know you got this pretty ass loft now and in time you’ll have all the little trinkets and gadgets you want to make it purdy and efficient. But unless you open up the door. And I’m not talkin bout yo heart chile, cuz, shit that’s askin for a lot. However, you gotta at least open up this apartment door and step outside or else you’ll never be content.”\nJust then the lights flickered and chimes rang out signaling that their brunch arrived. Millie opened her door to find Sam delivering it." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Crying Cow\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1654\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character is running away from something, literally or metaphorically." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It looks like my crime spree is coming to an end. Blinding blue lights are flashing all around, I hear dogs barking in the distance, drawing nearer, a helicopters' rotors chop the air in the sky above me with inexorable efficiency as I cower behind a downed and rotting oak tree and a couple of stiff-leafed cabbage palms.\n\nA crackling voice through a megaphone informs me that I am surrounded. If I surrender peacefully, no one will get hurt. Not one, but two red dots flicker and dance through the foliage a few meters away. Sharpshooters! With laser sights trying to get a fix on me.\n\nThe dogs are nearer, yelping with anticipation, I can imagine them straining at their leashes.\n\n“Throw out your weapon and come out with your hands up.” The sheriff adds. His megaphone cuts off someone’s chuckle in mid-chuck.\n\nI have a weapon, but it’s simply a flare gun. Does this qualify as an emergency? I ponder this question with unnatural, fatalistic calm.\n\n‘Not yet.’ I tell myself. Or was that a disembodied voice speaking directly into my brain? Who knows? With all the noise and commotion, I can’t tell if I’m crazy, or… what else is there? Not crazy?\n\nIt’s been a hectic 24 hours since my ordeal started, and I think we all sense that my saga is drawing to a close.\n\nDid you know that cows cry? I didn’t either. But when you see one crying, up close, you can’t deny it. Poor cow, tied to a gate. Went to the fair for the third year in a row, thought it was all a game. But this year, the demeanor of her teenaged 4-H Club competitor/owner had changed. Her gentle and loving care had turned cold and indifferent. Roughly pushing and pulling the cow from pen to carrier to feed lot to auction floor. Cows have big wet noses, doesn’t mean anything. But the eyes? Cows don’t cry unless they know something. This cow knew things. She was being sold. I felt so bad. But what could I do? I was surrounded—by cowboys, and cowgirls, and cow people. Clearly this ‘cow’ prefix was a misnomer. They were anything but cow-friendly. As this cow would attest, if she could talk.\n\nThere were no options open to me, except to shuffle along with the rest of the crowd, solemnly pondering the fate of the crying cow. We were ushered along into the next building. A hall of bunnies! Wall to wall rabbits of every shape, size, color, pattern, temperament and luck. Each bunny had his own cage. ‘Who keeps bunnies in cages?’ I asked my companion, who squinted at me in disbelief. ‘Uh, everyone?’ She replied.\n\n“Really?” I remember saying. “Why? It’s not like they’re dangerous. Are they?” I had to admit, a few of them looked pretty fierce.\n\n“Naw,” my companion said.\n\n“At least they don’t eat them,” I muttered. Sticking one of my fingers through the closest cage, letting one of the bunnies sniff it, nibble it, and… we kept moving. My companion scoffed at my naivete. “Bunnies are delicious,” she said, licking her lips suggestively. My mind would have recoiled, but I was still fixated on the crying cow. How does one liberate an 800-pound heifer?\n\nAfter the bunnies, we were herded, much like cows, to yet another building, a flimsy structure filled with fancy fowl of every configuration. They came in various breeds, with funny names, like, Legwarmers, Gorpingtons, Langoliers, Suit Yourselfers, Rock Island Redrums—weird names. Signs advised against touching the birds without permission, few owners were about, so I politely asked each bird if I could touch it before doing so. I don’t think the birds or their owners really cared, it was more a matter of courtesy than anything else.\n\nI hate to go off on a tangent like that, and in short order, I returned to the cow auction, with my companion, who would like to remain anonymous. I stepped in a pile of manure, took my hat off and waved it furiously, stomped my feet to get it off my boot and did a fancy sidestep to quickly vacate the ‘zone of intense fragrance.’ This was considered a signal by the auctioneer, and I realized, gradually, that I was now expected to buy the crying cow. What an amazing turn of events,’ I thought. Could that have been coincidence? Or ‘cow-pushing?’\n\nThe owner came over and congratulated me on the fine purchase I’d made and began to describe the kinds of things the cow would do for me. I was not—well, I guess I was interested but I was distracted by the fact that I had no money, no pasture, no butcher (a harsh, but realistic thought) and no apparatus to transport the cow. The only way that cow was coming home with me was if she was a smart investor, holding liquid assets, and didn’t mind if I rode on her back.\n\nI convinced the seller of the cow that we needed a few minutes alone, before I made the purchase. And they were so happy to be rid of that cow that they said I could take her for a walk around the fairgrounds if I wanted to. So that’s exactly what I did.\n\nYou know, I came to realize that cows are fiercely independent. They want to be eaten, eventually, and they also happen to be dedicated procrastinators. It’s a game they play, (until they’re dead.) It’s like 'Ruminant Roulette.'\n\nSo what the hell was I gonna do? Right? And how did I end up here, behind this robust cabbage palm, surrounded by police and sheriff's squad cars.\n\nIt was a good question, and it made me scratch my head, carefully, because the sharp-shooters were still bouncing and flitting those two red laser dots over in the shrubbery just beyond the fence. When I put my hand back on the ground, I felt something cold, and leathery, and it rattled when I touched it.\n\nBut we’ll get back to that in a minute.\n\n\nI explained our situation to the crying cow as I led her to the farthest corner of the fairgrounds, right at the edge of a forest, and opened the gate. “That’s it,” I said, ‘you’re free to go.”\n\nShe didn’t budge. In fact, I know what she was thinking. ‘This is no way to get eaten.’ “That’s right,” I snapped. “Especially if you want to get eaten today. Did you want to get eaten today?” She was actually eating when I asked the question, like she had to consider the question. She just stood there, looking at me, chewing some grass.\n\n“What?” I said. “What do you want?”\n\n“I want more grass,” she said, with a very stubborn, cow-like stance.\n\n“Yeah well, don’t we all,” I replied, without really thinking about it. There was more grass right in front of her. All she had to do was move. 'Oh, there she goes,' I thought. 'She’s moving, and she isn't crying anymore. She seemed content. So I left, without even getting her name.\n\nBut I didn’t get away.\n\nOh no, the owners of the cow were people from Montana. It doesn’t matter where we were, what matters is that THEY, were from Montana. And nobody was gonna mess with their cows. I think they suspected me of cow seduction. Which is really insulting, it’s also weird, but I’m not sure we want to tell them that. Not sure how they’d take it. But the point is, when they pointed at me, I should not have run, but I did, and they gave chase.\n\nPetrified, hiding in the dark, in the midst of all this ruminating on my circumstances, the dogs, and their handlers go marching right past me in the woods. The dog-handlers were not happy with their hounds. One of them said, “He acts this way around chickens. Do you see any chickens, Joe? Ain’t no chickens around here.”\n\nI distinctly heard the other handler say, “Ma hounds reacts to rabbits, thats how ah trains ‘em.” He reminded me of Frodo, or Bilbo. One of them Baggins Boys.\n\nThey go rushing by, the leather thing that’s under my hand is a golf bag wouldn’t you know, somebody must have been really pissed to throw it this far, and it’s full of clubs, with a half-a-bottle of whisky tucked into one of its many pockets. The chopper has adjusted its search pattern to follow the dogs, and the red dots seem to have been redirected. I finally put two and two together and realize that there was a damned golf course just beyond that fence a few yards away. Sure, it was dark out, and the course was closed, but I had a set of clubs and a bottle of whisky. Suddenly, I’m thinking, I could just play the part of a drunken duffer. ‘I don’t know nothin' about no wayward seductorin' cow criminal, officer. Sir.\" I felt like I could pull it off, but I didn’t need to.\n\nAs soon as I stood up and hoisted those clubs over my shoulder, another handler with a single dog had come quietly through the woods and paused as soon as he saw me, he briefly played his flashlight over my countenance. The dog sneezed with exaggerated disinterest. The officer said, “It’s—ah, a little late to be playing golf, isn’t it, sir?”\n\n“I’m not playing,\" I said. \"I’m looking for my fuckin' ball. And I’m not leaving until I find it.”\n\nThe handler nodded, “Yes sir. Well, good luck.” And started to move off.\n\n“Hey.” I said, “What are you guys looking for?”\n\n“Cow poacher. G’ night sir.”\n\nCow poacher? “I like mine grilled,” I called out, and made my way over the fence and to the fairway. I called an uber for a ride and paid him with the whisky.\n\nThat’s my story of the crying cow." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Storybook Sushi (1 roll, 6 pieces)\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2971\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone looking at a restaurant menu." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Discussion of violence.\n\n*Ace\nMy face is pressed against a blood-splattered restaurant menu while I am handcuffed flat on the floor of the restaurant. On the pink paper there is a drawing of a sushi roll on an open book, the logo of my favorite restaurant, Storybook Sushi.\nAll I did was defend myself with a stupid jujitsu move I learned watching the Black Panther movie. How did I get here? Everyone has a backstory, the reasons behind their actions. But the only thing that mattered was what happened, not how it came about. \n\nThat night, I was at Storybook Sushi picking up sushi for me and Moms. Moms did not want to cook and there was nothing in the fridge anyway. Shrimp tempura roll, unagi, spicy tuna, even the simple California roll, I loved them all. \nLike all restaurants now, with the Covid precautions they are take-out only. The few chairs were stacked up and pushed over to one side. I put in the order, but the guy said they were backed-up. Two other customers were in the small restaurant, a big guy, all belly with a dark complexion, and a skinny white teenager, pale and jittery. He looked just like Steve Rogers before he buffed up to be Captain America. Feeling claustrophobic, I headed to the comic book store next door. Walking out I felt my Nike's sliding slightly outward on the greasy floor. It was gross and hadn't been mopped in ages. Some of my friends make fun of me for liking comics so much. Say a black kid like me should be into sports. But I am who I am. If I didn’t have my comics and Avenger movies I would have lost my mind during the pandemic shutdown.\n\nWhen I walked back in was when all hell broke loose. \nI was just Living while Black. Everyone knows the system is stacked against a black man, but of all places, I didn’t think I would be caught up in any drama in a sushi restaurant. The cops knee on my back and the handcuffs squeezing my wrists proved my story doesn’t matter. \nWhose story wins out? What is the truth? \n\n**Deuce\nThanks again for being my Sponsor. They said I should call you if I had a problem.\n-No, no! I made it through the week, no drinking! But, I was at this sushi place and well, I picked a fight. \n\nWhen I feel trapped, all the stress comes back. Many of the guys in our Group can’t handle loud noises. I'm fine with guns or tv show explosions, probably because my hearing is shot. But, if I get in a physically small space, I lose it. I didn’t tell you this, but in the smog shop last week I exploded at the guy when he said my car didn’t pass. The new battery screwed up the records or something and I had to wait a week for a re-check. A week! It was the tiny office that got me going. After the mess I made in his little office though, I can’t go ever back. \n\nIt was hot, and people kept crowding into the small restaurant. I was breathing to stay calm, I tried to text you, but my damn phone was cracked. To type I had to press hard on the screen so I gave up. Then there was this guy shouting in Arabic, throwing chairs. I panicked like I was still in combat again in Wanat. 10 years out, and the visions flooded over me as if I was there. I don’t understand why he just couldn’t speak English. \nMy grandmother was an immigrant, my family has been in California for over 100 years now. Just because he is an immigrant, he don't deserve any special privileges. She and my grandfather had to work the fields. Now the illegals are coming, bringing in drugs and criminals, taking jobs from real Americans!\n\nA skinny white kid, all tattooed up, walks up the counter and gets his food like he owns the place. I might have been invisible! He is just twitching and sweating, stabbing at his food like a woodpecker, a meth tweaker if I ever saw one. I know some guys in my group like that, can't trust them when they are hopped up! \nThat is when the black guy walks in and cuts the line in front of me. He is a gangbanger, for sure, in black baggy pants. I could tell just by looking at him. \nMy whole body was sweating, in this small space, I felt anxiety crawl over me. I closed my eyes to calm down, with the banging and yelling I could have sworn I was in Afghanistan.\n\nSo, when I heard the boxes falling, there was no conscious thought, I turned toward the noise ready to fight. A blond woman in the corner was spurting blood from her forehead and the black gangbanger right there. I knew he hit her! \n I snapped and rushed him. In my head it was 10 years ago and I am strong and quick.. \nBut, I am just a drunk. \nI grabbed him, but he was fast, twisted his body and I was already slipping on the floor when I fell back. I hit my head hard. Staring down at me, I was waiting for him to pull out a gun. I don’t know what got into me. \nBut then a cop, a black woman rushed in. In a flash she had the black guy on the ground. I feel bad now, but I kicked the guy for making me fall down.\nI was too out of breath to say more and started coughing. I went outside to get fresh air, and then came to my senses and left.\n-The black guy? I don’t know what happened to him.\nThanks for listening, I needed to talk to someone. I’ll see you at Group next week. \n\n***Trey\nHey Bro, I had the craziest night! I was at Storybook Sushi and there was a fight! Oh, man let me tell you. You know the spot? My guy Joe works there as a cashier. I'm there once a week at least, Joe always gives me something extra. \n\nWhen I went in, I skipped the line ‘cause I hadn’t eaten all day and my body was shaking from the chemo meds. Joe knows my issues and hooked me up with some potstickers while I waited for the rest of my order. Those potstickers were so good! But the cheap plastic fork broke right away, leaving only one tong. But I figured out if I stabbed the potstickers hard and quick I could grab them. I was like a jackhammer, bam, bam, bam!\n\nI tell you, I knew right away something was going to go down. There was this thick feeling of stress in the air, four or five people standing around, all of them mad, waiting on their food. This old guy in an ‘Army Strong’ shirt was looking at his phone and cursing under his breath. He looked up at me and just stared, like he wanted to fight me! I could tell he was ex-military, those guys are all nuts. I gave him my stone-cold stare, but the meds were making my eyelids blink and twitch. Finally he looked away. Joe told me the computer was down again, so going to be even longer.\nTheir system is always bugging out, and Joe is always trying to fix it. \n\nSuddenly an old man started cussing out Joe, in some foreign language, and then turned around and pointed at me, no idea why. I gave him my stone-cold stare too. He was waving his phone around at Joe, screaming. Joe had the Cook call the cops. I was thinking maybe I should just bounce, when, out of nowhere, the old man started slamming the chairs around. Somehow he slipped and fell sideways. \nThis black kid in the corner was near me, and I saw him looking at the boxes stacked to the ceiling all along the wall, and just when I realized what he did, pushing on the chairs would make the boxes fall- Boom! \n\nAll those boxes stacked along the wall crashed over everyone! To-go containers, plastic cups, soy packets, menus- all flew everywhere! One of the boxes hit this white lady square on the forehead- blood started pouring from her! I grabbed what I could, a handful of paper menus and gave them to the lady to stop the bleeding. Not that anyone else was paying attention. The Army Strong guy, out of nowhere, just ran over and attacked the black kid! Suddenly I saw Army Strong’s legs flying up, and the kid stood over him, flexing. That skinny kid must have been a boxer, he knew how to throw a punch!\n\nThat is when the cop showed up. Everyone was pointing and yelling at the kid, and she had him on the ground in one motion. He did not even do anything! \nI bounced then. The cop arrested the wrong guy, but it will all get worked out, right? \nI’m just mad I dropped my potstickers! \n\n****Arbaea (Four)\nI needed the order to be ready. \n“It's not ready- come back.” The cashier at Storybook Sushi told me. \n\nI needed to make this delivery quick. My rating for this App is below the minimum, much longer and the App will deactivate me. It is not my fault, these restaurants are too slow! \nThe App keeps lowering my fee, and since the COVID no one tips! The App pays me $2, plus tip for a delivery.\n $2 plus no tip is only $2. The App tells the customer ‘On the Way’ when I haven't picked up the order yet! Customers get made when I am late, and then they do not tip. \n\nI needed the order to be ready.\nI worked 8 hours today, 13 days in a row driving for different Apps. \n\nAfter 5 minutes I went back to the cashier, showed him the phone, the screen said ‘The order is ready for pick up.’ \nI pointed, ‘Naraa, naraa!’ (See, see!)\nBut he did not look. \n\n“Bismaillahir, Rahmanir, Raheem!”\n(In the name of Allah, the Gracious, The Merciful)\n\nI needed the order to be ready!\n\nHe shook his head, you have to wait he said. I knew he was lying. \n\nThe small restaurant was crowded, the stacked chairs were in my way! I grabbed one and lifted it up and slammed it down. The noise and the bang echoed my frustrations. I did it again and again and again.\n\n“Bismaillahir, Rahmanir, Raheem!”\n\nIt felt good to release my anger. \nI needed the order to be ready!\n\nI reached for the chair again and slipped on the slick floor. No one helped me! \nI grabbed a chair to pull myself up and- \nSuddenly there was a bang, the boxes stacked nearby fell, crashed on all the customers.\nI see a woman’s head bleeding.\nTwo men are fighting, silhouetted against the blue and red lights flashing through the window. \nA police officer came in and ran straight to the men fighting. I walked out behind her. \n\nI canceled the delivery on the App. I need to rest. \nThat was a sign from Allah. \n\n***** Quinn\n-Yes, Officer. I am happy to help you out. My name is Quinn.\n\nSo I normally go to Shimzu Sushi, near my house, you know, but it closed through the COVID, so I thought I would try out this Storybook Sushi place. It had good reviews on Yelp? I had put in my order online, but when I walked in, I felt the tension, something was wrong! I should have just left, no reason for me, a woman, to put myself in danger. But I was hungry and thought it would be quick. Anyway that is what I told myself.\nI asked for my order at the counter, When he gave me a concerned look, I thought it was because of my bandage, see, on my forehead. It was from yesterday when I fell, this Mexican boy on his bike just ran into me! \nBut this man did not care about my injury, he wanted me to wear a mask! After I ignored his stupid mask comment, he let me know there was computer issue, and the order wasn’t ready.\n\nI remember looking around and there were two men, middle eastern, or Mexican, or Latins, and then the black man. He was glaring at me, I just knew he was trouble! \n\n-Where are those Mexicans now you ask? I do not see them, they must have left. \n\nAnd then I saw a white boy, with tattoos? He must have left too. \nAnyway he was eating, so I asked, ‘He has his food, why can’t I get my order?’\n\nI know how to handle these service people, you need to be firm with them, or they will run right over you. ‘When will my order be ready?’ I said in my deepest voice. \nWhen he said 20 minutes, I told him it better be no more than 10!\n\nThen I went and stood as far as I could from the other men, but there really was not a lot of room. I ended up near the black man, and look what happened! \n\nEver since Jenny had her purse stolen, or did she leave it in that bar? I pay attention to who is around me. I gave the black man some more room, got my purse onto my other shoulder and moved as far as I could into the corner, which was hard considering all the boxes stacked up there. \nI was checking Facebook when one of the men just started yelling, I have no idea what about! He was waving his phone around, and yelling loudly in some foreign language. I thought he was a terrorist! \n\nSomehow he fell over a chair, flopped like a fish on the ground. I saw him try to get up and then, out of nowhere I had this sharp pain, right where I fell! I saw the box that hit me fall to the ground. My bandage slipped off and the cut opened up again, bleeding everywhere, it was even worse than yesterday. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the black man lift his hands toward me. \nI know he did it, he hit me on the head to steal my purse! \n\nThe nice white boy was right there, and had some paper to put on the cut. While I am standing there just bleeding, it got worse. There was a fight! Thank goodness, you showed up. \nAnd that is what happened, Officer. \n\n-Oh my head, it's fine. It looks worse than it is. \n\n******Seis\nIt was a particularly bad beating. Hate to see a woman with injuries like that. Boyfriend, was young, 20’s, however already had made all the wrong choices. The fight between him and Girlfriend had been going on for a while before the neighbors called it in, longer still before we arrived in the Black and White. His strength and the alcohol took over and she is going to need stitches up the left side of her arm, shoulder, and face. \n\nBoyfriend was drunk, raging when we got there and not listening to anyone, especially me, a black woman cop. They teach you how to protect yourself at the Academy, but in practice you know your sparring partner will only go so far. \nOut of control, ‘King of their Castle’ fights in their own home was a different ball game. Billy of course didn't help at all, asshole. \n“You got this Seis,” he said, letting me take the collar, and the fight. Billy was still mad that I didn't pick up his shift last week. His veteran cop post-arrest analysis was that I went in too soft. Which is how Boyfriend was able to get in that punch to the back of my head. I can still feel the large lump. Billy reminded me of the Academy training.\n'Go in fast and hard, and take control of the situation before it takes control of you.'\n\nI was right around the corner when the call came in for a disturbance at a restaurant on Grand. I was solo, as Billy stayed behind for the paperwork on the Boyfriend so I left the flashers on when I walked in. I heard screams and shouts, so I did a quick scan. A black guy is standing over an older man, who is on his back. Looked like he was knocked down or pushed. Boxes and trash were everywhere, and overturned chairs. A blond woman is bleeding from her head, and a tatted-up white guy is helping her. The cashier looks relieved to see me, he must have called it in. An older middle eastern man, looking on with wide open eyes, moved behind me. OK Seis, follow the process and control the situation! \n\nI have been in a battle already, and am not going to let this one get out of hand. I go for the most likely perp, the black guy in the threatening poise. No one is getting the better of me this time. Moving quickly, I kicked his legs out and pushed him down. I listened for the grunt as his breath gets knocked out of him, just like at the Academy. \n“Police,” I shouted. I got a knee in his back and he was still struggling! \n\nI pulled my cuffs and yelled, “Stop or I'll shoot!”\n\nHe stopped struggling, and I got him cuffed. “Ok, who can tell me what happened here?” Kneeling on the perp I looked around.\n“What is the story here? What is the truth?”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: His Bedroom\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2114\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character is running away from something, literally or metaphorically." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The warmth of his bed is pleasant like a kiss of sunlight on my skin, it’s like dancing in a yellow sundress on the last day of summer, drunk on wine and barefoot in the grass. I probably should remember getting here, but there must’ve been too much alcohol last night, because I don’t. The sheets wrapped around my body smell like him, and all of his things are exactly the way I remember them being. The ‘I love NYC’ coffee cup is next to his notebook, the glasses he always forgets to wear are on his shut laptop, and this sense of familiarity washes over me. I could stay here forever; I think to myself.\nThe soft pink glow of the room reminds me of a California sunrise, where whispers of beige and burnt orange combine, hiding pale hues of blue. This room feels just like that, like it’s too perfect to be real. Like the quiet and stillness of this moment don’t really exist. And when I can hear my own breathing, that’s when the slow panic begins to build, when the overwhelming anxiety of the chaos about to commence settles in. Nothing that seems perfect ever is. There’s always some ugly lurking behind the illusion, like a predator about to kill its prey, the ugly storms through. And so, I wait for this scene to fall apart, for the sun to burn, the windows to shatter, the bed to crumble, the smell of him to disappear, but it just…doesn’t. \nThe door opens and I gasp, my gaze fixed on it. I think my heart gasps, too, as I see him walk in. When he spots me, there’s a slow, boyish smirk on his lips paired with a small shake of his wet curls, and his blue eyes are filled with innocence and happiness again. \n“Good morning. I didn’t know you were awake.” I’m speechless, as he makes his way to me, leaning over to kiss me softly, a few water droplets falling on my face. \nThis small little action is felt everywhere in my body and erases the fear I had of this not being real. Of course it’s real, I chastise myself, inhaling his clean scent. Maybe not everything good has to fall apart. \n“Want some breakfast?” I shake my head, and pull back from his hug, looking up at him. We’ve embraced over a million times, and this time just feels so different. His blonde hair still has the same loose curls hanging just by his ears. His eyes are the same shade of blue that I fell in love with, his lips are the same soft, pink lips I’m used to kiss, and his body is the same body that I call home. The same ‘Nirvana’ grey t-shirt hangs loose on his toned figure, paired with those old grey sweatpants he’s had since forever. Everything about him that felt like home, now feels different, despite nothing having changed at all. \n“Later. Come back to bed, now.” pushing those thoughts away, I lift the sheets and invite him in the bed. There’s a spark in his eyes, but there’s nothing like desire lingering there, just excitement. \nThe mattress shifts as he lays down, crossing his feet as his arms go beneath his neck to support his head. A soft sigh escapes his lips and I listen to his breath. It’s so quiet and calm, like a sunny summer day, like a whispered promise, it sounds as if his heart is saying ‘I love you’ to mine. \nMy head turns to watch him, his eyes are closed and the urge to touch him is incredibly strong, because for some reason, it feels like he’ll leave any second now. \n“Evelyn…” he whispers, and I lift my eyebrows, biting my lip. “You’re staring.” I can’t even help the smile that grows on my lips, and neither can he. \nI lay back down and face him, tracing his soft features with my eyes. God, he is so beautiful, he is so light, like everything he says makes me happy, makes me forget the cruel world outside these four walls. Anything he does is a work of art, and I am in love. I am in love with his heart, his laugh, his love for life. This man, whose palm lines I’ve memorized, whose endless warmth has injected itself into my veins, has my heart in his hand. I think he has all of me, every flicker of darkness, all the good and the bad, is right there for him to hold. When it comes to defining what we have, it’s difficult to label this kind of connection because I’ve never known a soul like his. I know it’s not just love, it’s friendship and goofiness and home. \n“Josh.” he hums in response, eyes still shut, waiting for me to go on. “How is it possible that you’re right here, and yet…I miss you?”\n“It’s not.” he turns to face me, revealing the blue in his eyes once more. “You don’t miss a person, Evelyn. You miss memories, you miss the past, but not me.”\nHis tone is light, there’s no hint of amusement behind his words, and though I struggle to find another meaning other than the real one, I come up short. Josh isn’t sombre, he’s not dark or messed up, that’s me. \n“I don’t think that’s true, Josh. I know I can miss you. I know that if you died tomorrow, I’d miss you.”\n“Really? How? How would you know the difference between missing me or the things you had with me?” he raises his eyebrows in question, willing me to go on, but something in his tone suggests he already thinks he’s right and I’m wrong regardless. \n“Well, memories can be recreated, Josh. You can trace your steps back as far as you want with a new person, and you’d feel different versions of the same feeling. I could have the same things I had with you with a new person, and it would still be different. Because it doesn’t matter what memory I’m making if what I miss is you. You’re the constant in this equation. You make the memory, not the other way around.”\nFor a second, I think I won, or maybe just impressed him so much with my philosophical thinking that he won’t throw an argument at me. \n“You would say anything but the truth, wouldn’t you, Evelyn?”\n“What do mean?” my voice comes out like a whisper, unsure of where he’s taking us. \n“You love to tell yourself any pretty lie as long as you can take cover from the blow.”\n“You’re not…making sense?” I shake my head, confusion coloring my features. \n“It’s like…so fucking annoying, Evelyn, how you just twist everything to the fucking limit just to keep your sanity.” I look away from him, hurt, bewildered, betrayed. “But how much of it do you really have left? Huh? How much longer can you really run from the truth, Evelyn?”\n“Stop it, Josh, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”\n“You’re scared and yet you’re still here, next to me. That’s how twisted you are, Evelyn. You’d fall back asleep next to a monster only to not be alone. How sad is that?”\nI rise from the bed, dropping the sheets. His words are like swords, cutting into me, undoing everything I thought I knew about him. Four years to fall in love, ten seconds to fall out of it. It was always too perfect, so we were bound to get to this point. The point where the façade shatters like a mirror, into a billion sharp pieces that cut right to the bone. But this bed was my oasis; the only thing that scared me was the thought of having to leave. \n“You want to know the truth, Evelyn?” God, even his voice is different, sharper, mocking. Not like my Josh. “The truth is, Ev, that you’re back here because you’re too scared to sit still and just face the impact.”\n“What impact? What truth?” I’m surprised at the lack of tears on my face. If this were just any other day, where we’re in love and he’s not demolishing us, I would be a little more sentimental. \n“That we’re not really here. That I’m dead, Evelyn.”\nI was wrong. The illusion hadn’t shattered until just now, in the silence that came after the truth. The dammned, ugly truth that tore down my chance to be in love forever. And it’s rage now, rage that I fell back into this trap, chased another high only to get the low, ran towards him only to be thrown to the ground. How many more times? How many more conversations with the same ending? How much do I have to endure until I can finally stop running away from…me?\nI shut my eyes and turn to face Josh, who has decided to stand up, hovering next to me. \nMy next breath is probably the most difficult one ever, because I’m using it to utter words that will break my heart. \n“You’re right. We were out on the road, it was my birthday, we were coming back from our picnic, and I wanted to drive your convertible as a birthday gift, even though you had already given me that book earlier, I’d always been so greedy when it came to you, though. I always wanted more, more time with you, more kisses from you, more laughs with you, more…you, always. You closed your eyes because you trusted me and threw your head back, turning the radio up. I remember because this Nirvana song you burned on your CD was playing, and I looked at you for one moment, and you rose up from your seat. I laughed. I was laughing and looking at you, and wishing you’d stay just like that, in love with me, forever. I didn’t even…it was so abrupt, the way everything happened. You just…disappeared, I didn’t even hear the other car, I just heard you. All I ever heard was you, even when you were out with your friends and I tagged along, holding onto your arm as you talked all night with them. I only saw you, even when the room was full. I only ever looked at you. You, picking lemons in your parents’ back garden. You, watching me dance in my sundress beneath a burning sun. You, stroking my hair while flipping the pages of your book. You, calling me at the most ungodly hours. You, hiding that ring in your drawer. You, flying out. You, dead.” \nHe touches my cheek with his hand, and I lean into his touch for the last time. My eyes can’t open, I can’t watch him leave again.\n“And now I know that you’re going to crumble in any second because you’re not really here. It was nice to hold on to you because I was my best me with you. And you’re right, I’ve been running away, from loneliness, because accepting that there’s a world without you in it, that my world doesn’t have you in it, feels like I’m a walking corpse. It feels like I’m dead, too, or maybe just in so much pain, I’ve simply stopped feeling. My heart looked just like yours, and now we’re both ashes to the ground. I loved you too much, so much that this is where it stops, this is where I stop because it hurts too much to accept that you’re not here anymore. There is an actual ache in my chest, and you gave it to me. I’m terrified of watching you crumble again, so if you go, this time I can’t watch, because it might just ruin me, Josh.”\nThere’s no tears, at least at first. There’s not even anger anymore. There’s not even warmth, his hand is gone and the courage to open my eyes seems to be missing, too. I think it’s because I’ve finally stopped. My oasis shatters, pieces of us flying everywhere in my mind, polaroids burning, his scent gone, and the most painful feeling yet, the monster I’ve been quietly running away from, hiding behind my twisted truths, is all that’s left. The stillness of just me. My little existence paradoxes the emptiness I’m in. \nAnd I open my eyes, then, to carved stories in grey stones, to decaying lovers and utter stillness. I thought he’d be in the wind, or in the leaves or in the flowers, but there’s no breeze, not one leaf in the empty trees, and no flower for any corpse. It’s just this version of me, one born with his death." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Death Wish\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1257\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with one character trying to convince another that they make the best grilled cheese in the world." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "You may not believe me but I couldn’t lie about something this serious. Even on her death bed, nana as all the other grandchildren calls her, still doesn’t want anyone else in her kitchen. So, she begs me to come over at lunch time to fix her favorite lunch. When the phone rings at 11a.m. I know it’s going to be grandma complaining about whoever is sitting with her that day. No matter what I am doing or where I am. There’s nothing to do but agree to go over and make a grilled cheese and soup. I try to just say yes before she starts her whimpering “you know nobody else knows how to make it just like I need it done, you’re the best?”\nI have been given some of the best advice, received loving warnings and been threatened by grandma while devouring grilled cheese sandwiches. Grandma would joke that when she goes, she’s leaving with a grilled cheese in hand. Every day of her eighty-seven years that I can remember, she had the same lunch exactly at 12:30, while watching ‘the Young and the Restless’. Around noon she’d pop the dinner roast into the oven on 250o, “low and slow” she would say! Humming the theme song of the upcoming soap opera she always in a sauce pan warm the soup of the day. Begin making the star of lunch, a Colby-Swiss blended 2 slice grilled cheese on thick bread, you know the kind, called Texas toast. Her secret to the best sandwich is instead of butter, she uses mayo inside and out. Also, only a cast iron skillet will brown it just right and a pot lid to ensure the perfectly melting steam. The lid only stayed on over the first slice and cheese for twelve seconds just long enough to jumpstart the meltdown. Never longer because the bread would sweat, get soggy and then stick, to any other type of pan; I found out the first time I attempted to duplicate this delicious creation.\nAfter years of this song and dance with grandma, countless number of caregivers have just quit trying to get through lunch with her. Her husband didn’t even go around unless she agreed to go out for something from their favorite restaurant. We all have a favorite food but I’m sure normal people over two don’t hold their breath and refuse to eat a perfect sandwich because it wasn’t prepared by who she wanted. Finally, twelve years ago I opened my own business and I took over the 11-1 slot with grandma permanently. So, at 11 I give her a bath, do her hair and nails. Its our spa time and cocktail hour. At 12, I still do the grill cheese and soup. We talk to the TV during the soaps and I tuck her in for a nap by 1. Every week this is the same routine. It has become something we look forward to and the rest of the family take turns any other time gladly.\nEach grandchild has a special relationship with grandma because she stepped in to raise us after our parents passed. It was twelve of us, three of her son’s and two of her daughter’s children. Our parents all were killed on a bus trip to West Virginia when the bus driver had a heart attack and ran off the road plunging into a river. Most of us were teenagers and could help with the younger children. If it had not been for Mr. Blair, grandma’s husband this family would have been scattered hither and yonder. Because grandma lived in a two- bedroom apartment when they married four months prior. He had been preparing to sell his six-bedroom Colonial, to move with her. He immediately took down the for-sale sign without hesitation or regret. His first wife passed during child birth when he was stationed in German 60 years ago. I think it was a second chance for both of them to get it right. Grandma didn’t raise all of her children because of a drinking problem after Pop-Pop passed, 45 years ago from a fall out of a window.\nRecently the aides have told the family to begin to visit before 9p.m. because grandma is starting to become a “sundowner”. The Alzheimer’s is becoming increasingly more noticeable. I guess I see her during her most lucid hours of the day. I didn’t think of the next person, who doesn’t have the same relationship with her that I do. She remembers me every day just like always, or is she remembering her love of grilled cheese sandwiches? Or are the lights on and no one home? Nonetheless, it means the end is near.\nWe all have to come together about what is about to happen to our family, our rock, grandma. Mr. Blair is losing the love of his life again. Alzheimer’s robs everyone twice. The person affected usually never die of old age, but, from complications of the disease.\nWe decided to let grandma have her way in the conversations, in the meals and in the transitioning. She has always said she wanted to die in her own bed with a grilled cheese sandwich in hand, so that’s the plan. The cousins all jot down a two -week agenda. First and foremost, to wander proof the house. Install alarms and child proof door handles. Tomorrow set up Hospice.\nNo matter how much time I spent planning for the day grandma came home, that wasn’t enough. Grandma has always been a pacer, when worried. Late at night if one of us were sick, she’d check in on that one three or four times in a night. So, I wonder why she is restless now. Is she checking on someone? Looking for someone or something? Or, is she already walking away with her spirit guide? During her more-clearer moments, she tries to tell us she’s ready, but the others change the subject. I don’t want to have that conversation either but dying is a part of living. We still do our spa time every day now, not just Monday – Friday, I figure whatever day becomes her last; she’d want it to be a bath day.\nToday is Grandma’s 88th birthday, anything she wants is what we will do! After a bowl of grits and some fresh -squeezed orange juice, we sat on the porch watching a butterfly tiptoe from petal to petal across the flowers in the free-standing nursery. Afterwards she returned to her room for a visit with Mr. Blair. Up until lunch she had a steady stream of well-wishers. Just before I started to prepare lunch she asked for the family bible like every birthday.\nToday she requested tomato soup with her grilled cheese. As I set the lunch tray on her lap she looked up and said “I told you when you were 10, you’d be the best at my creation one day, I love you “. I leaned down kissed her forehead as she used to do me and said I love you too Grandma. I watched her bite the sandwich. Then, she asked me to adjust the volume on the “idiot box” as she called the TV. I walked over to the dresser, searched for the remote that usually lived on the side of the TV. How did it get behind the dresser? Grandma that was strange, you know where the remote was? Grandma? Grandma?\nGrandma was cold, gone that fast; but still holding her grilled cheese sandwich!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Never Been to Paradise\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2025\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character is running away from something, literally or metaphorically." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Author's note: This story is heavily based on the 1977 Charlene song \"I've Never Been to Me\". I do not own the rights to this song or its lyrics.\n\nTW: Mentions of abuse, marital sexual violence\n**\n\nOctober 7, 1978\nBuckle Rod, Alabama\n\nDear Charlene (or, whatever your name is),\n\nFirstly, yes, I can finally admit it: meeting you two years ago was indeed, as you put it, fate. I must admit that I was, at first, visibly annoyed when you, looking every inch like a Golden Age film star in your Hermès scarf, approached me at the park, only for you to preach --- well, more like sing--- at me. I remember repeatedly barking at you to leave me alone. However, now that I’ve thought about it, there really was something about your Guérlain-perfumed silk dress that smelled of Madagascar vanilla and your fire engine red Christian Dior lipstick that also compelled me to talk to you, just as you told me you wanted to speak to me. I was about to tell you all this, you know.\n\nThen, those screaming banshees that came from my womb violently slammed those thoughts away. You know very well that in our world, a woman is measured by the number of pieces of herself she has given away, how many holes there are in the jigsaw puzzle of herself. I felt like I had no choice but to put away the first thought I had for myself in a long while to once again, drown myself in the routine of wiping snotty noses and giving stern looks, a woman’s pre-assigned lot, I supposed. Just like the last time. And the last time. And the time after that.\n\n“That’s the real truth,” you told me then as my eyes started to break out in tears. ”It’s the love you have for your babies.” \n\nMy eyebrows flew to the top of my forehead, and I tried to escape your little sermon. I subtly backed out and tried to find the nearest exit. You cornered me and continued to badger me, though, and so, I had no choice but to sit down. You recounted your life of tasting the smorgasbord the entire world had to offer, a life of frequent flyer miles, Veuve Clicquot champagne, and meeting crowned heads, a life beyond these town limits --- a life I’ve dreamt about since I was a little girl. You then told me that you’d have given it all up for my cotton dress covered in baby vomit and the man that warms the other side of my bed, for a life of “domestic bliss” rather than the jet-set life. \n\nI replied that I thought that was poppycock, but you insisted that in your running away from the life pre-assigned to us women, you also ran away from yourself. Worse still, you kept pressing me, telling me that if I escaped from the lot I had, I’d also be escaping what you thought of as real. Enraged, I quickly gathered all my things, bolted out of the park, and let the children follow me home. I admit that that scene of me running away from you might have looked strange, but hey, what was I to do?\n\nI guess my abrupt exit from the congregation of one in front of your pulpit was quite a shock for you because the next thing I knew, you’d written a song about me, a ditty that has been on the airwaves every now and then. In interviews, you mentioned that there was a possibility the song would offend me (It did.) but that you still wanted to teach me “to see the value in the routine I lived”. Well, despite my indignation at first, I’ll have you know that I did learn something from the conversation we had at the park, something that, if you don’t mind, I’ll share with you now.\n\nTo make it a lot more interesting and because you sang about my life, I thought I’d dispense that lesson I learnt in the form of lyrics to the tune of your hit song. Please forgive me if I’m rusty; after all, it’s been a while since I wrote anything other than a grocery list. Yes, it’s been a while since the days I secretly perused my father’s copies of Newsweek and dreamt to be featured there one day. It’s been a while since my English teacher, Mrs. Freedman, told me I’d written the best poem in class she’d ever graded in her long career. Yes, it’s been a while since I became Editor-in-Chief of our school paper under a male pseudonym. It’s been a while since Mrs. Freedman and I held secret after-school sessions to hone my writing skills so I could surely get into journalism school, only for my very conservative, almost cultish father to find out and burn down my portfolio of work. Hopefully, though, I’ve still got it.\n**\n\nHey, Lady, you, Lady\nLeering at my life\nYes, I was cursed to be a mother\nIt's the worst to be a wife\nSome so-called bliss, all of this\nThrust on my fragile self\nDon’t you realize\nThat I’m feeling like\nJust a rag doll on a shelf\n\n\nI wish I’d been to Georgia\nAnd California\nAnd my place out in the sun\nNo need to fall in\nWhen I am soarin’\nI won’t walk, I would run\nI want to see those places\nWith friendly faces\nWhere I would be wild and free\nI crave for paradise\nOut where I could be just me\n\n\nPlease, Lady. Stop, Lady\nWith this, a soul can tire\nI feel that domestication\nHas just put out my heart’s fire\nThat I'll relight so very bright\nIt’s time to claim what’s mine\nYes, it’s time to start\n‘Cos my weary heart\nIt yearns for the stars that shine\n\n\nI long to sail the Nile\nSit on a Greek isle\nRoam ‘round Tokyo, I won’t mind\nTo put on the Ritz\nOut in Saint Moritz\nWhere I could find my kind\nI want to learn some things\nAnd to spread my wings\nAnd to live and to laugh and to be\nI crave for paradise\nOut where I could be just me\n\n\nHey, you know what paradise is?\nIt’s freedom\nBeyond just a fantasy of places and spaces\nIt’s you choosing your path\nBut you know what truth is?\nIt’s knowing who you are\nAnd living as the true you\nThe same one with dreams wider than galaxies\nThat’s truth, it’s self-love\n\n\nSometimes, I’ve been to crying\nFor dreams that’re dying\nThat would have made me complete\nSo no, don’t you blame me\nOr try to tame me\nTime to march to my beat\nTime to go to the unknown\nEven if I’m ‘lone\nYes, it’s so worth it to be free\nHey Lady, I’ll be in paradise\nAnd scream that I've been to me\n\n\nI’ll be in paradise\nNow, I've been to me\n**\nBy the time you get this letter, I’d have already run away across the Atlantic to Paris, jetting off with no one to catch me just three days after receiving my airline ticket. I’d be admiring the stunning view of the Arc de Triomphe from my bedroom window. At seventy square meters, my new apartment is certainly smaller than the large country home I’m leaving behind tomorrow (as of time writing), but to me, the liberty that comes with the tiny city apartment is so much more expansive than that. I hope you understand. You should understand because once upon a time, you also chose this for yourself.\n\nI also would have started on my first day at my new job as the host of a bilingual travel show geared towards women for the TV station Antenne 2. Yes, I will be hosting it in French, one of the languages I secretly learnt under the covers by flashlight as a child. (You probably should have seen more than my womb that day in the park and looked at what else I was capable of, by the way.) You see, after I heard your song on the radio, I felt the flame inside my heart reignite and started rewriting some of the favorite articles I’d penned from memory, then stuffed newsroom and television station mailboxes with parcels of them. On a whim, I sent some of them to France, and now, here I am. I’m ready to fly from my Paris-dise to other slices of bliss across the globe. I will make sure to visit every single locale you mentioned in your song, as well as the ones in the lyrics I’ve written, and soak in these places, enjoy the fact that I’m out of the cage I’m leaving tomorrow.\n\nOf course, by the time you read this, the divorce that my soon-to-be ex-husband Stanley and I had signed would have already been filed. I’m both relieved and shocked that Stanley had accepted the terms I set, including that I would never be forced to come back to the boonies and that he have full custody of the children. \n\nJust to clarify, yes, Stanley is the same man who, after I had repeatedly rejected his advances, tattled to my father about my journalism school plans. It’s the same man, who I married, immediately after the discovery that ruined my future, with a shotgun to my head because his family had paid my father, as if I were a prized cow. It’s the same man I never made love to, only had undesired, forceful sex with because it was my duty as a wife, I thought. It’s the same man who, knowing I never wanted kids, tampered with my birth control pills before violating me, resulting in twins. No, contrary to the song you put out, we hadn’t just fought the morning you and I had our chance encounter; I’ve fought him and everything he represents to me for my entire life. This time, I won.\n\n(Then again, perhaps, Stanley’s quick acceptance was most probably influenced by the fact that the producer of the show had told him that she was more than willing to use her media connections to make him a national laughing stock in France if he ever so much as suggests I come back from Paris-dise. After all, even if he and the rest of the Robb family have no connections to my new home country, their pride would not allow for one smidgen of taint.)\n\nSpeaking of my new boss, I had only spoken to her on the phone, but it seems to me that Madame Moineau --- or perhaps, I should say Marianne, as she insists I call her --- will be a fantastic mentor to me. Before she booked that airline ticket to France for me, she spoke about being excited to work with someone who reminds her of herself, another country girl who had narrowly escaped the prison of giving up chunks of yourself to the altar of domesticity. Marianne and I had discussed on the phone about how we hope the show we’re working on would help women find their paradise, wherever it may be. Hey, perhaps, in the future, womankind wouldn’t even need a travel show to tell them to go to where they can be free. One thing’s for sure, though: If Marianne had approached me on a park bench, I’d never be annoyed. Oh no, I’d actually more than welcome it.\n\nSo, no, it may not be the lesson you wanted to impart to me, but thank you for teaching me that it was time to choose paradise, to choose me. Will I regret it, just like you did? I don’t really know. However, if I would, I think it would sting less than if I chose to stay in some small town with small-minded people instead of flying to find my paradise. If you don’t mind me saying it, though, I hope you too had learnt a lesson throughout all this: Never give unsolicited advice to people who clearly don’t want it.\n\nFinally heading to me,\nCeleste Robb Highmore" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lady Monique\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1000\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the whistle of a kettle." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Lady Monique\nThe loud whistle of Grandma’s tea kettle blew at 4:30 every morning. Breakfast was on the table by 4:35. This morning was no different, my job was to bring in water from the well. We don’t have running water but it was a roof over head. Everything moves in precision around the kitchen before time for school and work in this cabin, once in the main house it’s crazy here on the St. Clair plantation. Not only is it the first day of tobacco harvesting but Lady Monique is due to arrive any minute. Papa and the other men have been toiling away in the back 40 since five this morning and the ladies are hard at preparing for the evening festivities. I haven’t seen ‘Danny’ as she used to prefer to be called when we were small snot-nosed brats running around chasing fireflies. It’s been since Christmas four years back, before her 14th birthday. Like her sisters before her, three days after her birthday she left for finishing school and tonight at precisely 6p.m. her debutante ball will commence. Danny never liked the “much to do about nothing kind of crap dinners” as she referred to them many times before. She’s seen four in her family and countless others for family friend’s daughters. I don’t understand her hatred of a dress-up party in your honor; I guess it’s a “white thing”.\nI will also be starting my new station at six … for the first-time I am serving the very folks that look down their upturned noses at my kind or just totally ignore us all together until we don’t fluff their pillows right, fetch their horse fast enough or disappear into the background when not needed. I have seen my share already but can’t wait to start earning my own 2 bits and a Schilling to help the family. I have 5 siblings beneath me growing like weeds and needing clothes, shoes and a dream to believe in. I dream of escaping but I can’t none of us can until the debt has been settled. What debt you ask? I didn’t know exactly because when we reach the end of one balance another charge is levied. At first it was for the three room shack all 8 of us call home. Then the wood to sure up the roof, the monthly rent, our uniform maintenance and food. Once about 2 years ago master caught mom buying a book for the youngsters from the general store and accused her of stealing. Even though she had witnesses that saw her pay, he claimed it had been from his household account so charges were again added. These charges included bail repayment and book repayment. The books were taken also. I’m convinced that master was more afraid of the children learning to read than anything else. He would be furious if he knew Danny taught me years ago.\nI see a carriage coming down the long path. The horse hands are scrambling into place. The trip to the train station always spooks the brown steeds so the gallop home was intensified. Once back they didn’t want to be corralled… even the horses dreamt of escaping! Now each horse needed brushing, food, watering and a blanket before a cool down walk. I watch the men from a perch on the fence. I love horses but they scare me now ever since I saw my uncle die from being kicked in the head by a spooked horse rearing up.\nOh well, here I go, off the subject…. back at the big house Danny has disappeared upstairs but the glimpse I did catch she looked different. I didn’t get to talk to her but I could sense she had a different air about her. I wanted to have a chat with my childhood friend but mom called me into the hallway and warned me to stay away from her, saying “she’s not Danny anymore”. I didn’t understand but I heeded her words. I quickly left the mansion because I didn’t have a reason to be there and felt that my curiosity would lead to trouble. As I cleared the porch I could feel someone watching me… was Danny, was Mrs. St. Clair, was master or was it just a case of a very confused mind? I’ve never had this feeling before, don’t know why now or what it meant.\nAround 5:40p.m. I adorned my new uniform to take my place amongst the servants. Another light skinned, fair haired, soft spoken Negro assigned to assist in the daily needs of those residing, visiting or having any sort of business dealings here at the ‘Rusty Horseshoe’ Ranch. I have for years tried to pitch in wherever I could to lessen the load for mom and papa. They both have achieved (HN) statuses: Mom is Lead maid in charge of all house affairs and papa is in charge of all the growing crops.\nI did it again… this story was supposed to be about Miss Monique Danielle St. Clair’s coming of age party! I still haven’t been able to talk to her about our last encounter. Danny always marched to the beat of her own heart and nobody’s drum. Any way I have been confused for 4 years and wondering what that kiss meant…YES, a kiss that was different from any other. Danny was a kisser always pecking people on the cheek, hand or forehead. That evening before leaving for a tortuous four years Danny planted a toe curling, deep lingering, passionate kiss squarely on my quivering lips and said “don’t you dare forget me”. How could I? I haven’t been able to think of anything else except her return. Now that she’s back and off limits; my heart aches. The dinner bell was just rung…I need to focus because I’m helping with the arriving guest. There she is, so close but it just as well be a million miles away… she’s off limits and 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: Memorial Marathon\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1143\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who suddenly cannot run anymore." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Closing my eyes, heaven sent supportive smiles kept me going. The downtown start was jumbled yet quite manageable. I was comfortable beginning with the 12 minute a mile group; quite confident I could finish in no more than the 5 hours I had practice for. Closer to 4 hours was my best-case scenario.\nPreparing to run was logistically enjoyable. Had to first find increasing distances of 5-, 10-, 15- and 20-mile running venues. While a challenge, the job turned out to be a set of minor geography tests. Due to a vist with my son in Hong Kong, I was further challenged, and even able to find, long-distance runs that the newly arrived Chinese mainland authorities would not frown upon. My confidence grew to be virtually second nature about this harrier task. When I drive the 26-mile distance now, however, I can't imagine what made me want to run it!\nThe Murrah building bombing, just seven years previously, brought out an ever-increasing number of memorial runners each year. I figured, at 70, I had better run the 26 miles before I got too old. My six friends murdered in the bombing deserved at least this remembrance effort on my part. I would settle for 5k's after this, rather than try another half-marathon, a distance I had run as a warm-up three weeks before.\nThe adrenaline kept getting juiced up with the encouraging cheers of all the bystanders as I weaved through one neighborhood after another. Onc couple ahead of me even stopped long enough to get married en route on a nearby front porch. The bride did look striking with her white veil flowing atop her running sweats.\nImaginative youngsters continue to surprise me as my life journey keeps opening up new horizons. Paying attention to the upcoming generations has certainly helped me to age gracefully. To say nothing of helping me develop an expanding appreciation for the bell curve of human diversity.\nFirst gut check came as the small group of a dozen or so of us began to run along the edge of Lake Hefner. Must be the half-way mark, I said to myself, even on short runs, that's when I always have to recommit to the finish. Refocus I did. My stride was even and relatively easy to maintain. How fortunate I was to have had Emmett Holland as my high school track and cross-country coach. He taught great mechanics-which have enabled me to keep running fifty years later without ankle, knee, or hip, difficulties. He was also my Latin teacher--didn't keep up with all the amo, amas, amat world had to offer, however.\nGrabbing a paper cup of water as I slowed down past a teen earning volunteer service hours, the time elapsed from the official start time was shouted out by yet another service hour volunteen. The time yelled out let me know I was on track to meet my goal at the finish line. A jolt of energy helped me regain my stride after the short water break slow down. The breeze off the lake was on my back now. My running cohort was still about a dozen.\nNew neighborhoods, closer to my home, also featured encouraging folks along the curbs. Sunday morning mimosas lubricated many a cheer from the crowd. At one closed off intersection, a mixed-aged trio with amps and instruments plugged into extra-long extension cords filled the mid-morning air with good going, you can do it rhythms.\nI figured I had reached the 20-mile mark. Uncharacteristically, there were no official signage to confirm my guess. But then--oh, no! Little by little, my right foot began to hurt. My stride became uneven; then, my hips hurt as they compensated for the uneven gait. All I imagined was that my sock had somehow knotted up on my big toe. It really throbbed. Slowly, I faded and faded and faded as cluster after cluster of marathoners passed me by. My 12 minute a mile pace became only a memory of my hopeful intent. I would be lucky to maintain my ordinary walking pace of a mile each 20 minutes.\nI had a flashback to my 10th grade cross-country City finals. Times I had routinely met in previous meets gave me promise of a top-ten finish. Jim Sullivan, later to become an Olympian, was the star of a competing rival school. One-third of the way, shin splits hit both of my legs-I was lucky to finish about 50th! It was the only time my mom had been able to see me race. I was truly disappointed. Her hug did some good, nevertheless.\nApproaching the outskirts of downtown, the finish line not yet visible, I let out a deep sigh. This was a gut check like no other. Even half-marathoners and a few 5k-er's were now passing me up. I had to reach deep down to resolve to get to the finish line.\nAnd I did. I thought of my six friends under the rubble of the bombed federal building, which even took the lives of children in a first-floor daycare center. For two friends, a mother and daughter, it was a matter of weeks before their bodies were recovered. For my friends, then; for them--yes, for them, I found the strength to go on.\nMy son and grandson had come up from Dallas to greet me as I broke the imaginary tape. They waited and waited and waited. It appeared there were no more runners left to enter the finishing chute. The paraphernalia supporting the finish line was being dismantled. Son and grandson both began to be quite worried. Would race officials have any word of an accident or injured runner? If so, would a hospital trip now be on the agenda rather than a celebrational breakfast at an IHOP?\nLooking up, they saw me. Limping down the final stretch, there I was, with a fierce determination. The race official also saw me; he stopped taking away the last of the finish line. I struggled across. He told me the overhead clock was not working, but the electronic device I had on my runner's bib would record my time. It would be published, online, with all the others.\nSo, looking up with a bit of joy, I saluted my murdered friends. Looking ahead, I was energized to speed up to meet for a three person group hug. Closing my eyes, I anticipated, saliva soothing my dried up mouth, some pancakes, maple syrup, and strips of bacon. Smacking my lips, I was able to smile with a deep sigh.\nLater, the online report. Racer with bib #3817; male, aged 70 years, 9 months; on April 29, 2012--finished the Oklahoma Memorial Marathon, in just over 6 hours.\nThe report, however, did not mention how great sitting down, with son and grandson, facing a stack of maple syrup saturated pancakes felt." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: And Then There Was Her\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1434\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who’s never encountered a problem they couldn’t buy their way out of — until they do." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"I'll start this off simple: I'm not spoiled.\n\"Sure, that sentence in itself sounds entirely selfish, but there's more to me than meets the eye. I'm kind, I'm sweet, and I am considered a nerd by most cute girls. Just because I was born into a very fortunate family doesn't mean I'm some spoon-fed child.\n\"And I'm not bratty. I ask for what I want, if I don't get it then that's fine. Usually, I don't have to deal with that. I can pay someone, anyone, to do it for me. Either way, I'm in my early twenties, for Christ's sake. I'm not incapable. On a consistent schedule, though, people say yes because I'm me. I'm charming, I'm polite and dedicated, all the girls want me... and yet I have this problem. It's very minute, nothing extremely serious-- Who am I kidding, It's incredibly serious. In my life, I've been able to get all the girls; the teens in my high school years, the women in my adult life. A lot of women. And now there's this one young woman who just can't seem to understand that I want her.\n\"It's an issue.\n\"I've never liked a girl for more than a month at most, I get bored quickly with the hugs and the flowers and the whining, because trust me, there's a great deal of whining. A few have been wholly annoying and mentally taxing. Those end in less than a month. But this one girl... she just can't get with it! It's not like I'm shunning her, I try to be around her as much as I can, but she just keeps resisting! Don't get me wrong, I love a good fight. Girls who play hard to get? Delicious. I've always had a thing for the resisters. But she's just not getting it! I'm practically flinging myself and my dignity at her.\n\"You're probably wondering how we met. It was simple, I suppose. I was going up to the rooftop to water the plants. Mrs. Owens can't make it all the way up here anymore, and no one wants to go through the trouble of gathering her oxygen tank so she can roll to the elevator. Nevertheless, that's what I was doing. I had already made it up there, and the rooftop door was locked. That's not normal, in case you were wondering. I wouldn't expect you to understand, you don't ever leave my penthouse. So I started knocking on it, hoping someone was up there, and the door opened.\n\"Of course, there she was. The sun was setting behind her, the light sifting through her hair like flour. Her skin was set ablaze, turning a golden color. I really was rapt in her wake, I could barely blink, I was so fascinated. So you can imagine that it was very embarrassing for me when she cleared her throat to confess that I was staring like an old man who hadn't seen a woman in decades.\n\"In my defense, she's alluring in the way that the sunset was that night. She's is the stars and the moon, the sun and the clouds. Looking at her is like being jolted awake. You can't mistake it for anything.\n\"In her wake, still so intrigued, might I add, I tried to tell her my name, but then her phone rang. She just nudged past me, her golden retriever behind her. By the way, she smells like honey. I'm sure you don't care, but it was truly a sight. And a scent. I wonder where she gets it from.\n\"She's gorgeous, in case you couldn't tell from the previous. That makes it worth it. Plus, it's part of what drew me to her. She's got this rich chocolate skin, a perfect mix between light and dark. Her eyes, oh those eyes, are the most beautiful deep brown I've ever seen. She's got these plump lips too, lips that look so soft I'm sure I could take a nap on them. She's exceedingly smart, intuitive, honest and easy to hold a conversation with. Just my type! Which is saying something, because I don't have a type. I like girls, and I'm not going to push away my chances if I don't have to.\n\"See, women always like me. I'll repeat that as many times as necessary. I'm not a bad looking guy. Brown skin, brown eyes, sharp jawline, abs, the things most people look for. Decidedly hot. And I'm rich. Seriously, it seems to be the deal with most of these women. I never keep any of them, if I'm honest with myself. But I like to have them around, they're good to talk to, to hang out with, have fun with. And then they're gone and it's on to the next. I'm not cruel. I just... have a hard time staying in love with people. Or at the very least, staying content with their company\n\"But when I remember her...\n\"I push away every single girl that's coming my way. She's the one I have my eye on, she's the prize. So whenever I see her, most of the time it's at the mall or in the park. I noticed that she really loves sitting on the rooftop with her dog.\n\"She's heavenly. I've seen dazzling women before, but she's so much more. She's ethereal, honestly. And lots of women normally come with me simply because... I mean, look at me! I'm attractive, I'm wealthy, I've got a nice home and a set future. But when she looks at me, she reads my soul. Maybe that's me being dramatic, but she's all I want. I know I would love to spend all my time with her, talking to her in the late hours of the night or even just watching her go about her day.\n\"She's got me going up to the roof twice a day, hoping to find her reading next to the ferns with whatever book she's got this time. On the rare occasion that I do, I sit up there for hours to just watch the sunset with her. She's always in the same spot, back pressed up against the door, and I, in a chair about twenty feet away. I can't go closer, I can't back away. It's an in between situation. She's the only person that has ever made my hands sweat, and I don't even know her name yet. No one makes me sweat, no one. Yet, this lovely young woman can walk into a room and have me melt into liquid, just a mess. It's not normal.\n\"I'm not used to this. Women fall at my feet, they fawn at the sight of me! And to have this one person resist my charms... it's humbling. I don't know. I can't get her off my mind. It's been four months. Four! Something about her is just... This girl is making me insane. What's really getting me is that no amount of money can get her to love me. Or, at worst, think of me as a friend. So I'm keeping myself off, forcing myself to do no more than wave to her.\n\"I've been in this process of denying myself and trying not to come on too strong to a person who has no remote sense of attraction to me for the past four months. I've been slowly killing myself by not know how this ends for four months. Despite doing my very best to impress her, she still shows no interest. Not a bit. She's not woo-ed by my displays, but it's so refreshing. Even the old ladies on the third floor can tell how far I fell for her. Mrs. Owens included. When I stop by to say hello, they begin chattering in that old lady fashion, their dentures and gum smacking together. They tell me a fish doesn't fit in every part of the ocean. Whatever that means. If it's the casual 'there's other fish in the sea' quote, it's not helping. I know there are other fish, but I want her to be my fish.\n\"At the end of the day, I can't force her hand, but this mouse chase is making me crazy! I think I've always been crazy, yeah? I mean, I'm talking to you. Heh... Ugh, I don't know why this is happening. I'm gonna go... eat a burrito or something along those lines. Food helps me relax. It's not like I can go to the rooftop anyway, the old ladies say she's on a trip.\n\"Thanks for listening, Alexa.\"\n\"No problem, Lewis.\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Before the Titanic\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2257\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone taking advantage of some unexpected free time." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“All this rush, rush, rushing around, it is more than my head can bear”, said John Appleton, depositing their overnight bags, a newspaper, and himself, exhausted, on a bench in Boston’s South Station, and there he wiped perspiration from his brow with a crumpled kerchief. His sister, Margaret perched beside him and offered up a private prayer for small mercies, which being the cleanliness of the rag, and his temporary capitulation to exhaustion. \nJudged by the acerbic commentary that accompanied much of their sight-seeing, Boston had in its crowded modernity driven John to an apoplexy of virtuous outrage, resulting ultimately in his insistence that they take an earlier train back to Bairstow, where he would commit to paper his urgent and necessary thoughts for the benefit of a wider audience. “The noise and motion impose upon my senses, the poverty and injustice offend my conscience”, he proclaimed in the manner of someone that believes their every thought deserving of expression in carved stone. \nMargaret, though reconciled with her brother’s recalcitrance, would happily have extended their stay at the new and marvelous Copley Square Hotel set in the bustling Back Bay area. She would miss the head-spinning crowds, the window displays, the crashing metal-on-metal noise of the Red Line subway, the hoots of the shiny motor vehicles, the inter-mingling with city folk going about their important and private lives wearing the very latest fashions. But Bairstow it would be, she would extend her stay in civilized society by vicarious means, perusing the Ladies’ Home Journal, and ordering materials from the Sears catalog.\nThe trip did have its moments of harmonious accord – as the siblings explored the Museum of Fine Arts, or star-gazed at the Harvard College Observatory - but mostly their experience of Boston had diverged.\n“You make it sound like Sodom”, said Margaret wearily, checking on the Atrium Clock that they were not going to miss the B&M train.\n“Minus the overdue attention of the deity, you have the place rightly pegged”, he replied.\n“You don’t think you are perhaps exaggerating a tad”, she said, exasperated by his high and mighty attitude.\n“No, not at all. It is the apogee of Hamilton’s dystopic America, a system of systems. There is a hidden and sinister hand driving us toward oblivion, whether it be in the conduct of trade and commerce, the production and consumption of goods and services, or even in the propulsion of engines and the compulsions of humanity itself. We are all just pinion wheels in an infernal engine”.\n“I believe you mean cogs in a machine”, she said, checking the Atrium clock again. They had time to spare and could sit a while longer. John unrolled the Boston Post and started at the front page, affording his sister reading room over his shoulder, though there were soon interrupted by a small commotion at the entrance to the station, where a Model T rolled to a halt beneath the wrought iron awning. From the passenger seat leapt a dapper young man, who strode across the concourse carrying a duffle bag in one hand, clasping a derby hat to his head with the other; he somehow seemed to be the go-getting embodiment of the new age, but he disappeared into a cloud of steam and smoke that billowed from a waiting locomotive, and with him the mystery of his purpose also vanished. \n“First we are here, then we are there” John said, “and between the here and there, we hurtle through space in metal vessels as if launched from a cannon. Chaucer’s tales would have been brief in this day and age”.\n“You really are an insufferable, old fogey sometimes”, said Margaret, ever of an optimistic disposition, “Can you not see that this is a time of peace, prosperity and hope, rendered possible by man’s inventiveness?” Margaret, dressed in her Sunday best, tapped the dainty heels of her kid leather boots on the wooden boards, and resolved to change the dynamic. She stood erect, tugged at her embroidered bolero jacket, and demanded that John escort her forthwith to the station tea-room where she would not be denied an ice-cool Coca-Cola before they boarded the B&M train back to Bairstow. \nJohn seemed not to hear her, he was relentless, “I tell you that free will expired on the altar of capitalism, the laws of nature are under siege, and time itself has been usurped”. He seemed quite pleased with this pontification and accordingly extracted a little notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, and a pencil.\nMargaret slapped the notebook aside, “All tosh and nonsense”, she handed him a coin and demanded that he buy her a refreshment at the concessionary, but John proceeded to demur with a wordiness that would have tested the patience of a biblical Job. His monolog somehow touched on to the subject of pre-agrarian Mesopotamia, which marked the point at which Margaret’s own patience, less than that of Job, snapped, and at the stamping of her black lace-up shoe, he gathered up their things and followed her from the concourse area.\nThe young woman at the concession stand, her face framed by an abundance of bright orange curls, gave John an inviting smile, which cooled one ardor by sparking another, causing him to linger at the counter where he charmed her with a preposterous tale about an Irish policeman, a string of sausages and a lost dog. In due course, he learned that her name was Kathy, a recent immigrant from Ireland, and she laughed at his nonsense.\nJohn joined his sister at the window-table, overlooking Summer Street, rather pleased with himself. They sat in a more contemplative mood at the table, he stealing a glance at the lovely. Between brother and sister, lay two glasses of caramel soda, a recent mass-produced innovation, emblematic of the times. Margaret sipped at the glass of Coca-Cola with curiosity, while John chewed on his first mouthful as if considering the whereabouts of a spittoon.\n“Oh, how delightful!” said Margaret, “It is the latest in dietary supplements and said to cure an upset stomach and calm the nerves”. Her cheeks puckered as she drew thirstily upon the patent drinking straw.\n“I feel my hat about to blow from my head with all this sugar”, said John wistfully, smiling at the girl behind the counter.\nJohn began scratching at the pages of his pocketbook, which inspired in Margaret a more forgiving disposition and a desire to better understand the ferocious intensity that seemed always and forever aflame inside her younger brother, as if kindled by his father’s death. As John’s primary caretaker, a surrogate for their long-dead mother, Margaret fretted constantly at how to tend his febrile mind, and though he irritated her and was unconscionably self-centered, she felt that all things considered, her parents would be proud of the man he was becoming. John, for his part, was focused elsewhere, expressing in verse the beauty of the celestial phenomenon that pulled at the soda fountain and arranged the glassware on the shelf behind the serving counter. And so, time passed, in fact it positively raced by.\n“What o’clock is it,” asked John, reminded of affairs elsewhere.\n“Oh no!” Margaret held her hands to her face in shock when she looked at the Atrium clock, “We’ve missed our train for heaven’s sake!”. She looked at John, fearing that he might explode, but against her expectations, he was surprisingly philosophical, in the manner of the English, that is, emotionally uninvested and cooly calculating, “well I suppose we must take a later train, then” he said, which was not the response Margaret was expecting. “Perhaps I should order another bottle of this delicious caramel Pepto from the young lady at the counter?”, added John, thoughtfully.\n“Oh, John, we must call the housekeeper on the mechanical pay phone in the booth by the ticket office and tell her we will be late!” said Margaret, removing a handful of coins for John’s use.\nJohn jolted back into contrariness for a moment, “What purpose is there informing Mrs. Evans that we will be late in advance, won’t she discover that for herself in due course, anyway?” Margaret was pondering the notion of being ‘late in advance’ when her riposte was snuffed out by her brother’s relentless logic. “It just seems to me that you are eliminating the notion of late and early, because neither can be true if we constantly revise our expectations. We will always be on time under such circumstances” he disclaimed.\n “John, you are a bounder, and your concern for your fellow man selective at best. It might save Evans time and effort, preparing a meal, not to mention the courtesy it extends to Old Aimsley, who will otherwise be waiting with the horse and trap for hours, out in the chilly night air.\n“Smoking and drinking at the Bairstow public house more likely, I’d wager”, he said, then left the table to make the phone call, dallying for several minutes at the counter, where he and Kathy engaged in lively banter, giggling at things.\nMargaret had bought a whimsey at a small dusty bric-a-brac store tucked away in a Back Bay alleyway. It was a precious thing, of no value beyond itself. In this moment of solitude, she removed it from her valise revealing a delicate glass globe in which a skilled craftsman had constructed a fabulous diorama; a fairytale castle adorned by towers, turrets, gables, balconies, and pinnacles, set atop a mountain, surrounded by pine forest through which a turbulent river cascaded. It was an impossible thing in an improbable place that she contemplated from every angle.\nJohn returned to the table with another bottle caramel soda in hand. “Do you think we might one day visit Europe?” she asked of him, “it is such an enchanted place, I imagine?”\n“When not warring with itself” said John absentmindedly, without his usual excess of conviction. He’d withdrawn the notebook from his pocket again and was busy scribbling something that looked suspiciously like a sonnet.\nThat far away continent was a subject that Margaret wished to pursue further; recent news had elevated the idea of a European tour from fanciful dream to a realistic possibility, “look here”, she pointed at a small column on the front page of the Boston Post, “an ocean liner left Southampton, England, yesterday carrying three thousand passengers, heading for New York. Three thousand! The journey is expected to take less than six days! The world is shrinking John!”\n“Lucky devils”, John acknowledged absently, busying away at his little black book, “the way things are headed, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they build a tunnel beneath the ocean and we’ll all be taking vacations to Paris and Prague in our Model T Fords”.\n“Or flying on great kites across the ocean!”, Margaret was rather enjoying this discussion, “upon my word John, perchance one day we might conquer space itself and colonize the moon, whereat the poor might feast upon cheese at their convenience”, with which Margaret reawakened a debate regarding the composition of the lunar orb that had followed their trip to the observatory.\n“Sister, you are worse than that Wells fellow, or the Frenchman, Jules Verne, what with your phantastic imaginings”, John said, looking at her with mild concern, “perhaps you’ve had a bit too much of this Cola?”. Her drinking glass was empty, and she seemed engrossed by the silly globe paperweight owing to the way the light played upon the ramparts of the miniature castle.\n“Oh, the pot is calling the kettle black, brother”, she mused, then pointed at his journal, “I do believe you are building your own castle in the sky”.\nJohn blushed, closed the book with a snap, “On the contrary, I am tearing down the walls of oppression, whether European monarchs or our home-grown oligarchs. Taft is meek in his pursuit of the monopolists. All must go... Now this fellow Marx…”, he huffed.\n“No stop, John, I cannot bear another lecture”, she felt horrible for interrupting the course of love, “forgive me for prying”. \nShe looked around the tearoom. The ginger-haired girl behind the counter was talking to a new customer, a young man in a snappy tweed jacket, and she noted that her brother seemed greatly bothered by it, but sharp words were spoken, and the man dissolved into the gathering crowd in the station concourse. The girl grinned apologetically at John, who slipped the book back into his jacket pocket, close to his melting heart. \n“Perhaps we should tarry a while?” suggested John, whose stupefying transformation into a puppy-dog was amusing Margaret.\n“Or take a later train?\" she suggested, warming to the prospect of further dalliance, “there’s a Vermeer that I really must see at the new museum in Fenway”.\n\"Splendid idea!\" exclaimed John, almost leaping from his seat, \"we may never get this chance again\". Apparently, their opinions of Boston had now converged, but suddenly a weighty thought occupied his mind and he frowned, “I have in mind a companion for the afternoon, would you mind terribly?”.\n“That’s a very modern idea!” said Margaret, not minding in the least. The frown was instantly erased from her brother’s brow.\nMargaret sat at the table and sipped at the glass of ice-cool Coca-Cola. She placed the glass whimsy back in her bag observing the shadow that fell upon the little castle, and she wondered to herself whether those lunar colonists would consume so much cheese that the moon might wane, and never again wax." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Tomorrow, the Sun will Rise\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2399\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who wishes they could turn back time." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Journal 6, Entry 23, 6/13/2018\nToday we stood in front of an open grave in black suits, black dresses, and with white handkerchiefs. Everyone huddled close under a ceiling of umbrellas as God’s tears poured down on us over the life of a courageous and thoughtless young man. I watched the stars and stripes soak up the drizzle as it lay there on the perfectly polished mahogany casket suspended above its final resting spot. Standing before the gravestone, the priest gave his benediction before the flag was folded up and presented to my wife and I, which I held as she replaced it with a single white rose upon the casket. Behind us, pristinely dressed young men, perfectly creased with polished shoes and shiny brass buttons on their coats, white flat top hats and military insignias shining proudly, began firing their arms as my son was lowered into the Earth, never to be seen again. I couldn’t help thinking back on the day my boy was born. He was shriveled and purple, suffocating until he cried his first breath. He was presented to me swaddled in a baby-blue blanket and a little ducky beanie placed on his head. His eyes were bright blue, and, in those eyes, I saw someone who would be in my life until my dying day. Yet, his dying day preceded my own.\nThe day he announced he was joining the marines he stood proud in his first adult decision. He wanted to serve his country like I had, learn responsibility and integrity, and then use the GI bill for college to study politics before earning his law degree. I was so proud of him. I encouraged him. His mother had concerns, none that I listened to, and I was steering him away from her advice. She and I fought. He and her fought. Ultimately, it came down to the three of us at the bus station, one of us sobbing as if she would never see her son again. He served almost two years before he was shot and killed trying to pull a wounded man to cover in Afghanistan.\nPeople swiftly made their way to their cars to get out of the rain. Even my wife took the umbrella and left me gazing into the grave, or maybe it was a hole of despair, the rain dripping from the contours of my face, me motionless. The loss was crushing, but the guilt was agonizing. I watched as a bulldozer covered my son with dirt, forever sealing him in darkness beneath the soil. It gave me a chance to have a wholehearted cry, to tell him I was sorry, and to tell him I love him – God, I hope he knows how much I love him.\nI got in my car soaked and wet. I removed my blazer, loosened my tie, and used my handkerchief to wipe off my face before leaving. Everyone went to my mother-in-law’s for lunch after the burial. Leaving the cemetery, I turned left towards town instead of right towards my in-law’s place. I felt I couldn’t show my face there. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to. Maybe I was just tired of everyone asking me how I was doing all the time. I mean, how did they think I was doing? I lost my son. I was doing horribly. I just didn’t know to what degree of horrible I was actually doing. The dreadful silence my wife imposed on me wasn’t a motivator to make an appearance anyway. I needed time to think. I needed time to remember. I needed time to mourn. I hadn’t felt like I had a moment to do any of those things since his death. I had to be strong for my wife, I had to take care of all the preparations and notifications, and I was assuming blame from more than just my wife on top of it all. I was worn thin, ready to snap, breakdown, crack.\nI headed over to the old corner bar in town that has been there so long that the Coor’s sign hanging above the door has faded to a brownish yellow with barely visible lettering. The building has changed its proprietors so many times I no longer know the name of the place. Beyond the plain brick walls and the dirty metal awnings that cover the windows with their neon signs drawing drinkers to the doors like bugs to a zapper was a lowly lit room of browns and dark reds that smelled like ashtrays and urinal cakes. There was a jukebox on the far wall playing a heavy tune I didn’t recognize. It sat by the only booth in the place, occupying the corner. High tables with bar chairs were spread throughout. In the back there were a couple of pool tables and a dart board. The beer was served in cans and the scotch and soda I ordered showed up in a red Solo cup. I took that as a sign not to stay too long.\nThe bartender was a mountain of a man. I figured he served as the bouncer as well. He must have been six-five and nearly three-hundred pounds of muscle, long hair, piercings, tats. If I saw this guy standing in my driveway when I got home, I’d turn around and speed away. But looks are deceiving. He turned out to be a decent guy. We talked briefly and he provided a round of shots on the house in honor of my son’s bravery. The handful of fellow day-drinkers who were there gathered around the bar for their finger’s worth of whisky in a red Solo cup. We slammed them down and everyone gave me their condolences, saying I should be proud. In that moment I was proud. My son died saving a man's life during a war to protect us from terrorism. It was the type of man he was. The type of man I raised him to be. I didn’t get to revel in my pride long. The bartender advised that I finish my drink and find another watering hole before his regulars started pouring in in the next fifteen minutes or so. So, I finished my drink promptly and returned to my car.\nAs I plopped down heavily into the driver’s seat, I noticed my blazer beside me and realized that my phone had been in there the entire time. I retrieve it from the inner pocket and found that I had six missed calls and one text: “call me as soon as you get this.” I immediately called my wife.\n“Where are you,” a frustrated and impatient voice asked.\n“I took a little detour into town,” I said as I rummaged through my pockets looking for my keys. “I stopped at a bar to have a couple drinks. I wasn’t ready to face all the accusing looks and whispers,” I told her.\n“You earned them,” she said coldly.\n“Now that’s not fair.”\n“Don’t talk to me about fair,” she says angrily, and with a sigh she says, “There are people here who are primarily here to comfort you. Your mom is worried sick.”\n“Tell her I’m fine. I just need some time to myself to mourn for a little bit. I’ve been overwhelmed lately.”\n“No. You are not doing this. You are not leaving me here alone making excuses for you any longer. Get here now, and mourn with your family,” and she hung up, ending that conversation.\nI took the long way to my in-law’s. I was lost in memory of our last family vacation together. I wish I could turn back time to what was one of my fondest memories of my son and live it all over again. The girls wanted to explore the shops in Gatlinburg, so my son and I scheduled a low-grade whitewater rafting trip. It was a rush, what he called the experience of a lifetime, but it was after that when we found calmer waters to do some fishing that I cherish most. It was the summer before his freshman year in high school. We were set up on the riverbed enjoying sodas and chips, joking around and bonding. It seemed like a good time to have ‘The Talk.’ I was amazed by his maturity given the subject and the intelligence of his questions. ‘The Talk’ led to us discussing things that his mother wouldn’t have approved of, but it evolved into a discussion on love and family. From there, we talked about science, politics, religion, and issues of a philosophical nature. I could see in the boy who was my son the makings of the man who would be a lifelong friend that day. I quite often think that day was a turning point for him. That was the day he began to take a serious interest in the world around him and his part in it. It might have been the first step on the path to where we are today, but I wouldn’t give up that day for anything.\nIt was still crowded when I got to my in-laws. As I made my way in, I couldn’t help but notice the dirty looks from my wife’s family and friends. I could see into the kitchen where the food was laid out buffet style across the kitchen island. My daughter was there making a sandwich. I approached her to give her a kiss on the head and hug her, but she pulled away, shunning me, taking a place next to her mom who was talking to one of her girlfriends as she refreshed her tea. My wife gave me a dirty look and placed a protective arm around my daughter, approving of her behavior.\nMy mom saw me come in the door and followed me to the kitchen. She busied herself making me a plate as I explained to her where I was. She led me into the family room where my side of the family had gathered. There was palpable tension between the families, like nothing I had ever seen before. Three generations of veterans filled the room. All who were quick to defend my decision to support my son. They kept their opinions to themselves for the sake of peace, something I greatly appreciated.\nSitting by herself, looking out of place, was my son’s fiancé. They had only been engaged for four months, but she had been around so much over the years she was already like a daughter. She was his first real date. It was his junior prom. He really liked her and was scared he was going to mess things up. He called me into his room for advice. I remember him sitting on the edge of his twin sized, looking up at me scared and nervous. I looked around his room as he explained the situation to me. There were sports trophies on the dresser, car posters on the walls, video games around the TV, and dirty laundry scattered everywhere. He was taller than me, shaved, and drove a car, but he was an oversized child commencing on an adult relationship and I could relate to the anxiety he was feeling in the moment. I straightened his bowtie and took a knee in front of him. I told him to pay attention to her, to not get distracted by anyone or anything else. Listen to her and keep the conversation rolling. Make her laugh when the timing is right. Anticipate her needs. Offer things before she asks. Compliment her. Out of respect for her, always be patient, gentle, and kind. He came home that night elated because she let him kiss her. When I told her this story, she hugged me with tears in her eyes and kissed my cheek.\n“I know what people are saying, that it’s your fault he’s dead. He would have joined with or without your blessing. But instead, he died knowing you believed in him, were proud of him, and loved him.”\nAs evening approached, the crowd thinned until it was just family. Mom decided it was time to get grandpa home, so they left, leaving me with my wife’s side of the family. I went to the kitchen to let my wife know I would see her at home. She pulled me aside and told me that tonight her and our daughter would be staying with her sister, but tomorrow I would need to check into a hotel. She warned me that she had already hired a lawyer and that I should be served papers any day now. I didn’t want to make a scene, but I pleaded with her to reconsider. I told her I loved her. We still had one child under our roof. We needed to consider her needs and that our son would not want this. She shook her head and walked off. My heart shattered. I knew there was a chasm between us since his death, that she blamed me, that she was angry I didn’t support her protest to his enlisting, but I thought it was something we would work through over time. I returned home defeated. The staircase to the bed broom was a mountain of memories lined with warm, happy pictures of us together over the years. For the first time, the home we built together felt like an empty shell of a house in the silence.\nAs I sit here and write, procrastinating, not wanting to pack a bag, I really do wish I could turn back time. I don’t know if I would do anything different, but I would go back and relive moments over and over again. Pictures and videos aren’t the same. I don’t want to just look at my family and rekindle memories. I want to relive the experiences with them again - the contact, the smells, the warmth of the day, the emotions of the moment. But even if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t live in the past. Whether I was wrong or right, actions have their repercussions. There is no sense in trying to run from them, hide from them, deny them. Tomorrow the sun will rise, and I will rise with it, conducting myself in a manner that would make my son proud to call me dad, and hopefully win my family back." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: I lied I meant to kill myself\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2502\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a pathological liar." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was a cold winter that season. One of the coldest yet. My family and I had just moved from the city to the ends of the world because my father had been jailed for trying to embezzle millions of dollars of retirement investments. A small unassuming man with good manners who always looked down and had no scrupples was infact working day and night to put bread on the table for his family. Me, myself and I in my mind. I was an only child. My mom had no time for me only for her good looks. My dad worked day and night and we rarely saw him. My mom on the other hand dedicated her life to waiting till the early mornings for my dad to return from work. We loved living this unique busy one sided life.\n\nI dressed well as a result of my dad's income. I remember one time going to school wearing new sneakers and one of the popular girls approached me at my table at lunch time and said.\n\"Are those sneakers new! Are they by Arrie? \" She looked at me with a smile on her face waiting for an answer.\nI said: \"Oh sure you mean these. Yeah they are by Arrie.\" She smiled and said: \"I knew it.\"\nNot sure what to say I looked at my sneakers and then at my lunch and wondered why she was still standing and not saying anything.\nArrie was the latest designer of footware. Anyone cool enough to wear her sneakers had to be cool enough to afford them or his or her parents were.\n\"Well I have been following your wadrobe lately and I think you can join our table. You seem to be in .\" She said\nI looked around and my silent friend who was sitting across from me looked down at her lunch and at her Arrie sneakers wondering how such sneakers could make us join them the famous popular girls in school.\n\n\"Alright, starting tomorrow!\" I said and then paused and asked \"Can my friend join us too?\"\nShe said: \"Sure, she is an Arrie girl too right?\"and walked away.\nWe looked at each other and laughed\nIt was with this backdrop that my mom too found herself. After trying many ways to feel better about, herself she had decided that maybe she should try gardening. Well she did and it helped stop her from talking to herself. I could no longer worry about her troubled mind which resulted mostly from loneliness and from losing many of her frineds to divorce and social change. Politically active women are not very well liked by the establishment. My dad thought it was just a phase which would pass. As more and more of her actvities produced results and change, my mom started having enemies in high places. She would occassionally get in mini accidents with annoymous drivers who would speed away from the accident scene never to be accounted for. She started buying products that were halfway open some which poisoned her. She visited doctors who promised to help her and she would get worse. As more and more of these incidents became regular in our lives we felt that perhaps it was not proper to tell my dad. He also worked very hard to be around to hear it anyway. The backyard became a sanctuary with many wild flowers and butterflies and herbs testifying to my mom's accomplishments. We never doubted anymore that my mom still had some life left in her. Although the phone never stopped ringing and her voicemail never accepted messages anymore for fear that her bullies would locate her hiding place: the backyard.\n\n\"Is your mom home?\"\n\"No she is not.\"\n\"Do you know when she will be back?\"\n\"I am not supposed to talk to strangers.\"\nI would promptly shut the door and resume my life indoors.\n\"Why is your mom's car in the driveway?\"\n\nI would stand next to the window and say, \"Is that my mom's car I forget.\" I would dutifully shut the curtains and know that the stranger would stick around or would walk to a dark Oldsmobile Towncar with a large hand held car phone and wait for instructions from headquarters. I could not tell if they were lovers or the members of the anti revolution forces.\nWhen neighbors tried to figure us out, we preferred to let them think that we were a cult of killers in the underground movement. We never bothered to correct anyone.\nMy dad was reading a newspaper one day when the men in black forced themselves in our home. A news Anchor made sure that we could not even try to \"get down\" to our hiding place to escape as rehersed. In handcuffes my dad looked even smaller than he already was. I could see a sense of relief on his face as if this part of his life shall also be dealt with and come to an end. He and his phone calls an documents were hauled away to kingdom come. The trial was brief and he was found guilty. The expensive backyard was sold to the highest bidder. My mom who had lost weight looked smaller than I remembered her.\nWe were left with absolutely nothing. It turned out that everytime we went shopping, some of our neighbors placed bids on our belongings. We were lucky to own a car and have money for gas. So one night we esccaped.\nIn our new town we needed to be in touch with the friends that we once had. Send money. Send money now I said. We will pay you back. Okay okay please send us money we have no food.\n\n\"What does your mom do for a living?\"\n\"My mom is a freelance illustrator!\"\n\"What does she illustrate?\"\n\"Nature, nurture, I don't know , she illlustrates something. Books I guess.\"\n\"Where do you live?'\n\"I am passing through . I live across town.\"\n\"What's your name?\"\n\"Anna, yeah Anna?\"\n\"Why do you doubt your name.\"\n\"No, no it is a game that I play of living as different personalities. This week I am, Anna.\"\n\"How brilliant. Why do you do that?\"\n\"I pretend that everyone I meet is a poilce officer. So I just fool around to make myself feel special.\"\n\"That's amazing.\"\n\nMy mom hated being poor and so did I. She hated having to go to prison to visit with my dad or to visit dad in prison. They always said it was a visit with my dad when infact it was a visit to be with my dad in prison for a set period of time.\nMy mom thought that the prison for white collar crime would look better but it just was like any other prison. Whenever we visited we asked if we could get a better window seat close to the air so that we could breathe. My mom would faint or stop breathing to avoid having to spend the entire hour there. I felt sorry for my dad who looked wasted and abused. My mom once called the prison Magistrate and asked if my dad would be allowed a beer. He vehemntly said no and hurt my mom's feelings by calling her a whore. She hung up the phone and called back and asked in a very serious tone if he could at least give him sadatives so that my father could sleep away his prison sentence. To which he hurt my mom even more.\n\"You are not the only one who visits that man by the way.\" My mom fainted for real on the end of the line and I could sense the silent satisfaction of the magistrate that he had closed a very dangerous case. A case of a stock borker who stole millions from poor retirees and his fainting wife.\n\"A friend of a friend told us that your dad is in jail.\"\n\"That is my step dad my real dad is a Professor and he is not in prison.\"\n\"We also heard that you cannot afford to pay for that one bedroom rental that you live in.\"\n\"We can afford our home. We have to play it cool because we are in hiding. My dad is in a plural marriage and one of his wives wants my mom dead. We don't know why.\"\nI always get uncomfortable whenever anyone asks me about where I lived. That was true for real even while I and my mom lived well. I hated having to talk about where I lived, only close friends and relatives were welcome to that part of my life.\n\"You gained weight? You just got here!\"\n\"I was pregnant and I had an abortion.\"\n\"Don't talk to her, she is crazy.\"\n\nMy mom got sick in the middle of my dad's jail term. She could hardly get out of bed. It turns out that if you are used to eating meals prepared with organic ingredients, if you stop you die. I tended to take a taxi to drive me to prison to meet my nonconversing dad. He had taken a vow to not talk much to me and my mom. He must have heard what I telling everyone and feared that he would contradict my stories. I would sit across from dad and he would give me phone numbers to call. His friends had vanished and were nowhere to be seen or heard of. He kept hoping that one day one of them will walk in prison with a Lawyer and set him free. About my mom; he asked not to be told how bad things were. He gave me pocket money in coins. I would look at him disgusted. The coins were not even worth the coins that I used to have in my piggy bank.\n\n\"Anna is that you?\"\n\"No, who's Anna?\"\n\"You look like that creepy new girl from up the hill. But you are dressed as a man.\"\n\"I am a man, a boy I mean. Wanna see my winnie?\"\nIt means that I was in a cafe and had to eat in the back room of the cafe because there was no food in the house.\nI walked back home no longer humiliated but fascinated by my new life of sponteneous lying even if there was no need for me to.\n\"GTE operator here how, may I help you?'\n\"Can I make a collect call to the local prison jail?\"\n\"Oh no you don't need to make a collect call. All calls to inmates are free. You just dial the number and you will be transfered to his or her room.\"\n\"No I meant the hopsital, jail? I don't know anyone who is in jail. I meant King Edward hospital. My mom is in there. I bet I am worried that if I don't call my mom I will wind up in jail. That's right that is what that's about.\"\n\"Oh that's a different story. Call this main number for hospitals. It's only 811 and ask to be transfered to a particualr hospital or tell them your mother's name they will figure out where she was admitted. That number too is free. Don't you know that?\"\nI quickly hung up the phone. That meant that I needed to hear a voice of a human being who was not `judgemental, who did not think that I looked like a new girl who lived up the hill.\nWell, my mom did get released from the hosptial and I was glad to pick her up knowing that I had nothing to give her but my presence.\nOur high school had a scheme of giving out food and personal hygiene items and many other neccessities ranging from sweaters to hair products. My mom enrolled as a high school student just to be able to have a place to stayaway from the revolution and it's followers. Also she neede food in her tummy. We lived on very limited income. I pretended not to know her as I strolled in the halls of my high school. I was lucky she was admitted as a 12th grader. It turned out that her famous friends of her past had located her or suspected where she was hiding and were out and about desperate to have her on yet another mission. Life was different than, my dad's income could not underwrite the wishes of the unheard.\n\n\"You know what? Our mayor is making noise about strangers in town. I think it is time to disappear. If I were you I would. I was born and raised in these woods,\"\n\"Why are you telling me?\"\n\"I tell all the newbies in town. We are used to drivers on our highway stopping to shop and end up taking refuge in our town and never leaving until we get a bulletin or something.\"\n\"That doesn't sound like me. Plus my mom is dying! She can't even leave the house, she is so sick.\"\n\"Listen here, I tell you this because I love you, start stuffing your tummy with towels and wear large sweaters. Make yourself look pregnant. That is a sure sign that you plan to stay. If they ask who did it to you, I will say it was me. That means that one of these days we have to do it.\"\n\"I am scared.\"\n\"Be scared all the way to prison. My dad saw you!\"\n\"No that's my pen pal. I plan to have kids with that guy.\"\n\"Well I am here on the outside. Why not me? I won't tell. I might know more.\"\n\"I have syphllis from that guy. He is old right. Old guys carry diseases,\"\n\"Yukky, go to the clinic then and get medicated. Call me after.\"\n\"No I might have chicken pox then, you know us newbies.\"\n\"Well go on put a towel in your tummy. Let me think about you.\"\n\"I will, thanks.\"\n\"Oh you can't bring that guy to our town or I'll tell.\"\n\"What guy?\"\nTowel anyone, hot or cold?\n\"I thought I could ask you to church this Sunday.\"\n\"I am prengant. I am an out of wedlock teenager. Churches hate us.\"\n\"You are right. I thought I could marry you and give your child a name.\"\n\"Maybe next time.\"\n\"If you ever need anyone to touch your belly hit me up\"\n\"How about tonight. Just joking. The dad will kill you.\"\n\nA year went by so fast and we managed to dodge the visitors in a black Oldsmobile with car phones. My tummy got bigger and bigger until I finished my exams. I still had a year to go in high school. I could not remember that I once wore Arrie sneakers. I had become a very troubling woman with a lot of time on her hands.\nThe other side of town was better.\n\n\"We almost let them in.\"\n\"How we dodged that bullet I will never know.\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Rhapsody of Reality and Desire\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2751\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story — romantic or not — about two characters who can’t find the right timing." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Keep drooling like that and the levees gon break”\n“What?”\n“I see you seeing sitting over there seeing what you seeing.”\n“Shut up Kendra.” I laughed. “Ain’t he fine?”\n“Girl that man is delicious, but according to the street committee he’s got his hooks in Robyn. Or Robyn’s got her hooks in him.” Kendra shrugged.\n“Robyn who?”\n“HR on the third floor, first office to the left, Robyn.”\n“Noooo.”\n“Yeah girl. They be trying to keep things professional down at the office but me and Leroy saw them all hugged up, lovey dovey, and whatnot down at the in Saks day before yesterday.”\n“Tuh. It’s just as well. She’s more his type anyway. Besides, ain’t nobody checking for me.”\n“All the more reason to like you.”\n“What does that mean, Kendra?”\n“Ivy, you’re beautiful, professional, and extremely well kept. People don’t always like you because of the way you carry yourself. Hell, when I first met you, I was intimidated. But then, I got to know you and realized that you weren’t the snooty wench everybody pegged you to be. You came in here, held your own, and gave every one of us the respect that you wanted in return. That’s why you’re Ms. Head of Accounting.” Kendra laughed. Now Miss Thang Robyn? She’s a horse of a different color. She’s what I call sophista-ratchet.”\n“Sophista-what?”\n“Ratchet. She can code switch with the best of them, answering the phone like she’s working for a 900 number. How do you think she got her job? She’s a corner rat who got lucky enough to snag somebody’s rich son, he put her onto some corporate game, then she slithered her butt right on up in here. But you, you’re naturally everything she pretends to be. Brains and beauty always win Ma. You can only go so far on store bought, lace front wig wearing beauty.”\n“I hear you, Kendra. I don’t buy it, but I hear you.”\n“Just keep doing you. You’re good at that. He will notice you in due time, that is, if you want to be noticed.” Kendra giggled.\n“Get out!”\n* * * * *\n“Beautiful morning Ivy.”\nI froze. Was he talking to me? I placed my coffee mug on the breakroom table and turned around. “Oh, Good Morning Mr. Decuir.”\n“No need to be so formal, call me August.”\n“Ok, Mr. August.”\n“Just August.” He smiled and I could see myself in his pearly white reflection.\n“Ok.”\n“So how long have you been working here?” He poured himself a cup of the Community Coffee Dark Roast and began to sip without adding a drop of cream or sugar.\n “'l’ll have been with Hawthorne and Bourgeois for ten years on the sixth of June.”\n“Really?”\n\" Yes really.” I said coyly \"And you?\"\n\"About the same. I transferred here from...\"\n\"The Shreveport Office.\"\n\"Oh, so we've done our homework I see?”\n\"If you call reading the interoffice memo doing your homework. You know the one that's sent out to notify employees about the irrelevance of this or that. I usually trash them as soon as they invade my screen, but the latest edition lead with your photo, credentials, and something about you being the Chief Financial Officer so, it kind of sort of piqued my interest. I mean, who wouldn’t want to know more about their new boss.”\n\"I see.\" He could have been sold for a penny.\n“Well, I've only been in Baton Rouge a few weeks...\" Long enough for Robyn to get her talons on you. “...and I'd like to get a feel for the city. You know, see what the locals do. Any recommendations?”\n\"I could show you... uh, yeah, there's a few places I can recommend.\"\n\"Great. Can I meet you in the cafeteria for lunch to discuss?\"\nIf I’m seen in the cafeteria with him, the gossip about us will make it to heaven before I do.\n\"Um, yeah I guess.\"\n\" You guess?\"\n\"Don't mind me. Sure. Yes, is 12:15 ok?\"\n\"12:15 is perfect.\"\n* * * * *\nWhat was I thinking agreeing to meet him down here on Fried Fish Friday? I rushed over to the salad bar to pick up the Sensation Salad I preordered, grabbed a bottle of Fiji and chose the cleanest table I could find. I opened the salad and did my usual assessment before adding the extra dressing I always order then closed the lid for a good shake to evenly distribute. I hated a dry salad.\n“Is this seat taken.” August approached with a fried fish plate.\n“Not at all. Please. Sit.”\n“No fish?”\n“I don’t eat seafood.”\n“How can anyone be from Louisiana and not eat seafood.”\n“There’s always an exception to the rule.”\n“Touche.”\n“So, I took the liberty of jotting down a few places here you might be interested in.” I took the folded list from my pocket and handed it to him.”\n“I’ve got fish grease on my hands.”\n“Oh. Well, um . . .”\n“Relax love. I’ll have plenty of time to look at the list when I’m done. In the meantime, tell me a little about you.”\n“I mean, what is there to know? I’ve been working here for almost . . .”\n“I know your work history. I knew that before I had the opportunity to formally meet you.”\nI flatlined. “How?”\n“I mean every boss wants to know about his team. Your credentials are quite impressive Ms. Hill. But like I said, tell me about you. Tell me about Ivy.”\n“No one has ever asked me that before. Um. . .” I cleared my throat. “Well, um, let’s see. I’m forty. I love music. I love to read. I have a completed novel; I write poetry and I someday I hope to publish my book and a collection of poetry.”\n“I’m impressed.”\n“What’s so impressive? I am as basic as they come. You know, a simple girl who’s not hard to please.”\n“Um humm.” August smiled. “So, who’s your favorite artist and what do you write about?”\n“Anita Baker hands down. And when I write its mostly about love and heartbreak.”\n“Who hurt you?” August got defensive.\n“Let’s just say the art of matrimony ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. You live, you love, you get your heart broke, then somehow you manage to pick up what’s left of the pieces and even tally move on.”\n“Damn.”\n“So anyway, do you want this list or not? I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”\n“What’s first on your list, Ivy?”\n“This local spot I love called The Showroom. Every First Friday a friend of mine plays there with his band from about nine until midnight. It’s a throwback old school kinda party vibe for sure. I go every chance I get.”\n“Are you going there tonight?”\n“I don’t really have anyone to go with tonight. All my girls are . .”\n“Meet me there.”\n“Huh?”\n“Do I need to sign it for you?”\n“You got jokes huh.”\n“Nah. But I’ve got a beautiful lady to hang out with tonight if she’ll agree to meet me there.”\nI felt tingly in places that had been dormant for years. “Ok, August. I’ll meet you there, but this is not a date.”\n“Who said anything about a date Ivy? I’m just trying to catch a vibe.”\nCrap.\n* * * * *\nThe band was indeed a vibe. I could hear them performing Frankie Beverly and Maze’s “We the One” from the parking lot. I found parking for the Audi then sent August a text to let him know I had arrived. Within seconds he confirmed that he’d arrived too and asked where I’d parked so he could escort me inside.\n\" You look amazing.\"\nI was wearing a white tank top with a pair of distressed blue jeans, gold accessories, and tan Michael Kors stilettoes.\n\"I am as basic as they come.” I blushed.\n“Well basic is beautiful.\"\n\"Thanks.” I blushed.\nWe approached the door, I requested my VIP passes, got our wrist bands, and headed to our table.\n\"August?\" A voice came out of nowhere.\n\"What the hell are you doing here?\" If he could have died with a heart attack right then and there he would have.\n\"Robyn. Hey. Um, this is...\"\n\"Ivy.\" I cut him off. \"Umm humm.\" Robyn looked me up and down.\n\"Ok, well I was good seeing you, Robyn. We’ll catch up soon.\nWe made it to our table, ordered some wings, fries and a picture of Rum Punch. The band started to play the intro for Anita Baker’s Rapture, and I started to sway. \n“So, what was that about?\" I was feeling myself, my body in tune\nwith the beat.\n\"What was what about?\" August feigned innocence.\n\"Look August. I don't have time and will not tolerate any funny business. You and Robyn obviously know one another because she specifically asked you what you were doing here. Are you two seeing each other? And before you fix your mouth to lie to me the street committee has already spotted the two of you down at the Saks, “Mr. I don't know the city,” so choose your lies wisely. And keep in mind before you open your mouth that you don't owe me anything beyond the truth. If you're seeing her, cool. Just tell me and we can end this right here and now.\n\" You need some water?\"\n\"What?\"\n\" You never came up for air. Are you good?” August tried not to laugh.\n“I knew this was a mistake. I’m leaving.”\n\"Ivy, wait. Where are you going?”\n\"Good night, August.\" I was pissed.\n“Ok. Ok. I know her. She and I hung out a few times when I first arrived here, and she did invite me to accompany her shopping the other day but I'm not feeling her.\"\n\"Have you told her?\" I sat back down.\n“I plan to, but I don't want to hurt her feelings.”\n\"You're not very smart, are you?”\n\"Excuse me?”\n“Why would you even consider going out with her in the first place knowing her position in the company? Why would you consider going out with me when I’m your employee?”\n“You agreed.”\nI did agree. “So.”\n“So, it’s obvious that you’re attracted to me.”\nHe’s a cocky sapsucker. “I’ll be honest, I am. But, no worries, I’m not looking for anything more than friendship. I’ve been down the relationship road before and it’s not a road I’m looking to travel again anytime soon. Now is not the right time anyway. All I want to do is focus on my writing career so I can eventually get published.”\n“Bad break up or divorce?”\n“Divorce.” I threw up my hands with praise.\n“How long?”\n“Five years.”\n“You?”\n“Seven”\n“Wanna dance?” I needed to change the subject. When parts of you die there is reason to go digging them up.\n“I don’t dance but I am feeling this music.” \nThe band switched to what they called “The B Side” and started to sing Keith Sweats Right and Wrong Way.\n“Oh ok.” I got up and started my own sultry slow grind. I could feel him undressing me with his eyes. I wanted him and he didn’t even know.\n“Hey.” August dabbed at the drool seeping from his lips.\n“Sup.” I continued to grind.\n“Wanna go back to my place?”\n“It’s almost midnight and I need to get home.”\n“Ok. Can I follow you to make sure you get there safe?”\n“I could just text you when I get there.”\n“Yeah, but its late and I wouldn’t’ be a gentleman if I didn’t make sure.”\n“Ok. I only live a few streets over. You can follow me to the corner of Plank and Clark, and I can make it from there.\n“Ok. Cool.”\nI watched him watching me in my rearview mirror. We were passing Poydras street, and my street was the next. When we approached the stop sign, I texted and said he could go on but as I made the right he followed. Where the hell is he going? Since I lived in the first set of condominiums on Poydras, so I pulled into my parking spot, put the Audi in park, and sat there. He pulled in behind me and got out.\n“Hey.”\n“Didn’t I tell you I had it from here?”\n“Yes, you did. But I’m a gentleman and a gentleman will always see a lady to her door.”\n“Cut the crap August. You were hoping to get tonight.”\n“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”\nTouche. “Come on in.”\nAugust Decuir had me crushing on him like I was sixteen. Sixteen, a helluva long way from forty and my Stella-go-lucky behind, all goo goo eyed, drooling, and swooning over him, was in pure lust. I’d barely gotten the key into the door before he was all over me. He kissed me hungrily and I hungrily retuned his purely unadulterated passion. I had formally known this man for sixteen hours and on the seventeenth, he was in my bed. I should have been ashamed, but I wasn’t. I hadn’t been touched by a man in five years and I intended to catch the groove that I my ex-husband murdered and buried long before the divorce. I needed to make up for lost time. And for the next few hours, August and I crushed our groove until we passed out.\n* * * * *\n “Great morning, Ivy.”\n “Great morning indeed.” I gave him the side eye. Why was he still here? “What is that I smell?”\n “Beignets.”\n “I’m impressed.”\n “Why?”\n “No one has ever made breakfast for me before, especially beignets.”\n “Well, I hope you like them. I also have some fresh strawberries for you and a virgin mimosa.”\n “You mean orange juice.”\n He laughed. “I didn’t know what kind or even if you liked champagne. Besides, where was I going to find it this time of morning.”\n “Ok. Ok.” I conceded and started shoveling the beignets in. August sat in a preoccupied stupor.”\n “Penny for your thoughts?”\n “Huh. Oh um, I was just thinking about the wonderful time you and I had last night and was wondering when we can do it again.”\n I stuffed a whole beignet in my mouth. “August, I really had a nice time with you but like I told you last night, I’m not looking for anything serious. Plus, we work together. How would that look?”\n “Why would I care?”\n “Precisely. You don’t but I do. And let’s not forget you’ve been dating Robyn. I know you said you’re not serious about her but how does it make me look when my boss is dating me and another one of my colleagues? I think it best for us to maintain a friendly professional relationship. We can still hang out occasionally and maybe do a few other things but that’s the best I can offer you for now. Maybe in a few years when I’ve become grounded in my newfound independence things will change.”\n “A few years? I could be dead by then?”\n “You could also be somebody’s CEO.”\n “But what about last night? I felt something with you. Something that I haven’t felt in a long while. It felt good Ivy. It felt pure and genuine and well, it just felt right.”\n I knew it was a bad idea to sleep with him. Now he’s gonna be like a roach infested apartment in the projects, always crawling around.\n “August. Please let’s not make this any harder than it has to be. I really just need to be friends right now. Can we agree on that?”\n “I guess I have no choice.” I broke his heart. “Let me just say this and I’ll be on my way.”\n “What’s that love?”\n “Your ex-husband is a fool. He was a stupid fool to have broken your heart. And now you’re too guarded to let anyone else get close.\n “What makes you think we were close at all? Honestly, he and I were two ships passing in the night. We were young dumb and at sixteen, thought we in love. Now did he have just cause to cheat? No. But we did grow apart, and I think we had grown apart long before he cheated. He was just too selfish to let me go.”\n “I wouldn’t have let you go either?”\n “And that my love is the reason why we can’t be together.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Love, Death and Raquetball\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1260\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone whose time is running out." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "LOVE, DEATH AND RACQUETBALL\n\nJoe’s death was long and agonizing. The disease came and went, then came again a few years later and put the squeeze on like a giant boa. Terence’s was immediate. He lost control of the car exiting the highway, hit some pylons and the car exploded. Members of the Jewish burial society had to come with body suits and gloves to search for the pieces of him which all needed to go in the casket so that when the Resurrection of the Dead comes God can put him back together intact. His was a closed casket funeral. Joe didn’t have that problem. He checked out in one piece so he was good to go from the moment he passed. \n\nIn this life, they didn’t know each other, or perhaps they did, remotely, it hardly mattered. But they had a lot in common. Both men were in their 60s; they had swag, brains, money, influence, positions of communal leadership, families, children, wives and, yes, girlfriends. Did the wives know about the girlfriends? The wives didn’t let on that they knew, but they knew. That’s how it is; Watergate, Iran-Contra gate, Clinton-gate, men are no good at covering their tracks. Terrence’s was a transsexual, which didn’t lessen the betrayal. The girlfriends knew about the wives. One wife, Barbara, was an artist and the other, Terrence’s, did volunteer work with children with special needs. Terrence had a daughter with Down Syndrome, for which he blamed his wife. Not that he didn’t love the child, but the way he saw it, Laura would be made to do penance by overlooking and keeping quiet about his girlfriend.\n\nAngie, formerly Greg, offered Terrance the cat and the meow. He took them. She was fully intact, Greg’s legacy, and had a feline knack for landing on her feet. Terrence showed up when he wanted, when it was convenient for him without calling and Angie liked that. How real and un-suburban, he thought. They did lines of coke that he bought on the down low from a connection he made through his previous girlfriend, followed by rough sex that shook the tumble down apartment building where she lived. With Angie, all semblance of Terrence’s buttoned up day life vanished. He day dreamed of her versatility and sniffled his way through philanthropic meetings and religious services. His moods bounced around and kept Laura entertained if not a bit concerned that he needed professional help.\n\nJoe paid for his’s apartment. For that and the stipend he gave her she took care of all of his salacious needs on average one weekend per month. She had kids to feed and no child support coming in so why act coy. The idea that a man should remain faithful to his wife was lost on Joe. His dad and grandfather before him took mistresses. Their wives didn’t disavow them, why should his behave any different? Barbara the artist knew that Joe was splashing his paint onto someone else’s canvas. She blamed herself. Oral sex repulsed her and vaginal was a struggle without the popular lubricants that she read were carcinogenic and the women in her family had a history of cervical cancer.\n\nTerrence was on his way to see Angie when he died, when his car flipped over and exploded on impact with the pylons. At that instant, Laura felt a fleeting tremor like a subtle weight lift off of her soul. She would never forget it. She suspected some seismic shift in the world or in her life but she didn’t know what it was. She picked up the phone to call her husband; it went straight to his voice on voice mail. She left a message, hung up and sent him a brief text to please call her. She went outside to get in her car to go to the grocery store with her DS daughter and they found ten five dollar bills scattered about her front lawn. There was no apparent explanation; for all anyone knew they had fallen out of the sky. The young lady’s allowance was $5.00 per week that her father always gave her. She gathered up the bills while jumping up and down , laughing and shouting. She gave a few to her mother and kept the rest for herself. They hugged laughed and jumped up and down together.\n\nJoe was religious in the early years of their marriage when the kids were small, but as everyone aged he traded it in for the limelight, big money, side deals and side women. In his last twenty plus years he was spiritual as long as someone was looking at or listening to him. He had a certain fondness for the sound of his own voice; his kids teased on his death bed that it was probably the last thing he would hear and the one thing he would miss most when he departed this world. He tried to smile but the coughing drowned it out. Barbara winced when he coughed but she didn’t reach over to touch or comfort him. \n\nHe knew that his extra marital liaisons over the years cast a long shadow but he wasn’t sure what more to make of it. The God thing didn’t resonate. God brought peace not judgment, that’s as far as got with it. He had a few religious friends who would have disagreed but that was why he ditched religion, it was a buzz kill and spoiled the party. The idea that his demise, whenever it came, originated as a punishment from Above for his philandering splashed in the moat outside the castle of his ego and drowned there. The heavy toll it took on Barbara never entered his calculations or conscience. He lay there alternating between his bed at home and a hospital bed with days or weeks left, no one knew, thinking of his girlfriend and the good sex they had or of the magnificent business deals he had managed to pull off over the years. \n\nJoe lay dying in a 5th floor hospital room, dying. He knew it, Barbara knew it. The kids had said their last goodbyes. The room overlooked the freeway that Terrence was trying to exit when he crashed and died. Joe heard a loud thump like a sonic boom, got up with effort and looked out the window. There was a car on fire flipped over on its side with smoke pouring out. He told Barbara he wished he could do something for the occupant. Barbara came over to take a look. She gasped. Emergency vehicles rushed in from all sides, the sounds of their sirens muted by the distance and the thick window glass. ‘Now that’s how to die,’ Joe murmured to himself, his head resting against the window, ‘not in and out of hospitals for four years.’ \n\nThe getting up and walking 3 steps winded him. Joe went back to lie down. Everything hurt. Through the haze of the pain and the pharmaceuticals he saw himself 20 years ago dressed up to play racquetball at his club. He leaped back and forth on the court reaching difficult shots and scoring winners. He remembered the name of the guy he was playing against. It was Terrence, a good looking guy who Joe seemed to possibly recall said he had just had a baby girl. Joe smiled wanly with a remote satisfaction that he could still remember a name from so long ago in his current condition. He wondered whatever happened to him, closed his eyes and died." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ronny's Retreat\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2963\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character participating in Dry January." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“You are so full of crap, Ronny”, said Mad Max, “You ain’t no different from the rest of us. Fact is, you’re muddle-minded, and full of shit about what coulda, woulda, shoulda been”. Mad Max stamped his feet, flicked his cigarette into Station Road gutter. \n“Couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t”, chimed in Squidward, “I could tell you a thing or two about the things that I didn’t do”. Squidward rocked his giant bulk back and forth on the park bench, always in motion, never eating in public; it was a mystery to the other tenants how he stayed so fat. \n“Leave Ronny alone”, said Dizzy, the old whore, who lived on the second floor. She’d always been good to Ronny, probably because he never sought her services. She was slapping her big arms around her ample girth, trying to stay warm, \"Crazy is free, doesn't hurt anyone, does it?\"\n“Hurts my ear drums”, said Mad Max.\nNapoleon, the irascible superintendent of the Coalition rooming house, emerged from the building pursued by a plume of vapor in the cold night air. “I don’t want to see any trash on the grass, or on the sidewalk”, he declared. \nNo-Hope Jones doffed a non-existent hat, “Yessir”, which made Napoleon snort, whether with derision or satisfaction, it was difficult to say. \n“Ronny, you’re a goddam mess!” said Napoleon, “Are you still hitting the bottle? You know the Coalition policy, right? Zero tolerance”.\nRonny felt like a pinata at a child’s birthday party, and he needed a drink desperately, it being New Year’s Eve, and all that.\n“I’m going inside”, said Old Elvis in a deep sonorous voice that everyone suspected was fake.\n“We’re all going inside”, said Mad Max, pulling Squidward to his feet.\nRonny looked for the cigarette butt in the gutter, but it had burned all the way down to the filter.\n+++\nAt the supermarket checkout, a man in a sharp blue suit slipped a dollar bill to the woman at the cash register, gesturing ever so discretely at the indigent little man next in line. Blue suit left, and the woman greeted Ronny with a fake smile. “I don’t need your charity” said Ronny irritably. He slapped down a bag of cookies and a carton of milk, but then he caught sight of the twenty-dollar bill in the associate’s hand. “Holy Jesus! Wait there!”, he scurried to the liquor aisle, and returned with a quart of Fireball Whisky in his shaking hand, “Ring it up, sister!”\n+++\nStore-brand chips and salsa, donated by the local Food Pantry, sat untouched on the parlor room table. The girls, Dizzy and JoJo, were sitting on the sofa watching New Year’s Eve programming on the TV, ignoring the incessant chatter of No-Hope Jones. Napoleon was talking to Old Elvis about the playoffs over near the window, and Mad Max was hiding out in the corner, brown-bagging a beer.\nRonny staggered into the pantry, “Whaddya got there, Max?” he slurred.\n“Try hitting up someone else”, said Max with disgust. \n“Jeez. Just trying to be friendly, fella”, said Ronny, flashing his bad teeth.\n“Try Elvis and Napoleon”, said Max, pointing toward the window.\nRonny announced himself with a burp, and old Elvis moved half a step backwards, beyond the range of Ronny’s foul breath, “Ron, you’re cramping my style,” said Elvis.\n“We got any booze?”, said Ronny, eyeing the chips and salsa with green-gilled disdain. He was getting desperate for another hit, twitchy even. \nNapoleon appraised Ronny sternly. “Ronny, this is not a good look. You’re reeling around like a goddam drunk and stinking up the room with your Whisky-breath. You can’t even stand up straight, for Pete’s sake”.\nRonny hiccupped, “I’m fine! I just started on the celebrations a bit earlier than you, tha’s all”, slurring again, “I just need a December top-up”. \n“What you need is a Dry January”, said Elvis.\nNapoleon took Ronny by the arm and steered him out of the parlor, down the corridor and abandoned him in his room, where Ronny sat on the wretched old bed, drained the last dregs of amber liquor from the whisky bottle, and a familiar oceanic feeling welled up inside of him then stranded him on a barren shore.\n+++\nIt was morning and Dizzy was framed by a halo of New Year’s sunlight. “Napoleon has a message Ronny” she shouted from the far end of the hallway, “says it’s from Brad Pitt”. She laughed raucously and stomped away as if it was the funniest thing ever. The hangover was like a heavy damp blanket that weighed Ronny down. His head throbbed, his mouth tasted like the inside of a toilet bowl, the light was pressing into the back of his skull. \nNapoleon handed Ronny a piece of paper with the name “Mercedes” scrawled on it, and a phone number, “She said that Brad Pitt was interested in something called The End Game”.\n“You’re shitting me”, said Ronny.\n“Swear to God, that’s the message, word for word”, said Napoleon, crossing himself ostentatiously.\n“I need to use your landline”, said Ronny, holding the piece of paper in trembling hands like it was the golden ticket. “It’s important, I swear”. \n“Mercedes speaking”, it was a woman with a European accent.\n“Ronny, it’s Ronny Fowles here”.\n“Mr. Fowles! We’re so glad we found you”, said Mercedes excitedly, “we’ve been trying to track you down for weeks. Your wife gave us your number but told us you were at a writer’s retreat. We’d nearly given up on you”. \nRonny was momentarily confounded, but then he recalled that a trans fiend called Colleen, the only person Ronny knew with a steady job and a mobile phone, had offered to send out his script. Apparently, Colleen had improvised.\n“Yeah, I’m still at the retreat”, said Ronny cautiously, “have you read the script?” he asked. He didn’t want to sound too desperate, but his entire pathetic life was balanced on a pinhead.\n“We loved it!”, said Mercedes, “Mister Pitt read it, and just couldn’t put it down. He thinks The End Game is an important story that needs to get out there, be part of the dialog. He’s even discussed it with the NFL commissioner… We want an option if it’s not too late, please?” She sounded even more desperate than Ronny.\nRonny choked up, unable to talk. Napoleon took the handset from Ronny, “Who the fuck is this?” he growled.\nThere was a pause. “Is this Mr. Fowles’ agent?”, Mercedes sounded taken aback, but undaunted.\n“Yeah, this is his agent”, said Napoleon, waving at Ronny to chill. Napoleon jotted something on a scrap of paper, “You got that straight, Ma’am”. He hung up the phone and handed Ronny the piece of paper with the word contemporize written on it, “She says you need to make some revisions, make it more topical. It needs to be contemporized”. \n+++\nNews spread quickly through the Coalition grapevine, a jolt of hope for the deadbeats as they faced the new year. The tenants convened at the bench, sharing smokes, and strategizing. No-Hope Jones was puffed up and proud, like Ronny was his only son, and Dizzy was so excited that she loaned Ronny a Benny, which made Ronny all weepy. Even Mad Max stepped in, offering the use of an old computer.\nOfficer Burns, pulled up in Cruiser 002, rolled down the window, “Denise, these gentlemen treating you right?”, smirks and chortles at the sound of Dizzy’s real name.\n“Officer Burns, it’s Ronny, he got a call from Brad Pitt”, said Dizzy in her gravelly voice; she was nearly jumping out of her skin. \n“You’re messing with me, right?”, Officer Burns could sense a buzz of excitement among the Station Road ne’er-do-wells. \nNo-Hope Jones chimed in, “it’s for real, Officer, Sir. You remember when Ronny was hanging out at the library, scribbling away, and getting into trouble?” Officer Burns remembered the librarian’s complaints only too well. “It turns out, it weren’t no scribbling” said No-Hope, hooking his thumb at Ronny, “turns out our Mr. Fowles here is a genuine, God-given genius”. \n“Gee, Ron, that’s just great” said Officer Burns, shifting alternatively between awe and skepticism as he processed this news and the sorry sight of Ron Fowles, who looked pale and sickly, and badly in need of a grooming.\n“Yeah, a cool fifty thousand for the option to make his gay-boy movie”, said Napoleon triumphantly, punching the cold air.\n“But first he’s gotta contemporate”, said Ho-Hope.\nRonny felt like he was shrinking into a husk. His brain was fogging up, he needed a drink. The Benny was burning a hole in his pocket.\n+++\nBig John Curtis found Ronny lying dead-drunk in the warm vestibule of Myrtle’s Bar and Grill, just before opening time. \n“Ronny’s got frequent flyer miles with us” explained the paramedic to BJ.\n“Get him out of here, already”, said BJ, incuriously.\nRonny was momentarily conscious but delusional, “All you sweet girls, with all your sweet talk”.\n“He’s got the DT’s” said the paramedic, “The duty doctor will probably put him on benzo and antipsychotics, maybe a saline drip too”. \n“Don’t really care, just get him out of here”, said BJ.\n+++\n“I just gotta make it through January”, said Ronny to the ER doctor.\nDoctor Jain examined the rotting teeth at the back of Ronny’s mouth.\n“I’ve only got one shot at the prize, Doctor, and this is it”, said Ronny.\n“We’ll see if we can get those teeth seen to while you’re here, pro bono.”\n“I’m supposed to be taking a flight to Los Angeles at the beginning of February”.\n“For what?”\n“Brad Pitt wants to meet with me”.\nDoctor Jain scrawled something on a prescription sheet “Haldol, it should help moderate the…the hallucinations”.\n+++\nRonny dreamed he was a crew member on a clipper ship on the high seas of the Pacific Ocean, straining at cable-laid rope beneath a rip-raw sky. Astern, sailors were skinning seals and throwing the crimson carcasses into the ocean, which boiled with a frenzy of sharks, while screaming gulls circled overhead. Ronny lost his footing, toppled overboard, dragged into the briny depths by the anchor rope that twisted around his wrist. \nHe woke in a cold sweat; his room was spinning. He ran his dry tongue around the new landscape of his mouth, explored the healing wounds where previously he’d toyed with rotting teeth. The hospital wristband was tight on his wrist.\nDizzy was in his room, watching over him like a demonic nun, and she was steaming mad.\n+++\nRonny wrote the word CONTEMPORIZE neatly, in block capitals, on a blank sheet of paper and stared at it, waiting for a thought of substance to enter his mind and lodge there, but instead it felt like his head was a tombola drum, with fleeting images of unrelated people, places, and things, tumbling randomly inside. \nThe End Game script lay next to him, untouched. \n+++\nNo-Hope Jones was watching the third quarter of the Pats-Cowboys playoff game at Myrtles bar, when he spotted Ronny loitering, hunched up and sad-looking, outside in the street. He jumped from the bar stool, went outside, “Ronny, my man! Come inside and have a drink on me”. \nBJ stopped Ronny at the door. No-Hope protested but BJ was unmoved, “Don’t really give a crap about the Hollywood homo, he’s not coming in here”.\n“That ain’t fair BJ, you know it”, said No-Hope, squaring up bravely, and unsteadily, against the giant.\nBJ wouldn’t budge, “got no beef with you Nate, but he’s not coming inside.”\n“Let’s go to The Three Crows instead”, said No-Hope to Ronny, but when he turned around, Ronny was gone.\nRonny headed in the direction of Station Road, but walked right past the rooming house, past the railway depot, and he just kept going along Route 70 toward the setting sun, toward Hollywood, he was adrift on a small boat in a meandering river.\nOfficer Burns drew up in front of him in the cruiser, got out and marched him to the side of the road, pushed him angrily into the back of the cruiser. “You could have been killed”, he said, looking at Ronny in the rear-view mirror, “You addicts are all the same, wandering around like zombies into the jailhouse, the hospital, or death”.\nIt was irrefutably true, thought Ronny, we drunks are more alike than we are different in our enslavement; we live in the same bleak place beyond shame and humiliation, we lie, we cheat, we steal, we forget, we are consumed by self-pity and fear. “I’m still sober, Officer Burns”, said Ronny truthfully, hopefully.\nOfficer Burns didn’t seem to hear him, or didn’t believe him, “you know, there’s a lot of people got your back, Ron. Some of them folks that remember you from high school, your cousins over on the island, the Coalition people… they all saw a spark in you, once”.\n“I failed so many people, Officer Burns”.\n+++\nRonny flicked through The End Game script. It was unrecognizable, the work of a different hand, of a different person, a better person. He stared at the paper pad, at the word CONTEMPORIZE, and waited, waited. He needed to go outside, he needed to get something.\nNapoleon intercepted him in the hallway, “Mercedes wants to know how it’s going” he said, “I need to give her some kind of response”. He stepped close enough to check Ronny’s breath, to look him in the eyes. \n“Good progress”, said Ronny, “I’m near halfway done”. \n“That’s great Ronny”, said Napoleon, “You going out?”.\n“Naah, just needed loosen up a bit”, Ronny shook his right hand limply, “writer’s cramp”. \n+++\nDizzy knocked on the door and found Ronny sitting at his desk. Ronny placed the script on top of the writing pad. “Ain’t snoopin”, she said, “just checking up on you”.\n“You and the whole Station Road crew”, said Ronny, “are you taking turns?”.\n“I dunno what you’re gabbing on about, just checking on my pretty boy”, she slicked his stick-out hair down, stood back and gawped, Brad Pitt’s gonna want to know who your stylist is”. \nHe gave her a grin, and saw her wince slightly at the sight of his near-toothless mouth, \n“Elvis thinks it gives me character”.\n“It does that too”, she said.\n+++\nRonny visited the Food Pantry and bagged up handfuls of breakfast snacks, which drew the censorious eye of the matron, so he scooped up some useless root vegetables as he was leaving the church hall.\nWhen he got back to Station Road, Napoleon was on him like a rash, “What you got in that bag, Ronny”, like he was a customs agent on the lookout for contraband.\n“None of your business, Jimmy”, said Ronny.\n“I gotta take a look in the bag”, said Napoleon.\n“No, you don’t gotta”, said Ronny, hustling along the hallway.\n“Two more days,” said Napoleon. \nMad Max was watching all this from the stairwell. “No fuckin’ way the Golden Goose is gonna deliver the goods”.\n+++\nRonny handed the manila envelope to Napoleon, witnessed by No-Hope, Elvis, Dizzy, and Mad Max, “It’s called Dry January”.\nNapoleon weighed the envelope skeptically in his hand, “I don’t know ‘bout that. Mercy didn’t say nuthin about changing the name of the movie.”\n“How’d we know it’s f’real anyway”, said Mad Max\nNapoleon began to thumb at the edge of the envelope.\n” Don’t you touch that” said Ronny, suddenly jumpy, “just fuckin post it for me, if you want your cut, Jimmy.”\n“Jeez Ronny, lighten up a bit”, said Dizzy, “We’re all rootin’ for you”.\n+++\nThe rooming house was edgy that week, expectations hung heavy in the air. Nobody really wanted to spook Ronny, who mostly hid in his room, or ventured out to town on mysterious missions. Mad Max saw Ronny making enquiries at the ticket office in the railway station. Elvis saw Ronny looking at the For Rent listings noticeboard at the Rec Center.\n“He’s gonna check out and leave town before the shit hits the fan”, said Mad Max, sitting in the parlor room watching the Patriots crush the Jets.\n“He’s gonna move across town, to get away from us”, said Elvis.\n“No way you’re getting your money back, Dizzy”, said Mad Max.\n+++\nThe phone rang in Napoleon’s office. Mad Max was hanging around, as usual. “Max, call Ronny will ya. Mercedes wants to talk directly to him”, said Napoleon.\n“She pissed?”, asked Max.\n“Just go get him will you”, Napoleon said irritably.\nDizzy was leaving for town, but stopped when she overheard the conversation. Elvis and No-Hope were lurking in the hallway near the parlor. The whole Railroad crew seemed to manifest out of thin air.\nRonny came out of his room, and followed Mad Max to Napoleon’s office, walking through the solemn gauntlet.\n“It’s Mercy, she wants to talk to you first,” said Napoleon, trying to sound business-like, but it came across as petulance.\n“Ronny here”, he held the phone to his ear and stared at his feet for what seemed like an age to his small deadbeat audience, then he suddenly flinched, flushed bright red, and handed the phone back to Napoleon.\n“You still there Mercedes?” asked Napoleon, anxiously, putting the receiver to his ear. She was still there. The Railroad crew clustered close, straining for clues in Napoleon's expression. He scribbled something on the back of an envelope, and they squeezed past Ronny to take a look. \nRonny stood apart, he felt good, the constant ache for alcohol had abated, just a bit, just enough for him to gather and skewer his thoughts, which he would commit with ink to the blank sheet of paper that lay next to an empty bottle sitting on the makeshift desk in his lonely room." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Everyone Wants a Past Life\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1020\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who wakes up in their past life, or as a future reincarnation of themself." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Everyone Wants a Past Life\nIn my present life I am able to tell fortunes and see spirits, when I look at someone I can see much more than an average person. Some people called me crazy and a freak when I revealed my secrets. So, now I don't say anything to no one. I try to keep it to myself and instead perceive that I am giving out advice. Many years ago in the eighteen hundreds, my great great great grandmother had the same ability to talk to the dead . They thought she was a witch and put her on pedestal, which resulted in them killing her. Everyone told me fortune telling and the ability to see the dead is a gift from God that my grandmother's soul is inside me. I reply by saying \"if my grandmother was a stripper back then you must be right \", because when I woke up in my teenage years, I had a day dream of me doing strip teases in front of a bunch of men on a stage. They started throwing money at me, it felt so real. Then I saw a white glow in front of me saying \"you have a second life, do it wisely and you will be back where you belong in the kingdom\", then I woke up. Everyday I go into a daydream I can see myself on stage rubbing my behind along a tall thin stripper pole and swinging my body up and round like it was easy. However, in reality I daydream most of the time, imagining I have the perfect society constructed body type that all boys want. Although, when I got a little bit older I was very popular with my gift, I finally had enough money to live on my own. \nWhen I was in my thirties, I met a man. I felt like he was my soulmate, but my best friends didn't like him. My mother always said \"tie a rope around a tree and if he doesn't catch you let him go\". Sometimes I wonder, what does that mean? you let him free and if he leaves and comes back he's yours? Persistently, I would wonder about what she thinks about half the time. You know I'm good at what I do, amazing actually, however, I can't tell my own future. If I could, I would be a millionaire and constantly win big jackpots from the nationwide lotteries. I know deep down that sucks, not being able to predict my own future but if I did I would know when I would die. Which would result in me not being able to live a normal life, I would stay in my home and not go anywhere, which is an issue. I love to travel all round the world. \nI guess you are wondering about my husband, yes, I did go see another fortune teller and she said he was in my past life. However, she couldn't tell me if I stayed with him. It was scarey because he loved me a lot. I remember a dream I had about a man that loved me but his parents didn't approve of the marriage and we had to separate . His soul was looking for me all through the years to mend his heart but what about mine? I can't remember hardly anything, just a few things. To me I think my husband got knocked on his nogan thinking we were soulmates in another life. I guess I moved on in the past when he hurt my feelings but my husband constantly tells me he loves me to the moon and back. I just say okay to him but, my friends still think he is a nut job. My mother loves him, so she goes out of her way to please him. Time went on and my husband is still with me and I could see more spirits as I'm getting older. I can see it in dogs and cats, which they sometimes talk to me. That frequently freaks me out, so I try to stay away from them because they ask me for food and to be rehomed to a better owner. I feel sorry for how people treat animals. I try real hard to keep focused as years passed, my life was doing great untill someone local went missing and the police were at my door to help them with an investigation\nI sat down with the victim's parents, but I couldn't reach the child. It was empty and no spirits came to visit. They say if the child doesn't visit, they are in heaven and die peacefully. Although, I couldn't say that. Instead, I keep trying. Between this thought, I imagined my husband's crazy concept. He thinks that maybe if someone needs them, they will give them back when they are done.\n I'm going to finally be normal? A few months passed and the spirits never came to me. \nMy husband told me to catch up on my sleep and not to worry about it, they will be back. I really don't know what is wrong. Am I going to be normal? I thought. It was like I lost my period all over again. I didn't feel normal. Then, I heard my friend was having a baby at the hospital. A few days after having her baby I went to see her. When I got there, she looked like she was really exhausted. I said I will take the baby to let you have some rest . \"Thank you, I will like that.\". As soon as I put the baby in my arms, I felt the spirit of the child that I was looking for in the investigation. Then I saw the little boy and he told me where his body was, under the house where his parents lived. I asked him why he didn't tell me months ago? He replied with because I went to heaven and now I have a new body. Then he smiled. \nMy word document says this is 1101 words\nReplyForward" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Zone Defense\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2704\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character participating in Dry January." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The boos cascaded like rushing rapids onto the blond hardwood.\n They splashed back up, wave-like into Jimmy’s mouth and nostrils, damn near wetting his hair already coated with sweat.\n The boos were for him.\n All him.\n Damn, I love this game, he thought.\n A lesser coach, a poor man’s version of himself, one who merely hoped to win, or one who even planned to win but failed at least half of the time, would have folded in that moment of duress and provocation.\n They would have sat down and cowered, maybe mumbled something under their breath to their assistant or shook their head as to rid themselves of a persistent headache or a gnat in the ear.\n But he was Jimmy Trost. He did none of those things.\n He guaranteed victory. And usually, he was prescient. Three trips to state in five years. No titles, but that was coming.\n “Coach, do you really want a technical foul?”\n The corpulent referee, a big, fat zebra with a bald head and salt-and-pepper moustache, had come running up as if to launch himself in a tackle. But at the last moment he stopped and stood in front of the scorer’s table and Jimmy noticed his right leg was quivering ever so slightly.\n That was Jimmy’s reputation. Volatile misconduct.\n Even the zebras feared him.\n What happened next was a shit idea, but often when provoked, one revels in antisocial tendencies.\n “Go right ahead,” Jimmy replied, and he removed his ginger-tweed sport coat and handed it to someone behind him, he didn’t see. Probably one of his players or Kelso, that dipshit of a team manager whose only contribution to the Barton School men’s basketball team—and they were men, at least when Jimmy got done with them—was handing out towels and green cups of water with the orange Gatorade logo.\n Fatso didn’t crease his face.\n Clearly, he was nonplussed.\n He formed a T with the palms and erect fingers of his hands.\n Technical foul.\n Two shots for the home team, which wasn’t the Barton School.\n Jimmy’s five starters stood at half court, wiping the bottoms of their sneakers with their own palms. One of them was wiping the sweat off of his lips with the collar of his jersey. Each seemingly stared off in a different direction, as if to survey the crowd and its intentions.\n They stared as if they had seen it all before.\n There was pinprick of silence generated by the collective inhaling of hundreds of opposing fans, and then a cacophony of cheers sprinkled with, “Siddown asshole!” and “F you, Trost! You suck!”\n Jimmy grinned.\n This was his moment.\n He found them almost arousing, sexual in nature, and he’d prefer to climb inside the sheets and let whatever happen, happen. A time when the clock stopped, or rather disappeared.\n His lips moved.\n “Hit me again, baby!”\n Another collective inhalation, but this time, the cheers and jeers were delayed like a land mine in the middle of the rice paddies in Vietnam that Jimmy had read about, when he actually read.\n Fatso’s knee wasn’t quivering anymore.\n He reprised the T with his hands and yelled at the mortified folks at the scorer’s table.\n “We’ve got a double technical. Barton coach is ejected.”\n Now Jimmy guffawed, making daggered eye contact with Fatso.\n He sensed movement in his left peripheral vision.\n “Come on, coach, you gotta go.”\n That was the skinny ref, some guy about Jimmy’s age with an indigo flattop, probably wondering if Jimmy wasn’t beyond taking a poke at him. Or maybe he was wondering whether the $65 he earned for reffing this game was worth it. \n Jimmy turned on his left heel and strode with purpose past his seated scrubs, toward Kelso, who held out the sport coat. He grabbed it, turned back on his right heel, and made a show of putting the jacket back on in front of the opposing fans behind his team’s bench.\n He was still grinning.\n “Get out!” they chanted. \n “Get out! Get out!”\n “You get off on that, don’t you?”\n Kay-Kay successfully spun a basketball on the tip of her right index finger, and it stayed put like a globe until she pulled her finger away and the ball nestled into her hands. One of her players materialized and she executed a garden-variety bounce pass. The girl ran off dribbling, the sound of ball hitting floor echoing in the near-empty Barton School gym.\n “So what if I do?” Jimmy replied, picking up another basketball and spinning it on his right index finger before lofting it in the air toward another of Kay-Kay’s players who stood nearby with an apparent question. She must have changed her mind because she, too, turned and dribbled away.\n “That’s your fourth technical this season. We’re only in January.”\n “At least let me have this. I don’t drink, don’t smoke the ganja. I’m a fine church-going lad.”\n That wasn’t true. He hadn’t been to church since Pops passed, that self-proclaimed, sanctimonious fundamentalist. As for drinking, he enjoyed a mojito every now and again. Ganja he left behind in college.\n Kay-Kay merely shook her head, as if she was attempting to release his evil spirits that had taken up residence in her mind.\n Jimmy Trost tended to keep others at an arm’s length, because he’d had enough of the sky-blue pink that came with people that said one thing and then darkened as they did something else. People who asked for advice, for example, and didn’t take his. Or someone who spoke enthusiastically to his face and then talked shit behind his back. Club coaches could be like that. So could entitled parents who’d spent thousands on club basketball, only to realize their kid barely made the team, much less start.\n Jimmy wasn’t that far gone to believe everyone was a snake, waiting to bite. To outsiders, it only seemed that way.\n Kay-Kay was his rare exception. \n She of the coffee skin and perpetual black hair band, with the belief that man-to-man defense always trumped zone—Jimmy didn’t agree, but they laughed about it—had been hired as the Barton School’s women’s basketball coach the same school year as he had, five seasons ago now. They were unlikely confidants. She told him things. He told her a few things, more than other people. Mostly they talked basketball: The proper way to break a press, for example, or the finer points of teaching the game to kids that had grown up in club ball and considered themselves hot shit by the time they got to high school.\n Or technical fouls.\n Kay-Kay had gotten one—one!—technical in her entire coaching tenure. But it was justified, she had said.\n As for Jimmy, he had lost count.\n He was a dragon on the court, with the refs, opposing coaches, hell, even his own players from time to time.\n But he won. The three times he had taken his team downstate, the media coverage had been so substantial that the Barton School’s marketing department leveraged it to the hilt. The equation went like this:\n Get to state = media coverage = Barton School prestige = increased enrollment = dollars.\n That was the quotient. Always the dollars.\n The school’s regents by and large overlooked his behavior for that reason.\n “You better be careful.”\n Jimmy looked up and Kay-Kay’s eyes bored into his own with an anvil presence, as if he had been caught stealing in the local 7-Eleven.\n “What are they going to do, fire me?”\n “You ever thought about what would happen if they did?”\n Nope. \n “Why do you hassle the referees so much? You know you’re only going to get kicked out.”\n “To relax,” Jimmy deadpanned. \n “You’re not funny,” Kay-Kay said, before blowing her whistle, the screech still filling the gym as she yelled to her kids, “All right, fifty free throws. Get to it.”\n “Besides,” Jimmy said, “if that’s my only vice, then I’m doing pretty good in life.”\n “Yes, but what about your players? What are you teaching them?”\n “That you have to stick up for yourself sometimes, otherwise people will bulldoze you.”\n “No,” Kay-Kay said, “you’re teaching them that it’s okay to react without contemplation. That it’s actually a virtue.”\n When Jimmy heard this, he was tempted, oh, ever so tempted, to remind Kay-Kay that she had never taken a team to state, though she had gotten close twice. As of January 6, 2022, her team was undefeated, so maybe this would be the year.\n But she hadn’t done it yet.\n Saying so would be an asshole move, though, and while Jimmy didn’t care much for most people, he did value Kay-Kay’s insights about basketball, and sometimes, about life.\n “Let’s see, reacting without contemplation,” Jimmy replied. “What do you think Bobby Knight would say about that?”\n The former Indiana coach had won three NCAA national championships with the Hoosiers and nearly two more. He was bombastic, confrontational and controversial, once throwing a chair across the Assembly Hall floor after (in his estimation) a bad call. His anger and sarcasm knew little boundary, especially when he knew he was right.\n Bob Knight was Jimmy’s hero. While he doubted he’d ever toss a chair, the thought had danced in the back of his mind more than a few times. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?\n Maybe. But Jimmy sensed the media-savvy marketing department, and the regents, wouldn’t appreciate the bad publicity. That could impact enrollment.\n Always the dollars.\n “It’s January,” Kay-Kay said. “Maybe it’s time to turn over a new leaf.”\n “I like my leaves the way they are.”\n “You ever heard of Dry January?”\n “What’s that?\n Kay-Kay shook her head to indicate her continued amazement that Jimmy simply ignored what wasn’t within the tunnel-vision confines of basketball.\n “It’s where you take the month off from drinking.”\n “I don’t drink.” Again, not exactly true.\n “But it can be for any vice,” she said, intently observing her players’ free throws, and not speaking directly to Jimmy. “You have the ability to affect change in your life, and by extension, the lives of others.”\n “Now, wait a minute,” he replied. “Are you saying I’m, what, flawed?”\n Then Kay-Kay turned to him. \n “We’re all flawed,” she said. “I’m only saying, eventually one of your tirades is going to get you in a helluva lot of trouble, something you might not be able to get out of. That’s what eventually happened to Knight, if you recall.”\n She was right, of course. That’s how Bobby ended up at Texas Tech at the end of his career.\n “I’ll just go somewhere else,” he said, with a flippancy that touched a nerve with Kay-Kay, because she took a baby step toward him and jutted out her right index finger. The carefully shaped nail was painted a fluorescent pink.\n “Just think to yourself the next time some ref tempts you to go off,” she said., “am I being myself? Or am I outside my body, being someone else? Being someone better than me?”\n “So the idea with Dry January is self-improvement?”\n “No, it has little to do with you. It’s about empowerment.”\n She turned back to her free-throw-shooting players.\n “Of others.”\n The ball sailed out of bounds into the faceless crowd of bobbing, screaming heads, and was caught in the second row by a dad of one of the kids on the opposing team. The man stood, and at approximately 6-foot-4 with muscles bulging through his gray t-shirt, he looked to be spry enough to take the floor. For a moment, Jimmy pondered how he would neutralize him if he actually entered the game. Probably a double-team to force him to kick it outside. Then you had to hope the shooter wasn’t deadly from three-point range.\n Jimmy flushed that nonsense from his mind when the referee—Fatso from the other night—signaled the ball had been last touched by one of Barton School’s red-jerseyed players, a stiff named Cowley. Fatso held up his left hand, fingers erect, and slid the palm of his other hand across the fingertips, then spun and pointed in the opposite direction, away from the Barton School bench, where Jimmy had been standing with his arms flared out like a set of shipyard cranes.\n Last touched by Barton.\n Opponent’s ball.\n “What?” Jimmy caterwauled. “You gotta be kidding me!”\n Fatso didn’t even turn around. He just ran down the floor.\n “Sir, the ball was last touched by fourteen!” Jimmy howled, speaking of a kid that, Jimmy came to think of it, might have been the son of the dad who caught the ball.\n There was the sudden sensation of something ricocheting off his left leg. It stung for a mere moment, almost bullet-like in its surprise.\n Jimmy turned.\n The dad had lofted the ball, not to Fatso, but toward Jimmy. When the ball hit him, the man remained standing and raised both of his arms in the air. Jimmy made eye contact with him and the dad mouthed, “Screw you.” \n Always wanting to get in on the action, because he wasn’t good enough to make the team, Kelso had grabbed the ball, ran it over to Jimmy, and handed it to him.\n Fatso arrived a moment later.\n “What, you’re going to let that go?” Jimmy hollered. “That guy ought to get kicked out of here. That’s may very well have been assault.”\n “We’re going to deal with him, coach,” Fatso replied, raising his voice over the crowd that had been simmering, but was now flailing with glee.\n “You better.”\n The referee stared Jimmy down with black eyes.\n “Come on, coach, don’t make me T you up again. Remember the other night.”\n Jimmy was then outside of his body, not in empowerment, but rage, the waves returning and splashing against his shirt, soaking his underarms, steam escaping through his shirt collar, forming beads of sweat on his forehead and cheeks.\n He stamped his right foot on the floor, leaving a black mark from the heel of his loafers in front of his chair. Oh, it was tempting.\n Jimmy thought of Bob Knight. \n He thought about picking up the chair and lofting it in the direction of the dad.\n The moment was scintillating. \n Would the regents have cared? They lived in a bubble of bean-counting that came from effective marketing and PR. That made Jimmy a tool, a means to an end. A way to increase enrollment.\n He won basketball games. Parents wanted their kids to play for a winner.\n Check that. His players won games. They executed strategy.\n Objective. Strategy. Tactics. The components of effective marketing and PR.\n The objective was to win. Everything else, from zone defense to three-point shooting, rolled up to that.\n Jimmy was still outside of his body, but the tide had receded. The steam had dissipated. The beads of sweat were drying ever so slowly.\n I’m someone else, he said to himself. I’m someone else.\n I don’t know if I’m better, but I’m someone else.\n I don’t know. Am I better? \n Was I sick? Am I sick?\n There was movement in his left peripheral vision. The dad was elbowing his way past other fans in the bleachers. A man in a blue windbreaker that said Security on the back in bold white letters pointed toward the exit, and the man complied, but not before delivering a middle-finger salute to Jimmy. The fans around him cackled.\n Fatso took two large Simon Says steps toward Jimmy and held up his hands in a near-wrestling pose, anticipating the worst.\n Jimmy was now truly outside his body, in a parallel universe of his own creation.\n Kay-Kay wasn’t there, but her ghostly image stood beside him, complete with her black headband and a Property of The Barton School hoodie. She didn’t speak. She was just…there.\n “Okay, coach. Just relax, we took care of him. He’s gone.”\n Jimmy turned to Fatso and eyed him up. He was tempted to remove his sport coat, but he decided it was now a bit chilly in the gym. Then he sat down, crossing his hands on his lap.\n His players on the court had stopped wiping the bottoms of their sneakers and stood at attention, awaiting his call for the next play. \n Man defense or zone?\n “Let’s play ball,” Jimmy said. “Let’s just play ball.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: True Colors\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1183\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about somebody breaking a cycle." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Hi, my name is Richard, but everyone calls me Ricky—I’m six and a half.”\n\n“Hi Ricky! I’m Jimmy. I’m six, too.”\n\n“I’m six and a half! I’ll be seven in September.”\n\n“My mom says I’ll be six and a half next month.”\n\n“Hey, we’re practically the same\nage.”\n\n”That means we’ll be in the same grade. Are you gonna go to Faulkner Ridge Elementary?”\n\n”I think so. Do you go there?”\n\n“Uh-huh. It’s close enough we can walk there. Do you want to be friends?”\n\n“Sure, I don’t have any friends here. That means you can be my best friend.”\n\n“Okay!”\n\n“Whatcha doin’?”\n\n“I’m catching salamanders.”\n\n“Cool. I love salamanders. Wait, what’s a salamander?”\n\n“I don’t know. It’s kinda like a lizard. There are a bunch of them here in the creek. I catch ‘em and put ‘em in this jar.”\n\n“They’re black. B. L. A. C. K.”\n\n“Yep, and a little slimy”\n\n“What do you do with them?”\n\n“I don’t know. I just look at them, then I let them go. I don’t think they like being in a jar.”\n\n“The lid on that jar is silver. S. I. L. V. E. R.”\n\n”Ricky?”\n\n”What?”\n\n“Why do you spell everything?”\n\n“I don’t know. Mostly I just spell colors. My dad says learning to spell makes you smart, and I love different colors. Don’t you?”\n\n“I guess so. I’m not a very good speller.”\n\n“My dad says you just have to practice. Your shorts are blue. B. L. U. E.”\n\n“My shirt is red, how do you spell red?”\n\n“R. E. D.”\n\n“R. E. D. I spelled red!”\n\n“Yes you did. See, my dad was right.”\n\n“Wanna help me catch salamanders?”\n\n“Sure, what do I do?”\n\n“You move the rocks, and I’ll scoop ‘em up when they come out.”\n\n”Do I have to pick the rocks up?”\n\n”Nah, just wiggle ‘em”\n\n“Ok.”\n\n“Where do you live?”\n\n“In that house right there, the white one. W. H. I. T. E.”\n\n“I live in the green one next door. How do you spell green?”\n\n“G. R. E. E N.”\n\n“G. R. E. E. N.”\n\n“My dad is really smart—he’s a dentist.”\n\n“A dentist, like for braces and stuff?”\n\n“No, that’s an orthodontist. My dad helps keep your teeth clean and fills cavities. What does your dad do?”\n\n“I don’t have a dad.”\n\n“Everybody has a dad.”\n\n“I had a dad, but he’s dead. He was a policeman. He died when I was two.”\n\n“Do you remember him?”\n\n“Nah, not really. My mom shows me pictures of him, but I don’t remember anything about him. He wore a blue uniform. B. L. U, right?”\n\n“B. L. U. E. don’t forget the E.\n\n“B. L. U. E. I told my mom I want to be a policeman, too.”\n\n“What did she say?”\n\n“She said I should be a doctor. I don’t think I can be a doctor—they’re way smarter than me.”\n\n“You can be a doctor. My dad said you can be whatever you want to be.”\n\n“Maybe I can be a salamander catcher?”\n\n“And I’ll be your helper. I'm Ricky the Rock Mover.”\n\n“Ha! You’re too smart. What do you really want to be?”\n\n“I’m going to be a dentist like my dad.”\n\n“Can I tell you something? You won’t get mad, will you?”\n\n“I don’t think so. What is it?”\n\n“I don’t like dentists. I’m scared of them.”\n\n“You don’t need to be scared. My dad helps people. If your mouth hurts, he makes it all better. Maybe you can come over to my house and meet my dad sometime. Maybe he’ll look at your teeth.”\n\n“I can ask my mom.”\n\n“Can I tell you something? You can’t get mad either.”\n\n“Sure, we’re friends, right?”\n\n“Best friends.”\n\n“Then let's make a pact to never get mad at each other. Is it a deal?”\n\n“It’s a deal.”\n\n“So what were you going to tell me?”\n\n“I don’t like policemen. My mom says you have to be careful around them.”\n\n“But policemen help people—they keep you safe.”\n\n“My dad says that, too, but my mom doesn’t like them.”\n\n“I’m not sure I understand. Sometimes parents are silly. Hey, do you want to switch for a while? I’ll move the rocks while you catch the salamanders.”\n\n“I’ve never caught a salamander before.”\n\n“You can catch one now. Are you ready?”\n\n“I think so.”\n\n“You got him! First try!”\n\n“I can’t believe it! Can I show my mom? She'll be so happy.”\n\n“I don’t know. Moms don’t like salamanders as much as we do.”\n\n“You’re right. She gets afraid easily.”\n\n“One day when I’m a policeman, I’ll come and talk to your mom and tell her not to be afraid of salamanders or policemen.”\n\n“That would be cool.”\n\n“Then we could have some ice cream.”\n\n“Ice cream is not good for your teeth.”\n\n“We need to keep our teeth white. W. H. I. T. E. Just like your house.”\n\n“You’re almost as good a speller as me.”\n\n“You taught me to spell and I taught you to catch salamanders\"\n\n\"Jimmy, I'm glad you were here today.\"\n\n\"Me too but I’m going to have to leave soon. Are you ready to let the salamanders go?”\n\n“But why can’t we keep them?”\n\n“I tried to keep them once, but they all died. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to live in a jar either.”\n\n“I guess you’re right.”\n\n“Want to meet here again tomorrow? We can catch more salamanders or pretend we are pirates or something like that.”\n\n“I’d like that. It sounds like a lot of fun.”\n\n“Bye, Jimmy.”\n\n“Bye!”\n\n* * * * * * * * * *\n\n“Jimmy, what in the world were you doing? You are covered in mud and soaked to the bone.”\n\n“I was down at the creek catching salamanders.”\n\n“You know I don’t like it when you go to the creek by yourself.”\n\n“I wasn’t by myself, Mom. I was with Ricky.”\n\n“Ricky? Who is that?”\n\n“He’s my new best friend. He and his mom and dad moved into the house next door. His dad is a dentist. He says I don’t have to be afraid of dentists.”\n\n“Next door? In the Johnson’s old house?”\n\n“Yes, he was teaching me to spell and helping me catch salamanders. He caught one on his very first try.”\n\n“Jimmy, what color is Ricky?”\n\n“What do you mean?”\n\n“I saw them move in. What color is his skin?”\n\n“He’s black, Mom. B. L. A. C. K. He taught me how to spell that.”\n\n“Maybe you shouldn’t hang around with him.”\n\n“Why? He’s my new friend.”\n\n“I don’t know. Your friends should be like you, do you understand?\n\n“I don't think so.”\n\n“We can talk more about it later. Right now go wash up for dinner.”\n\n“Okay, but wait Mom, guess what?\"\n\n“What?”\n\n“I can hang around with Ricky. He’s actually just like me. We’re both six and we both like catching salamanders. We also like to pretend to be pirates. Anyway he’s my best friend, okay?”\n\n“O-okay.”\n\n“I love you, mom.”\n\n“I love you too, Jimmy.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Did Anybody Really Live Here, by Gary Wells\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1396\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about an apartment building being demolished." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Okay, Sal – time to earn those big bucks!”\nSal looked down from his cab on the demolition crane. His partner, Ernie, was looking up at him with a broad smile and a pair of thumbs up. Sal gave a brief salute, then reached down and began to gently maneuver the lever that would send a 4-ton wrecking ball into the ghostly remains of the Pearlson Apartment building. A ten-story structure which had housed more than 500 people at its peak, the Pearlson was the last of four nearly identical housing units to be torn down.\nThe first swing came awfully close to the window that Deedee Johnson used to look through to watch the neighborhood boys play basketball while she sang along with well-worn Whitney Houston records.\nErnie climbed up to the side of the cab. Sal really preferred to be alone during this part of the operation so that he could concentrate on what he was doing.\n“Not enough juice, buddy!” Ernie cackled as he pushed his 280-pound body as far as it would go into Sal’s cabin.\nSal was silent as he watched the enormous steel weight settle into its new trajectory. With a twitch of the control lever, the swinging ball sent bricks flying through the upper floors, all the way into the kitchen where Macey Harper once burnt a cake she had tried to make for her husband to celebrate their six-month wedding anniversary.\n“Thataboy!” Ernie exclaimed. He coughed once and wiped off his chin. “Where you going to watch the game tonight?” he asked his junior partner.\n“I dunno,” Sal mumbled, his eyes transfixed on the ball suspended several stories in the air. “Usual place, I guess.”\n“Yeah,” Ernie remarked without actually agreeing to anything. “My wife wants me to stay home tonight. Her sister and her husband are coming over. My wife thinks I should spend more time with the brother-in-law. Says watching a game would help us get to know each other better.”\nThe ball smashed through the exterior wall, showering a cloud of plaster through the apartment where Anthony Siggs had hopped up and down for a full thirty minutes after getting the notice that he had received an athletic scholarship to Temple University.\n“Well, you might as well do that. He could turn out to be a decent guy.” Sal wished that would be the end of it. He knew it wasn’t.\n“Yeah, right,” Ernie scoffed. “This guy lived up near Stroudsburg for a while. I think he’s secretly a Jets fan.”\nSal chose not to respond. The two sat as silent witnesses for a minute to the demolition they were inflicting on the Pearlson.\nThe ball, which was actually more of a squat bell-shape, glanced against a support beam and crumpled the bedroom wall that had held an Eddie Murphy poster, which a teenage Darius Wexton would stand in front of while practicing his stand-up comedy routine. Then the ball swung backward, taking out the bathroom where Rhoshanda LeCray had collapsed to the floor after experiencing yet another miscarriage.\n“I was kind of hoping we could take our time here,” Ernie suggested. “I mean, not to up rack overtime – don’t get me wrong now, overtime is great…. Although the supervisor has been riding us about overtime. But you know what I mean, right? I just want to have an excuse not to get home too early.”\nSal adjusted the position of the crane and the lateral rope to send the crashing weight into another section of the building. The shadow of the ball moved over the steps where “Bet” Teasdale had been shot dead after saying she would not stop testifying as a witness to another murder. The wrecking ball then careened through what had been a hallway, the same hallway that the Groby twins would race up and down while visiting their grandmother.\n“I heard that they’re going to put up some expensive townhouses here,” Sal stated, hoping to change the conversation.\n“Yeah,” Ernie grunted. “Same old story. Out with the old, in with the overpriced.” Ernie scratched at himself while wondering why Sal always looked so oily. Take a shower once in a while, Ernie thought to himself.\nThe unstoppable machinery destroyed the doorway where a resolute Orla Watts told her daughter she had turned in the paperwork that would allow her to take her grandchildren with her. One floor below, the ceiling collapsed over the living room where Robert Atchison tearfully received the phone call that his wife’s cancer was in remission and her prospects for a full recovery looked very good.\n“You know, the only people stupid enough to pay the prices they’re going to charge for these townhouses are out-of-towners,” Ernie said matter-of-factly. “Them and suburban kids who grew up rich and now they want to stick it to their parents by moving into a neighborhood like this.”\n“Yeah, I guess,” Sal answered. He was distracted by some movement over on the periphery of the demolition site. A couple of guys just walking around close to the fence, watching the industrial proceedings. They really should go across the street, Sal thought.\n“Gentry-fication,” Ernie continued. “That’s what they call it. Tearing down what the city had given to poor people so that rich snobs can build up a place for themselves and act like they’re so cool for living in the city.”\n“Yeah, I guess,” Sal answered again.\nThe unblinking behemoth tore through another section of brick wall, erasing the space that had held the photographs of four generations of the Marlin family. Down below, lifeless scraps of building material showered over the thin stretch of grass where Mr. Henry Abbott had once attempted to grow tomatoes and peppers.\n“I suppose there’s some good to come from this,” Ernie persisted. “Nothing but a bunch of homeless people and drug dealers. That’s all this building had left in it the past couple o’ years. Now we’re going to have tax-paying citizens living here.”\nSal said nothing for a few minutes as he continued to focus on his job.\nThe steel hulk finally managed to crumple a central support beam. Tons of falling debris destroyed the three-bedroom apartment where Caerina and Rony Hapstead had held regular gatherings after Sunday services of the A.M.E. Church which they had belonged to for forty years. On the backswing, the ball removed the bedroom window that E. J. “Easy” Warren had been laying under when he realized just how much money he could make selling heroin exclusively to the white people who came down to Kensington looking to score.\n“I don’t know if it was all homeless and drug dealers,” Sal replied cautiously. “There might have still been some poor people living here. I think I heard about some protest or something about people being forced to evacuate.”\nErnie merely shrugged.\nSal looked over the rubble as he prepared the ball for another swirl through the apartment building. All he saw was metal scraps, broken glass, twisted pipes, and thousands of pieces of brick.\n“I wonder what the people who lived here were really like,” he said offhandedly.\nThe ball cracked through the timbers which had formed the flooring that separated one floor from another. Five-foot-long slivers of wood tumbled end over end into the janitor’s closet. Mr. Haley, the last custodian, had spent countless hours there poisoning his liver with cheap bourbon while wondering why his wife wouldn’t just leave him and find herself a better man. In the farthest apartment on the first floor, dust coated the kitchen wallpaper that Terrell Darnick had put up for his mother when he first came back home after 18 years in jail. As the wrecking ball returned along its pendulous path, the northeast corner of the building collapsed from a lack of support, filling in the stairwell which little Janie Tyson had used as a makeshift schoolroom for the smaller kids who had no one telling them to go to the local elementary school.\n“I dunno,” Ernie said as he checked his watch. He would, unfortunately, get home in time to watch the Eagles game with his brother-in-law. “Did anybody ever really ‘live’ here?”\nThe final sounds within the Pearlson Apartments were not laughter, crying, shouting, sighing, pistol shots or squeaky shopping-cart wheels. The final sounds were the soft whisper of dust settling and memories being erased." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Rape Is Wrong, Right?\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1122\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a bar that doesn’t serve alcohol." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trigger Warning - Multiple mentions of rape.\n\n“Adam, somehow I knew you’d be here.”\n\n“Really? This is supposed to be my secret spot. How did you find me?”\n\n“You’re on Life 360, my friend. Your wife always knows where you are. She sent me.”\n\n“Ah, that makes sense. Can I order you a drink?”\n\n“Sure, I’ll have a Sam Adams.”\n\n“I’m sorry buddy, it’s not that kind of bar. How about a ginger ale or coke with light ice?.”\n\n“Who are you and what have you done with my friend Adam?”\n\n“This is my thinking bar. Alcohol just clouds the mind. I come here when I need to contemplate, reflect, ponder.”\n\n“No wonder Jenny told me I wouldn’t like this place. Fine, gimme a coke.”\n\n“Is she still angry? She wouldn’t even look at me when I left.”\n\n“What do you expect? I’m pretty sure she thought you would change your mind at the last minute. He is your son, after all.”\n\n“He’s my son, Steve, and I love him, but some areas aren’t gray. I know it’s not a popular opinion these days but, to me, this is black and white. Right and wrong. If I was there it would have been like I was endorsing it and I just can’t give them my blessing.”\n\n“You are a dinosaur, brother. You’re fighting a fight that’s already been decided. The Supreme Court said so. Public opinion says so. Heck even Hallmark Movies say so. In a lot of ways I really understand what you’re thinking, but times are changing. People are changing. Love is love.”\n\n“So societal norms are flexible? What is right today may or may not be right five years from now?”\n\n“That’s a pretty simplistic view of it, but yes. Society evolves and you either evolve with it or you become an other.”\n\n“An other?”\n\n“Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. The kind of person who can’t be on the PTA or get into politics.. You stop getting invited to dinner parties and people start calling you the B-word.”\n\n“You mean bigot? Is that what you’re implying?”\n\n“You know I am, buddy. So unless you want your only friends to be the other B’s you hang out with at church on Sunday, I suggest you get with the program.”\n\n“Okay, if that’s what you think, can I ask you a question?”\n\n“Sure, shoot.”\n\n“Alright, but first let’s set some parameters.”\n\n“Yep, whatcha got for me?”\n\n“Well, let’s start with something I think we agree on. Do you agree that rape is an awful and morally repugnant crime?”\n\n“Absolutely, but what does that have to do with anything?”\n\n“Stick with me here. If we agree on that, then we should also be able to agree that rapists are flawed morally, spiritually, and maybe genetically. Are we still on the same page?”\n\n“I’m right there with you, Adam.”\n\n“With that in mind, what if, sometime in the future, self-identified rapists stood up for themselves, claiming they were born that way and shouldn’t be ostracized for something they can’t control.”\n\n“But…”\n\n“Wait, I’m still getting to the question.”\n\n“Ok, go on.”\n\n“In this scenario, imagine that at first society scoffs at the notion of rapists being even the slightest bit acceptable. There is almost universal opposition to this idea, but a few fringe doctors and psychiatrists publish papers contemplating theories that seem to give support to the idea that rapists might be a product of genetics, that they are born more sexually aggressive than most. They don’t necessarily endorse the idea of acceptance but they do give these people a small amount of legitimacy.”\n\n“Well, that—”\n\n“I’m not finished.”\n\n“I’m afraid to say this, but continue.”\n\n“Now because of this, some rapists and those who have contemplated rape emerge from the shadows. They are prosecuted and I’m some cases, are the victims of vigilante justice.\n\nThere is still nearly universal agreement that being a rapist is abnormal but pockets of sympathy start to emerge. Stories of otherwise good people who do selfless and noble things but who also have desires to rape start to change some minds. Small groups of people begin to support the rights of rapists, although most rapists still hide their desires and live in the shadows.\n\nThen, in Hollywood, some of these closeted rapists who own and run movie and television studios start to create characters who are rapists, but in every other way are charming and extremely virtuous. They also start to portray people who find rape morally indefensible as bigots and small- minded.\n\nNow because our children grow up using screens as a babysitter, there is a slow shift as those same children become adults. They begin to embrace this new ideology and societal ideas begin to change. A movement towards an acceptance of rapists as normal members of the community gains traction. This is accelerated as children who grow up in the new culture go into psychiatric fields. Before long the definition of rapist changes from abnormal behavior to normal.”\n\n”You’re going to a dark place, my friend.”\n\n”Maybe, but I’m not done. I’ve never been sure who decides these things, but before you know it R finds its way to the end of the increasing long list of initials. It’s inclusion making it even harder to be anti-rapist.\n\nEventually there are politicians who run for office on platforms of fairness and equality for all—including rapists. Some members of the government feel free enough to come out as rapists and eventually the first openly rapist politician is elected.\n\nFinally, an altruistic rapist decides it is unconstitutional to discriminate based on genetic sexual aggressiveness and brings a case against anti-rape laws in the whole country.\n\nOnce enough judges and justices who are raised in a culture of inclusiveness towards rapists, the tide turns and the Supreme Court, in a landmark decision, codifies, into law, the Constitutional right of all Americans to engage in rapist behavior.\"\n\n\"But Adam...\"\n\n\"Don't stop me now, I'm finally ready to ask my question, and it's this:\n\nEven though majorities of Americans now support the right to rape.\n\nEven though laws in all states now make rape legal.\n\nEven though rapists are accepted and celebrated in our society.\n\nEven though those who oppose the right to rape are now ostracized.\n\nEven though the Supreme Court has made the right to rape the law of the land.\n\nCan’t we all still agree that rape is wrong? Please tell me we can at least agree on that.”\n\n“Uh, well… I’ll tell Jenny I found you and that you’ll be home soon. When will you be home?”\n\n“I don’t know, an hour or so.”\n\n“I’ll let her know. See you later, Adam.”\n\n“Goodbye, Steve.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Film Club\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2861\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a relationship that has been greatly impacted by a movie." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They sat in the flickering darkness, watching the final credits. For two hours, Mark Dirac had shared part of the universe with Blanche, breathing in her scent, listening more to her small creaturely noises than to the Japanese movie, After Life. Two hours of bliss. Oh sure, he had worried a little about his body, about not mouth-breathing and not tongue-smacking, and not being overcome by the occasional hardening that he had learned to disperse by thinking about solving first-order differential equations. But unlike other dates, he hadn’t worried about what to say afterward. Blanche was a bona fide film buff and loved to talk film.\nIn third-year university, Mark had discovered the Foreign Film Club. For two hours every Thursday night, he could forget the pre-readings he was supposed to be doing, the overdue lab report, and the quiz that was looming next week. For two hours he could ignore his bargain-basement clothes, the patches of perma-acne that dotted his jaw and the cheapest-frame glasses that constantly slid down his greasy nose. He could forget about being small and dark and different.\nHe was transported to worlds he’d never imagined, like the Japanese cowboy delivering milk in Tampopo, or the plastic surgery grotesqueries in Brazil, or the Kalahari tribe puzzling over the heaven-sent Coke bottle in The Gods Must be Crazy. After the films he’d often heard one regular, a nerdy plain girl, with a mouth over-full of teeth, ask complete strangers what they thought of the film. Sure enough, one night she cornered him, introduced herself, and asked, “So, what did you think of that Kurosawa classic?” He blathered something—horribly banal, as he remembered it afterwards—but he added the magic words: “How about you? How was it for you?”\nHe'd guessed correctly; Blanche Dumoulin had untapped insights she was dying to share. As she spoke, her bright eyes held his, enchanting him, scarcely permitting his glance to stray to the idiosyncrasies of her mouth or her threadbare coat. He offered up more impressions—at first, with hesitation, but as she became more animated, with growing confidence.\nAfter that, they regularly shared an arm-rest on Thursdays. But he tried not to feel serious about Blanche. He’d dated a girl in first year but nothing came of it and he assumed he was boring and awkward or maybe too defensive. He’d been burned in high school. But Blanche was different; she didn’t expect him to be cool or athletic or to expertly put the move on her.\nBesides, they weren’t dating—they were just watching a film together. Sometimes having coffee afterward. Enjoying their amateur analysis. Sometimes straying to other topics.\n* * *\nMark was one of a couple dozen black students on a campus with twenty thousand students. He didn’t care, he told Blanche; he was not defined by race and he wasn’t going to let race dictate his future. In fact, the university had gone to some length to show they were “diverse” as far as campus life was concerned.\n“Oh yeah, I loved the orientation booklet. Every picture in it showed a minimum of three races,” Blanche said, placing ironic emphasis on “loved.”\nMark laughed. “Point is, they were trying.” It still surprised him when his white friends had the same skepticism about images of inclusivity that he did. It was weird to see racially diverse images all the time now. Where were those images when he was growing up?\n“Yeah, but look at our professors in Arts & Science—mostly white, mostly male,” Blanche said.\n“They say it reflects the pipeline,” he said, “I get that.”\nBlanche wrinkled her nose. “They say that for women, too. We have to ‘pump up the pipeline.’”\nMark laughed at her exaggerated delivery.\n “I try not to get too worked up about it,” he said. “Destroys the concentration.”\n“Yeah,” she said. “I just want to be me.”\n* * *\nIn mid-semester they screened the 1940 British movie Gaslight and Mark’s world began to change. In that movie, a couple moves into a house where the previous inhabitant (who owned some famous rubies) had been murdered by a burglar. The husband begins to secretly search the closed-off upper floors of the house for the rubies. Whenever he searches, his gas lamp causes the other lamps in the house to dim slightly. Whenever the wife comments on the flickering, he tells her she is imagining things.\n“Brilliant,” Mark whispered as the credits played out. Pulling their jackets on, they joined the departing throng.\n“You think so?”\n“Oh yeah. I mean, the lights blinked, and the wife witnessed that again and again. But the husband made her doubt her own senses…and question her own sanity.” In a completely different context, it was a situation all too familiar to Mark. How much should I share?\n“I’ve heard the term,” Blanche said. “‘Gaslighting’… but I didn’t really understand it until now.”\n“I’ve never heard it,” Mark said, “but I’ve lived it.”\n“Well, then, share the rubies.”\nHe laughed. “All in good time.”\n* * *\nBlanche exchanged greetings with a few other regulars while Mark walked beside her, lost in thought. He was seized with an idea for his podcast. Over the past five years, he’d recorded a few online musings under the handle Just Wanna Be Me. Lately the podcast was in a quiescent phase while Mark hit the books. But tonight, for the first time in months, he wanted to craft an episode: something to do with … gaslighting … and self-doubt. He recognized that feeling: that things weren’t right, like he couldn’t live freely but was always being watched, despite everyone’s assurance to the contrary. It had dogged him for years. And now, thanks to this film, he had a name to put to it.\nHe looked sideways at Blanche, who was now cleaning her glasses on her shirt-sleeve, and said, “Overall, what did you think?”\n“She was way too submissive,” she said, opening a dialog about gender dynamics of the 1940s film couple.\nWalking back to her residence while debating, Mark noticed a police cruiser drive by. Speak of the devil. He casually suggested to Blanche that they cut across a nearby park, but didn’t say why.\nThey arrived at the student residence, an Edwardian brick behemoth, and stepped inside. He longed to put his arms around her.\n“Same time next week?”\n“Mm, for sure.”\nShould I kiss her? He leaned a little closer but she did not. Briefly he regretted discussing heavy topics instead of keeping it light. Jokes about campus food and boring profs. But dammit, no; they were ideas people.\n* * *\nA week later, cruiser 10-25 appeared again, right after Film Club. It had rained, and this time Blanche resisted the detour through the park, saying, “My shoes…. What kind of wilderness nut are you?” She laughed but was clearly averse to the route.\n“I guess you’re right.” Mark looked ruefully at his vintage brogue Oxfords—his graduation pair that Mom had picked up for two bucks from the church bazaar. Blanche, queen of vintage style, nodded approvingly.\n“I should tell you why I wanted to take a different route,” he said as they moved back to the sidewalk. “It might sound a little paranoid, so promise me you won’t judge.”\n“Promise.”\nHis heart began to race. “Cruiser 10-25 followed us last week. And guess what’s waiting over there across the street tonight.”\n“Are you sure?” Blanche said. “Why follow us, of all people?” Her laugh sounded mildly exasperated, like she had lost a mitten.\nMark hid his disappointment. He wanted more than a girlfriend; he wanted an ally. “It’s me they’re keeping an eye on,” he said.\n“You? Why you?” Her expression ricocheted between concern and puzzlement. “Seriously, what crime—”\n“Have you ever heard of carding?”\n“Carding?”\n“Yeah. They ask me what I’m up to and write it down on a little card,” he said.\n“A card?”\n“Yeah, like a little recipe card,” he said. “Sounds pretty harmless, I know. But it’s the implied suspicion. You know: gaslighting.” He tried to act nonchalant, because he didn’t want to come across like that movie wife who became a basket case.\n“That’s so… odd,” she said.\n“I know.” He said airily, “Likely my imagination.’\n“No rubies here,” she said.\nAt the residence, Mark and Blanche shared a kiss. The parting kisses were becoming more fevered as their friendship deepened, but chastity prevailed. They were both scholarship students bent on escaping dirt-poor backgrounds. When Mark stepped back outside, cruiser 10-25, which had been a block away, was now right outside the main door of residence. Pretending not to see it, he strolled to the bus stop, where eleven other students waited, and made it home without incident.\nThat night he pushed aside his particle physics textbook and recorded “The Cops Are Gaslighting Me… You Might Be Next.” He had only nine subscribers—one of whom was maybe his mother—but it felt good to get it off his chest.\n* * *\nAfter Film Club the next week, Blanche was describing Eisenstein’s theory of montage when she noticed cruiser 10-25 pull up beside them. She stopped mid-sentence, spun around, and rapped on the window. Two officers were inside.\n“Hey, this is getting real old real fast,” she said loudly.\n“Excuse me?” said the officer.\n“You guys followed us last week,” she said, “and now you’re following us this week. In my books, that’s harassment.”\n“In your books,” said the officer.\n“Har-ass-ment,” said the other officer.\nMark heard the subtle mockery in the inflections of their syllables. In this university town, the ordinary citizens had subtle ways to emphasize the students were there temporarily, scarcely being tolerated.\n“Yeah. And I don’t appreciate it,” Blanche said. Her voice was harsh, not unlike the voice of Mark’s mom that time she’d laid down the law to Principal Wyatt.\n“Is that so,” said the officer, eyeing Mark as if measuring a rival.\nShe was just getting warmed up. “Furthermore, I sit on the student council, and if I have to put forward a motion about police harassment, the whole campus will be up at arms,” Blanche said.\n“‘Put forward.’ Didja hear that, Reggie?” the officer said to his colleague.\nThe harsh light of the streetlamp made Blanche look paper-white. Mark’s hands looked blacker than usual, like he’d been absorbed into the shadows. Omigod, the last thing he needed was a couple of hours in the klink the night before his mid-term. He touched Blanche’s elbow.\n“This is part of our regular patrol. We’re just trying to keep all you students safe and protected. You think about that next time you call 911, okay now?” The officer rolled up the window and the cruiser pulled away.\n“Welcome to Gaslighting 101,” Mark said to Blanche. He mimicked the husband in the film: “What do you mean, ‘the light dims’? You are imagining it, sweetheart. I just want to keep you safe.” His pretend-English accent was so dreadful Blanche laughed.\nWhen they leaned in for the good-night kiss, they felt strangely thrilled by the evening’s events, and the kiss went on and on. She pulled away long enough to text her room-mate, telling her to high-tail it to Study Hall until midnight. Blanche then took Mark up to her room—despite his pro-forma protests—where they made urgent mad love.\n* * *\nAt ten minutes to midnight, Mark left her residence, took the bus home, and threw himself in the shower. Afterwards, he sat cross-legged on his futon, rocking and staring at his trembling hands. His senses were overwhelmed by the encounter with Blanche. I’ve ruined a good thing. I’m gonna get hooked and she will run from the strangeness that is my life.\nOn his desk the differential equations textbook lay open on the page where he’d been plugging away at odd-numbered questions before heading out to Film Club. He grabbed the book and stared. The math symbols floated in a blur on a sea of white.\nI can’t get sidetracked again. Everyone knew what happened to Tiger Woods… Bill Cosby… Wilt Chamberlain… Everyone would say yeah right, Mark Dirac was acting true to form.\nWith regard to dating, Mark had been around the block and up and down the alley. Puberty struck hard in Grade 10, the year he’d joined Glee Club, when two boys and twenty girls collaborated in the stage production of the Addams Family Musical. He went girl-crazy for months as the cast leapt and sang. Tight leotards, sweating bodies, pulsating rhythms. His stamina took him through hours of rehearsals for showstoppers like “When You're An Addams,” “Crazier Than You,” and “Death is Just Around the Corner.” Afterward, he and several Glee-tarians sneaked off to meet far from the watchful eyes of the teachers and dance coach. They “rehearsed” even more, making up raunchy lyrics like “Hornier Than You” and “Sex is Just Around the Corner.” His marks, however, shriveled.\nHis mom was furious, especially when he got the clap and she had to pay for rounds of antibiotics. “No drug plan, and God knows that pharmacist thinks I’m a fallen woman too!” \nWorst of all was when he overheard the girls in Glee Club. His ears burned as the girls recounted the sordid details of the boys they’d been with in their “Taste the Rainbow” club, and they weren’t talking about color variety in a bag of Skittles, either.\nThen graffiti appeared on his locker. “Small & dark,” someone had written, and Mark doubled over, sick with shame. He taped a poster over it; the poster was torn down the next day. He never knew if it was his build or his “equipment” the whole damn school was laughing over. “Small & dark” was not obscene and it was not hate speech, Principal Wyatt clarified, so he didn’t authorize a paint-over for weeks.\nFor the rest of high school, Mark had sworn off girls. He quit Glee Club and every other extra-curricular activity. He funneled his passion into mathematics and okay, maybe a few steamy videos. But math was the best. There were rules—and rules for the rules. And math helped explain physics, which would soon put men on Mars, very far away from Venus. Soon Mark was in love, in a totally different way, and he emerged dusty and victorious from the tumult of high school.\nTonight Mark stared at the differential equations until the symbols came back into focus. He moved the mic closer. He pictured Blanche there in his room, lounging on his futon, glasses off, hair undone, waiting for him to explain himself. Why he had insisted the lights be off. Why he had been brusque. Why he had started to cry.\nFirst, there’s a little something else I need to get off my chest. It was long overdue but tonight he felt he had achieved some perspective on “Taste the Rainbow,” or at least enough distance that he wouldn’t sound angry. He switched on the mic and recorded the episode: “Am I Just Another Notch on Your Belt?”\n* * *\nMark didn’t want to be a cad, although he was unclear on what exactly that was. He left a message the next day asking Blanche to call. She texted back, “Cramming. Homer. Same time Thursday?” With a film-club friend, Mark figured, maybe some things were better experienced in the dark together and then left to marinate for a week.\nThe next Thursday they met at the wicket and skipped the film. They went straight to grab a coffee and brioche at the Sleepless Goat. Amid the mismatched over-stuffed furniture Mark was struck with a sudden shyness. At first they were tongue-tied, which he took as a good sign, since it was opposite to Glee-tarian. They couldn’t commiserate about profs because they had zero classes in common: Blanche majored in Classics and his double-major was math and physics. Instead they recapped favorite scenes in Tampopo and Brazil and Gods Must Be Crazy and also Gaslight. Conversationally, they were treading water.\nThen Blanche took a deep breath and said, “So, are the cops always tailing you?”\nCops. She usually says officers, he recalled. “Nah, it comes and goes,” he said. Too much weirdness was a turn-off. Although, come to think of it, she had led the charge on cruiser 10-25.\n“The university is trying to be more inclusive,” he said, “but the town police are another matter.” He was sure they did racial profiling. And they certainly were not “color blind” as far as doing random checks. In the summer, when he drove his mother’s ho-hum sedan to work, Mark often looked up in his rear-view mirror and saw a cruiser. He varied his route every day yet still, a cruiser tailed him at least once a week. “I’ve put up with a lot. I kept thinking I was over-reacting.”\n“Gaslighting,” she said.\n“So you understand what happened the other night?” Mark said. “Why I wanted the other route?”\nBlanche sipped her coffee. “Okay. So you weren’t trying to wreck my shoes,” she said. “My bed, however, was another matter.”\nThey smiled at each other a good long time.\nThe End" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Reassuring Light\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2308\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character discovering a surprising strength in either themself or another." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I placed a hand on my chest as I looked out of the bay window. There was a light that shone brightly, and I couldn't help but feel connected to its magnetic pull. What was it about this light that took away my anxiety, fear, and worries? Before I knew it, I was no longer in the structure I called home. I was standing in a tropical rainforest, as though I had floated on a cloud to get out of its confinement.\nThere was a translucent waterfall and different animals of all types. I heard the faint laughter of a little girl in the distance, and quickly the light seemed to be headed in the direction of the laughter. I began to feel a bit of anxiety and panic emerge, but just as soon as I felt the tension, the light shone much brighter, and I felt like I was in a place of solace.\nNot wanting to be left alone in the dark rainforest, I followed the light inquisitively, but not without some apprehension. The walk towards the laughter was quite long. It seemed like I was walking for hours, but the bright light kept me moving. Eventually, the light came to a halt, and I could see a girl that had to be no more than five years old. She was exquisite, with a head full of curly hair that went to her ankles. She had hazel eyes and deep brown skin. She was so beautiful she didn't look real.\nWhen she looked up at me, it was as if she felt bad for me. Like she knew that something was not right. She lifted her small delicate hand and reached out to touch my own. When our hands connected, it was as if a spark of electricity had been created, making a loud vibration. The ground beneath us began to shake like that of an earthquake, and before I knew it, the light had dissipated, and the little girl was gone. I heard a loud and terrifying ringing resonating throughout the rainforest.\nWithout the comfort of the light, I felt the anxiety, the fear, and the worry all come back to me. But the ringing would not stop, as if it would never come to an end. Before I knew it, I felt dizzy, I began to sway, and suddenly I was in a state of unconsciousness, nothing but pitch black surrounding me.\n***\n\nI woke up to my alarm clock going off and covered in a pool of sweat. Why my alarm clock was going off at three in the morning was very bizarre to me. I had had lucid dreams for the past month, and it was beginning to concern me. For the past month, my anxiety had worsened, and a constant fear that something just wasn't right kept creeping excessively into my mind. What was off? What could be going wrong? I thought to myself.\nAs I lay in the bed at 3 am in the morning, unable to fall back asleep, I decided to go take a long hot shower to distract me from the uneasy feeling. Once I was in the shower, I tried to focus on my breathing. Releasing any negative energy and thoughts that wanted to coexist in my mind.\nI allowed the hot steamy water to wash over me until I had used it all up. When I got back to my bedroom, I oiled my body, put on a fresh pair of clothing, and crawled back into bed. I was exhausted, but I was still unsettled. For the longest time, I was not entirely content with my life. Like something was missing. Like there was a missing piece to a puzzle I desperately wanted to figure out.\nSince I could not doze off to sleep, I checked my phone. I had a few missed calls from an unknown number when I looked. I didn't overthink it, that is, until I checked my voicemails. When I listened to the first voicemail, it was silent at first, but then I heard frantic breathing and a loud piercing ringing that seemed never-ending. I quickly hung the phone up, chills running down my spine.\n\"Andrea, are you okay in there?\" I heard my mother call out from the other side of the door.\n\"Um, yes, just having some trouble sleeping.\"\nAfter I said that, my mother gently opened the door. Looking around the darkroom until she spotted me.\n\"Is it okay if I come in? \"She asked\nI really didn't feel like my mother coming into the room. I felt uneasy, and being in my solitude was the only thing I wanted that early in the morning. I was a teenage girl struggling to love who I was. My low self-esteem was something that was eating away at me, and I felt like it was ruining my life.\nI wanted to have the confidence I saw women have on social media. I was the shy, awkward girl that no one talked to. I watched my younger sister grow past me in so many ways. She was the outspoken one. She could command attention and was not afraid to speak her truth. I desperately wanted that for myself because I was suffocating in this thing called life.\n\"Sure,\" I said anyway, knowing that she would still come in even if I said no.\n\"Andrea, are you okay?\" She asked, with a hint of concern in her groggy voice\n\"Just another nightmare.\" I sighed, not really wanting to go into details about the mysterious call.\n\"What was it about? You know you can talk to me about whatever it is, right? \"\n\"Yes, mom, I do. It's just I don't know how to.\"\n\"What do you mean? Just say what is on your mind. I am your mother. Why can't you just feel comfortable talking to me? We have been through this, Andrea. I am not a monster. I won't bite'' she said\n\"What is really going on with you? I am very concerned. You have been acting as though I am a stranger, and all of us in this family are strangers to you. You aren't the energetic, bubbly girl you used to be as a kid. I try to understand, but you leave me with no answers or understanding. \"How is it that I can help you if you don't talk about it?\" She asked\n\"I-I don't know,\" I answered.\n\"Well, when you are ready to talk, I will be here.\" She said, and after that, she got up, left the room, and shut the door without another word.\nI couldn't help this strong feeling of shame and guilt. What was wrong with me, I didn't have all the answers, but my family made me feel like I was the problem. I wanted to be free from what seemed to be a curse.\nMy shyness. My lack of confidence.\nLater that day, my parents, sister, and I went to a family cookout at my aunt Tiffany and Uncle Robert's home. I, of course, didn't want to go. I felt bad about the dreams and how my mother talked to me earlier that morning. My extended family was full of life and knew how to have a good time.\nWhile we were there, they had the music blasting, and family members were playing card games and socializing. For the majority of the time I sat with my sister Eliza who paid no attention to me, while she was busy texting away on her phone.\nAfter awhile I needed to use the restroom and take some time for myself. So, I left my sister who did not even notice I had gone.\nAs I was on my way to the restroom, I overheard my mother talking to a few of my aunts in the kitchen, across the hall from the bathroom.\n\"You know, Andrea hardly talks to anyone. She doesn't have any friends, and it is very concerning to me.\" She spoke\n\"Hmm, well, you know we come from a family that says what we feel and what is on our mind. But just give her some time. She may grow out of it.\" My aunt Tiffany said\n\"You know, all I ask is that she communicates with us more, at least like her sister. We have never had these problems with Eliza, but Andrea just stays in her room, locked up like she is in prison. I want her to be able to talk to us.'\" My mother explained\nI felt so bad about what I overheard my mother saying. I began to feel tears welling up in my eyes. I wanted to scream. I wanted to get as far away from everyone as possible. Was I that much of an outcast? I felt like I had no one that understood me. I felt alone in a home filled with people having a good time.\nSuddenly, I began to hear a faint ringing in my ears. I felt uneasy and like I was about to vomit up everything I forced down earlier that evening.\n\nMy vision began to get blurry, but I saw a little girl in the corner of my eye.\n\nShe looked like the same girl I saw in my dream. The one I had been having for months. I felt the anxiety and fear all come back to me, and I began to panic. But then I saw that same reassuring light. It was in the distance, and I began to follow it.\nI heard the girl laughing again, and I continued to follow the light. Like before, it seemed like I was walking for hours. I finally spotted the young girl who was in one of the bedrooms of the house. Strangely the dark room she stood in looked like my exact bedroom from when I was a child.\n\nShe stopped laughing once I saw her again, then she touched my hand. Once our hands connected this time, a spark of light shined throughout the entire room.\nI looked at her as the light shined and realized that she was my younger self. She had the same hazel eyes like mine, long curly hair, and deep brown skin as mine. I gasped, but then she squeezed my hand gently.\n\"Look into the light.\" She spoke\nI listened to her, and as she squeezed my hand gently, I began to have a vision. Here I was, my present self-standing with my younger self, and now in the distance, I could see a vision of my future self.\nI was talking. I was giving a speech. I spoke so eloquently and vibrantly. The crowd was captivated by my words. They clapped and laughed at the things that I said. Most of all, it seemed as if this audience could relate to everything I was saying.\nI was speaking words of wisdom, and it seemed as though some of the audience members were crying as I gave my speech.\n\"I had to realize that I, Andrea Sophia Johnson, am not like everyone else.\" I looked at my future self as she spoke to the crowd\n\"I now realize that we are all different and, one cannot live their life trying to fit into the norms of society. We are all made to be different. What is life if everyone were the same?\" My future self spoke\n\"If we were all loud, none of us would ever get a word in, but if some people take the time to listen, we could all come to an understanding. We are made to balance each other out. I stand before all of you here to say. You are not alone; your mental health is important, and we can get through this thing called life together. That is if we take the time to understand.\"\nI happened to see my whole family in the crowd as I spoke, and my mother smiled a bright smile.\nI then saw another vision of me. I was in therapy; I was talking about my anxiety -something I dared not tell my parents about before. I was getting help. I was getting the very help that I was too embarrassed to talk to my mom about.\n\"Andrea?\" I heard my mom call from behind me. Are you okay?\n Suddenly I realized that I was no longer in the room with the little girl or my younger self. I was standing in the kitchen where my mother talked to my aunts earlier.\n\"Yes, mom, I am fine.\"\nShe looked at me intently.\n\"Really, honey, I just want you to know I really love you, and I am just scared when I see you go through these cycles.\nI looked at her for a moment. Then said\n\"Mom, I think I am ready. I am ready to talk.\"\nLater that evening, when we got back home, I finally talked to my mother about my anxiety. I talked about how my anxiety made me feel trapped. How it made me feel like I was suffocating. And I also explained to her how she made me feel with some of the ways she approached the situation in the past. I was nervous to tell this to my mother, but she looked at me with comforting eyes. She understood to my surprise.\n\nHoney, I am so sorry.\" She said, \"I didn't know this was what you were going through, but I promise you will get through this. We are going to get you the help you need. Andrea, you are stronger than you think.\" She smiled\n\nAt that moment, once she said that I saw the magnetic light shine outside my window again. My anxiety had dissipated. I felt the comfort of the reassuring light.\nI looked at her and smiled.\n\"I Know.\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Tigers That Came For Tea\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2880\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone looking for a sign in a dark sky." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "[Contains mystery meat, groping, and violence.]\n\nI often think of the beasts that came to our window.\nThe day I saw the first beast, I had had been standing at the sink washing dishes. My mind wandered, as was often the case. My main illumination was the bulb over our kitchen window. It flickered with each gust of wind that rattled the glass.\nI’d lost count of the days since I last saw the sun—flecked with spots, like roasted chestnuts, sinking behind the mountains. The darkness had settled heavy as damp wool across the valley.\nBack then, we still had rolling blackouts. We could charge our phones to play music. We could even listen to news programs from the East Coast. Such a luxury!\nThe water ran hot over my cold-reddened hands. An astronaut was on NPR describing the veil covering the earth. Half listening, I thought absently of Mai, recalling the scent of her lemon shampoo and the dimple that formed in her cheek when she laughed.\nMai ran off, chasing some foolhardy dream of owning a yogurt shop in Anchorage. She never once looked back, but still lingers like a ghost.\nDrying my hands, I glanced at the sky through the window, an expanse of bruised plum merging with the jagged tree line. A flash in the corner of my eye pulled my gaze left—a fleeting movement, there and gone, playing at the edges of visibility like a ghost glimpsed from the corner of my vision. I pressed my palm to the glass and stared hard into the inky darkness. Was it just a trick of the light? Could it be a commotion in the forest by my farm, or the return of astronauts to Earth?\nThe grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight, or noon, I wasn’t sure. Its heavy bongs echoed through the hollow chambers of the old farmhouse. Since I couldn’t sleep, I put on my boots and jacket and went out into the night.\nI took the short path towards the woods, twirling my axe to keep my hands active. The air was so frigid it gripped my lungs, each breath merging with the frigid air in bursts of fog. The snow-crusted road wound behind the house. I followed its bend toward the hill’s crest. There were plenty of felled trees at the top.\nThe wind bit through gaps in my jacket, needling my skin with frozen pins. I trudged on, the beam of my flashlight cutting a thin swath through the murk—a lone firefly against the void. I had to stop to catch my breath, leaning on a gnarled birch tree. The tree’s bone-white limbs gleamed, coated with ice that glimmered like diamond crust. I slid low into its chilled trunk, curling my arms around legs, inhaling the crisp scent of snow and spruce resin.\nIn the stillness from the forest’s depths, I heard beasts. Their yipping laughter unfurled, wending through the naked birches like wisps of smoke. A chill moved up my arms to the short hairs on my neck and sent a shiver through my bones that had nothing to do with the cold.\nThe sound came again, closer, and carried on it, something else, a word, a voice, my name, more laughing. I stood, axe ready.\nLong ago, Mai had told me of the boudas—hyenas posing as men. They hunt and talk to each other, laughing in the forests near her parents’ village.\nIt was a cold and endless night in Charm, as it was in Mai’s home in Ras Dashen, as it was in London, as it was in Osaka.\nI crunched through the tall drifts toward the trees, guided by the strange cackles. The ash drifted like moths casting shifting shadows in my light. Pushing into the branches, heavy with dark snow, I heard the crunch of paws on the hard pack. I stood still, back against a yew, its needles brown and dead.\nA dark shape emerged, lean and glistening. We stared at each other for a long while, its lantern eyes reflecting my dull yellow light, and mine no doubt mirrored the inky void. A breath plumed from its muscular feline jaws, dissipating between us. Then, with a snuffling huff, it turned and loped soundlessly back into the forest depths.\nI crouched, frozen in place for several minutes.\nDeep in the marrow of my bones, I felt a perceptible shift taking place, a seed of change planted in the ever-winter.\nIn the sky, as bright as my memories of stars, something new caught my eye—a stretched light on the horizon, peeking above the mountains. A cracked-smile moon had risen to light my way after so long in darkness. I let out a long breath and watched it frost and dissolve.\nMy hands ached. I let them relax around the handle and spun the blade again as I stood.\nThe blanket of ash soon put the moon’s rich light back to bed. I took the first steps down the hill with a renewed sense of urgency. No wood today. Let the creature hunt in silence.\n*\nI stand at the window, peering into the gloom that has gripped the world for half a year. The sun is now a welcome, reddish glow on most days.\nThe roof’s groaning woke me; dust has built up again. If it were to rain, or, more likely, the snow melts, it would add another layer of rock. We lost the barn roof to the same hidden danger. It had been damaged, so it served as a useful warning.\n…So many tasks to attend.\nMy thoughts drift as easily as the swirling motes dancing in the lamplight.\nI think of Mai’s eyes, black, but hazel-flecked, and how in kinder times they shone in sunlight.\nHow we miss the sun.\nMai sits by the stove, her skin stretched tight as canvas over her weary bones. I step forward to kiss her cheek three times and say “dinanesh.”\nA pot of oatmeal bubbles thick and gray.\n“Dinner’s ready,” Mai calls, but her voice sounds far away—through the muffling ash and snow, far beyond the closed door.\nI blink and she is gone, yet still the oats steam on.\nElise shuffles in, her form passing through where her mother had been. “You dream again, eh?” she scolds, with painted lips curled into an innocent smile. Her cheekbones cut sharper each morning as our meals become lean.\n“Don’t smoke in the house,” I say.\nElise turns for the door.\n“Don’t go outside, the boudas.”\n“Eh? Inside, outside?”\n“I said, don’t go outside.”\nShe shrugs and walks to the door, puts on her jacket, then stops.\n“Just put your head out the window.”\n“Eh? It’s too cold.” She slips on my boots. “Yours are warm.”\nThe tapping returns, claws scratching fine splinters from our thinning door.\nShe looks through the keyhole. “They’re hungry and stubborn, huh?”\nI clutch my rifle numbly and see her smile. She pulls the boot straps tight around her legs. Loose amber curls twist with her energetic movements; the fire lighting her dark features. So much like Mai. Energetic, I can’t hold her tight. Even before her teens, it was impossible to slow her down; she does as she wants.\nElise looks again into the depths. She whispers poetry in a language long forgotten, the words a gift from her mother. Then she cracks open the door, stretching the chain, and puffs out a long breath.\nThe cigarette filters the dust from Crazy Peak, Granite Peak, Hollowtop, and what was once Bozeman.\n“You’re too young to smoke.”\n*\nI’d lost count of the buckets of ash I’d hauled. Time was adrift in the repetition of work.\nMy mind rolls through sunny days and luscious warmth. Someday, long ago, I was warm, likely when I was talking a vacation. Warmth has become a foreign thing, like reading about saunas in Scandinavia.\nOnly books could tether my mind from wandering too far adrift. Though they provided no answers to the questions mulled in the lacunae between sentences—so I read the same paragraphs in tightening circles, grasping for phantoms in the periphery of thought. \nI look at the glow of dawn, just beyond the mountains, and wonder about when the mountains were lifted into the air. What a wonderful sight that must have been.\nBoulders the size of Volkswagens landed as far away as Lincoln. The news from west of us stopped soon after. I felt a slight tremor about six minutes after the eruption. Sometime later, a gale rattled the windows and toppled a tree onto the barn.\nThe tree had grown, spread its seed, then frailty took over. Then, all it took was a super volcano near Yellowstone and poof—dead tree.\nHunters materialize from the orange-tinged murk, their voices muted. They sound eager, two new guys and the old fella who ran the gas station some years back. He was pulling a sled.\nHe only shows up when he has excess game to trade. Three snowstorms had passed since the last visit.\nThe older man coughs from the cement in his lungs.\nWe’ll all be the same soon, I think.\n“Got enough left to fill your bellies,” croaks the leader, baring his broken teeth. He barely stifles another coughing fit. The two new guys drop a fresh kill, something large as a wolf, lean, white bellied. The leader flourishes his arms like a magician at the child’s sled he’s pulling, covered in satchels.\nWe exchange a few initial words, voices muted under the weight of the soupy ether hanging over us.\nInside, they crowd greedily around the meager fire, hands extend to the flames as if attempting to grasp some hidden warmth from the logs.\nThey pull mysterious bundles from their satchels, each swaddled in cloth. All stained the rusty hue of dried blood, reeking of iron tang and secrets best kept unknown. Cuts of flesh, some furred, others disturbingly hairless and pink.\nThe leader’s eyes glint, mouth a tight grin. Small, ashen puddles have formed around their boots. “Meat’s still scarce,” the old leader says. “We could trade these cuts for fresher stock if you have any animals left in your barn.”\nSomething in his hoarse timbre hints at hungers beyond butcher’s needs as the bartering starts.\n“No livestock,” I say. “We have oats, some corn feed for my long-gone guineafowl.” I point to a bag of feed by the door. “The last can of peaches had gone a week ago now; our supplies went quick.”\nElise packs two shopping bags with the pink meat. Her hands tremble enough to make the plastic crinkle.\nI notice the leader scratch his head and look towards our kitchen. It hits me—I didn’t mention the peaches on his earlier visits.\n“Two packs and three cigs,” the hollow-eyed one says. He was new to the hunt. Also, he’s been leering at Elise the whole time. She took a step back from the hunters.\n“Three packs, and any tinned fruit ya’ got,” says the leader.\nElise’s voice shook almost as much as her hands. “That’s too much, huh? I have a spare phone cable and a charged power bank?” She puts the meat on the floor, ready to get the cable and charger.\nThe lead hunter grunts.\nShe just confirmed we still had canned fruit, probably didn’t realize.\nIf stripped down to basic survival, what really matters—loved ones, acts of kindness, living each day to the fullest? And in this case, cigarettes as currency. What mattered before no longer does.\nI look past the hunters to the ruddy sky, hoping the leader would stick to a simple barter. Sweat runs down my jaw.\nAs we carry on, and age like that fallen tree, the mind wanders down long avenues. It gets harder to sort reality from dreams. All that remains is praying the morning light might lift this veil and lead one home.\nThe ash had been dark as tar. It took a week to spin its dark band around the northern hemisphere. I remember waiting for it. I had sat drowsing over a children’s book, scarcely able to focus. Outside, tendrils curled against the glass, fogging the landscape beyond. The sky went pink, then red, then the new dark rolled in. The only dark for months.\nWe knew to expect it. Shops were emptied, people trampled. The government leaders disappeared into some mountain bolt hole with their families.\nThat was long ago. Time had no grip here. Days bled seamlessly, each hour melting into the next.\nThe older man scratches his crotch, then sniffs his finger. “Cigarettes or somefin’ better than bird-feed.”\nMy skin tingles under spectral fingertips, tracing memories of doors left unlocked in kindness. A naïve trust. Dread trickles down my breastbone in beads of oily sweat.\nI could no longer meet their eyes, seeing in their glare things best unsaid.\nMai told me, long ago, a hyena tried to get the other animals to kill Adam and Eve. But a dog warned the humans of the plot, so they escaped from the garden.\nLater, hyenas took to tricks. They became not just a threat, but a lowly, vile one. Families turned on each other as the hyena-men told lies. Old friends now believed the other hid a den of boudas in their home.\nI imagine the hunters laughing on the forest edge, calling my name, eyes flickering in the night, hunting Elise.\nThe hollow-eyed one grabs her. “There are other ways to pay, ma’am” His grubby, blood-flecked hands leave a smear on Elsie’s chest as she pulls away.\nShe freezes, then glances at my rifle.\nEyes darting, the hunters circle with a lupine hunger that waters my mouth with dread.\nThe hollow-eyed man spins and kicks my rifle towards the third hunter. An ugly runt of a man.\nElise chirps in fright.\nI freeze, then raise my hands.\nFunny what one thinks about while people are ransacking your tinned food and groping your daughter.\nI thought Mai would know what to do. She was the practical one.\nI was out of place—a semi-intellectual on a ruined farm in the endless winter. My only job before this was as a museum tour guide—where I first met Mai. One thing led to another, and we had a child on a bird farm in Ohio.\nThose days, I’d follow her anywhere. Most of our choices were simply an odd mix of culture shock, misunderstandings, and alchemical passion—on a budget.\nBut what would she do?\nAll I could think about was how in the early days, she would ask, “How does such-and-such invention work?” The attention was addictive. I bled information, commentary, and half-remembered stories. When I ran dry, she told me about her parents’ small village where the houses melt into the countryside.\nThe leader found our store of canned meat and let out a whistle. “I’d ‘ave traded them bags for half these.”\nMy skin went cold.\nI couldn’t watch what hollow-eyes was doing. Elise’s muffled screams scare me more than the gun. My head was still spinning, looking for something to say, some action to do, but instead my mind flitted. The short one lowers the rifle to watch hollow-eyes.\nI take a step.\nThe blow crunches against my skull like thunder, sparks scattering across my vision, pain a crimson bloom.\nI fell.\nWeightless…\nI’d often looked up to the starless sky, wondering if the Astronauts had bothered to return to this newly dark planet. Are they, now, looking up, expecting stars?\nMy nose hits the ground with a crunch.\nI think the astronauts would return to the poisoned water and black sky of home. Why suffer death from starvation when you could simply hop in the return vehicle, and with a flash—you’re on the way to land?\nMy head rolls to face the fire.\nThe atmosphere would have scorched the ablative shields. Sacrificial shields, made to burn—like us. We live in impermanence, even in the most stable conditions.\nIt’s amazing how worlds can end, or transform rapidly, with the safeguards of the past erased. Life is about adjusting perspective on what endures through change. How long had we been marooned here, slowly sweeping, disposing, and breathing Bozeman, Montana?\nMaybe we are the astronauts, spinning at incredible speeds, unable to study the stars, seeing only the flickers from the shield below us flame away through small panels of thick glass.\nAnd what phantoms—faceless, formless—drift also, surfing the burning tide that swallowed states whole? Only the ash knows.\nWould looking at the stars still offer escape, hope, or answer to basic questions about life’s mysteries?\nI want to live long enough to see the stars return.\nThe scratching at the window peeled me away from my dream, an intrusion cracking through the murk.\nElise’s phone screamed to life with the backlog of emergency messages. The old hunter drops it on the table.\nThe scratching continued, urgent.\nGroggily, I step to the window, half expecting more hooded figures. But something uncanny and cat-like was peering through the mire-streaked windowpane. Two figures outside the window, their outlines blurred and molting at the edges like unstable dreams.\nThe tigers have come for tea.\nI opened the window and let them in.\nThe hyenas no longer laugh in the 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: Bathtub Shine\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2624\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who decides to give themselves, or someone else, a fashion makeover." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Note: This story contains mentions of race and violence.\nHarlem, 1926\nI looked dazzling.\nMy heavily made-up face and short finger-curls made me glamorous and chic, the cosmetics catapulting my looks from plain to striking.\n“Sienna, you’re up,” Iva, the manager of the dancers, told me as I applied my scarlet lipstick, the final touch for the effect I wanted.\nA full-figured, dark-skinned woman, Iva hailed from Charleston. For some reason, she refused to cut or straighten her long, course hair, and instead opted for styles from the previous decade and now out of fashion for her mass of coils. She often donned extravagant, floor length silk gowns that revealed her ample bosom. Again, her stylistic choices went against the trends, but suited her perfectly. With just a glance, her ornate attire reminded our customers she wasn’t a regular club girl.\n“I’m not ready yet,” I replied, and smacked my lips together, admiring myself in the vanity’s mirror.\nThe bright red on my plump lips contrasted against my brown skin, the carmine color instantly drawing attention to my mouth. The black taffeta robe I wore concealed my gold rhinestone brassiere that pushed up my breast, and matching short skirt that’d be sure to have all eyes on me.\nIn my former life, I would’ve been aghast to wear such a thing, but I had grown to accept the scantily clad clothing as regular. \nSnatching up my pearl jewelry and white gloves, I quickly threw my accessories on, glancing one last time at myself, before standing and grabbing my gold and white masquerade mask. Placing it would complete my makeover and protect my identity.\nTonight, Lloyd had tasked me with my first solo dance. I intended a memorable performance, as the highlight of the night. I didn’t want a single thing out of place.\nThough, it wasn’t as if I could afford to have an inadequate performance. This job was my only source of income, and if there was even a slight chance he wasted his money employing me, Lloyd would let me go. So, my options were to do such a fantastic job that customers begged for more, or risk losing my livelihood.\nThinking about my boss and former friend, a pang went through my heart. Working at his club was a saving grace for me, but at the same time, my life had become complicated in so many ways doing the short time I’d been dancing here.\nAnd, out of everything, losing his friendship was the most devasting thing for me. I’ve often heard that one shouldn’t allow their personal and professional lives to intersect, but I disregarded the advice and learned that lesson the hard way.\n“I’m ready,” I announced, setting the elaborate mask on my face, trying to clear my head.\nIf heavy thoughts burdened my mind, it might reflect in my dancing.\nNormally, I just applied heavy makeup, and hoped the speakeasy’s dim lighting provided enough cover for me to remain anonymous in my day-to-day life. But tonight, I would be front and center, with the spotlight literally on me.\n And despite working in a place of little legality, I had no desire to deal with the law; it was the absolute last thing I needed.\n“Took you long enough,” Iva muttered as she gestured for me to follow her.\nI rolled my eyes at her moodiness, but did as signaled, hot on her heels as she exited the dressing room and walked down the hallway leading to the stage. I stopped a few feet away from the curtain concealing us as she pushed it aside and stepped onto the club’s stage to introduce me.\n“Ladies and Gentlemen,” she boomed, her southern drawl heavy as she extolled my sultriness, ending with, “May I present to you, Ms. Walker!”\nThe audience offered polite applause as the jazz band’s trumpeter, Rollins, began playing a B-flat solo. I allowed his solo for a few seconds, until I heard the drum symbols sound, aka my cue to come out. I strutted to the curtain and gathered my robe until my right leg was revealed. I stuck that leg onto the stage first, my heart pounding as I heard a wolf whistle or two.\nBooze was flowing freely, so the crowd’s reaction would be completely unfiltered. If I did poorly, they would quickly let me know.\nTaking in a breath, I shoved the heavy red curtain aside and stepped fully into everyone’s view. I began moving my hips to the beat as the rest of the band started to play their instruments. Untying my robe as I swiveled my hips, I wiggled out of the garment and allowed it to fall to the floor, uncovering my glittering costume.\nThe reveal was met with some cheers and more whistles, which I acknowledged with the most seductive smile I could muster.\nI moved around freely as jazz music rang out across the building. As the band picked up speed, so did I. I flailed my arms all about, shimmed my hips and behind to the beat, twirled and pivoted in circles. While I did do a popular dance move or two, I mostly allowed my body to decide how it moved, which was thankfully met with a great reaction from the crowd.\nThe cheers brought a genuine smile to my face, easing my nerves. A bad response from the audience would’ve resulted in consequences from Lloyd. Though he was nice to his employees, he was about his money first and foremost, and unhappy customers equaled less income.\nMore than that, I simply enjoyed dancing. Letting my body move to a beat with little restrictions was a release for me. For however long the music played, I could forget about the stresses in my life and tragedies continuing to weigh on my shoulders, and just dance.\nAfter about twenty minutes, the music began to fade out, signaling my performance was about to end. I slowed my movements before stopping and striking a quick, suggestive pose. More applause erupted. The whistles present throughout my performance crescendoed. After bowing, I collected my robe, turned on my heels, and sashayed backstage, relieved everything had gone well.\n“You did amazing!” Goldie, a woman with ‘golden’ skin and honey blonde marcel waves, enthused, falling into step with me. She gestured to my scanty attire, a smile on her face. “And your costume. My, where’d you get it?”\nI removed my mask and placed it under my arm.\n“I made it,” I said coyly, the reply making her eyes widen. The art of clothes making was one my grandmother had taught me. For a long time, before the death of the woman who raised and imparted so much knowledge in me, I’d desired to indulge my love of fashion and become a seamstress. “And thank you.”\nGoldie was fresh out of high school and three years younger than me. To my knowledge, she’d started at the club just a few weeks before me, making us both new hires. Despite how new she was, though, she got on remarkably well with the other girls and employees, and quickly cultivated an ever-expanding friend group here.\n“How long you been dancing?”\n“This is my first official gig. Why?”\n“Really? You did so well, I figured you were more experienced. I mean, we dance together every night, so I knew you could dance, but you were really the bee’s knees tonight.” \nFearing I’d let something slip, I responded with a simple, “oh.”\nShe babbled on as we walked to the dressing room, though I tuned most of it out. As sweet as she was, her talkativeness could get tiring.\nWhen we entered the dressing room, I beelined to the vanity reserved for me. Although we weren’t given the luxury of true privacy in the small area, we had assigned tables and dressing racks, with partitions littered throughout that gave the illusion of seclusion.\nTossing my mask onto the vanity and throwing my robe back on, I took a seat so I could get unready.\n“Say, Sienna,” Goldie began, walking behind my chair. I looked at her in the mirror, waiting for her to continue. “You been here for about a month, yeah?”\nI nodded, wondering where she was going with this. “So, we have known each other for some time, but I don’t know much about you. Tell me a little about yourself.”\nTaken aback, I opened my mouth to respond, but Iva interrupted me. At her voice, both Goldie and I turned to her.\n“Sienna, you know a white fella named Larry?”\nMy heart sank the moment she muttered the name. The only white man called Larry I ever had the misfortune of being acquainted with was Lloyd’s ass of an affiliate. However, I would not confirm my association with him, until I found out the reason she asked. “Why?”\n“Because there’s a Larry here to see you.”\n“Yeah, I know him, but I have no business with that man. Tell him that however you please.” \n“You sure y’all have no business? He’s here with some roses for you.”\n“I don’t mess around with white men, Iva,” I snapped, more forcefully than intended. “Just tell him to fuck off, I don’t want to see him.”\nI rarely cussed, but just the thought of that man enraged me.\n“Alrighty,” she muttered, eyes wide as she went to relay the message.\n“How you know him?” Goldie questioned once we were alone again.\nHeaving in a breath, I shrugged. “Lloyd introduced us.”\n“Why?”\n“For business.”\nThe business being Larry courting me. With some encouragement from Lloyd, I agreed to go out with his business partner a few times, despite my initial resistance to the idea of messing around with him. Then things went awry, so I severed ties with Larry and distanced myself from my boss.\n“Are you a prostitute?” she blurted, her hazel eyes the size of saucers.\n“Excuse me?”\n“What other business could a colored woman and white gangster have together?”\n“I don’t sell my body! I just went out with him once or twice. He got too presumptuous, so I ended things,” I heatedly explained, my outrage nearly making me miss her description of Larry.\nI was already aware of his occupation, but realizing Goldie already knew of the man surprised me. Briefly, I wondered at the extent of her relationship with Larry and Lloyd. After all, it was Llyod who’d gotten me involved with Larry, so if Goldie associated with him, it was reasonable to assume Lloyd introduced them.\nI doubted Lloyd would introduce just anyone to a criminal from another gang he was in cahoots with, so exactly how close were Goldie and Lloyd?\n“I thought you didn’t mess around with white men?” she pressed.\n“I did it as a favor to Lloyd. Can we please stop discussing him?”\nThe entire conversation filled me with shame and bad memories. Thankfully, she nodded and went silent. I resumed my undressing, hoping Iva took care of Larry. I had absolutely no desire to see him; my skin crawled at the very mention of his name.\n“Get your ass back here!” I heard Iva screech, making Goldie and I exchange looks with one another.\nStanding, I tightened my robe as Larry and Iva came barreling through the doors.\nHis blue-black hair was slicked back, his slanted eyes matching his dark locks. His tanned skin hinted at his Italian heritage, and his expensive suit announced to everyone he was financially well-off.\n“Why the hell is he in here?” I demanded, bile rising in the back of my throat as he leered at me. “I thought I told you to get rid of him!”\n“I tried, but he said y’all have things that you two needed to talk about.”\n“We don’t have shit to discuss,” I bit out, giving Larry a nasty look. “Get the fuck out before we get security. Or better yet, Lloyd.”\nI was bluffing; Lloyd was out on business tonight and had left Iva in charge of managing the club for the evening. But Larry didn’t know that, so the threat should still hold some weight.\n“You do that. I have shit to discuss with him, anyway,” Larry replied in casual tones, the warning not shaking him up one bit. Holding up the roses, he shook them, and some petals fell to the floor. “I got these for you.”\n“I don’t want them. Leave.”\n “Larry, why don’t I show you the way out?” Goldie offered, her tone sweet despite her blank expression. “I promise, I’ll be a lot nicer than Eli, Freddie, or Dan—”\n“I’m not going to do anything to your friend, girls,” Larry interrupted, looking between Iva and Goldie. “I just want to talk to her.”\n“I don’t know what the hell you two got going on,” Iva gritted, “but I don’t want it to cause no problems in this club. So, I’m going to need you to leave, and y’all can resolve this outside this building.”\n“There is nothing for us to resolve. Leave,” I repeated, not wanting to deal with him inside or outside the club.\n“Look, I had a bit too much cheap booze that night. I’m sorry.”\nI bristled at his words. Did he truly believe would excuse him trying to force himself on me because of some liquor? I’ve had the misfortunate of being around plenty drunk men, yet outside of him, I’ve had to physically fight off none.\nLargely, that was due to my grandmother, who went through hell and back to guard me from less savory individuals.\n“That’s your excuse? That you were fucking drunk? Goldie, go get Daniel, Eli, or Freddie,” I said, referring to the club’s security and Lloyd’s gang members.\nShe did as told, brushing past Larry and Iva, and hurrying out of the room.\nHe walked toward me. “You don’t even want to talk about it?” he rushed out.\nMy heartbeat increased, and a layer of sweat coated my palms. Almost fully in panic mode, I grabbed an empty vase from my vanity, and held it up. “Take another step and I’m knocking your ass out.” \nIgnoring my advice, he smirked, continuing to inch towards me. “Cute, Sienn—”\nNot hesitating, I threw the vase at his head. His eyes widened and he dropped the roses as he brought his hands up to shield his face, stepping to the side and narrowly avoiding the object. But before the vase landed and shattered into a million tiny pieces, it clipped his shoulder.\n“What the fuck?!” he snarled, touching his injured shoulder and wincing.\n“She did warn you,” Iva said, shrugging.\nHe ignored her comment, preferring to aim a death glare my way.\n“Fucking bitch,” he grated, his face twisted into a terrifying scowl.\nHe advanced towards me again, my heart falling to my knees as he came closer. Desperately, I glanced around, searching for another weapon, but to no avail. My heart nearly beating out of my chest, I backed up, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and him.\nSuddenly, Larry sharply inhaled and grunted, clutching his side. “Shit,” he groaned. When he raised his hand, his fingertips were red with his blood.\nTurning his hate-filled glare to the culprit, he fell to the ground in a heap.\nThe perpetrator of his stabbing didn’t pay him any mind as she cleaned her weapon off. In contrast to my wide and gaping mouth, Iva leaned down and calmy wiped the bloody switchblade onto his coat jacket, before concealing it back in her bosom. She ignored his stare as he gasped for air, and instead focused her gaze on me, the slight furrow in her brow betraying the concern she felt.\n“You good?”" } ]